Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most of the information that came the Institute’s way was totally bogus. People came with tales of pale men with slavic accents and sharp teeth, telling spooky stories about fairies and werewolves that didn’t get the first detail right. It was very rare that they compiled evidence of an actual vampire, so Jon had little hope that his first month in the new position would come with a kill.

Peter Lukas was a vampire, of this Jon was certain.

They’d made a whole file out of statements of befuddled victims describing a pale old man in the uniform of a boat captain who’d taken their blood. The Lukas family owned a manor that was pretty much the stereotype of a vampire’s abode, and Naomi Hern’s statement was chock-full of details that any trained vampire hunter would recognize.

And yet.

Any mere suggestion of further investigation was rebuked by Elias in the strongest possible terms. After all, the Lukas family gave considerable sums of money to the Magnus Institute, which researched and hunted the things that stalked the dark. Why would they donate to such an Institute, Elias asked rhetorically, if they were vampires?

Precisely because of this, Jon had told him a thousand times. To buy immunity.

But it did no good. Elias was Jon’s boss, and there was to be no investigation of the Lukas family.

Well, not on Institute time, at least.

The donations the Lukas family made weren’t public record, but with Sasha James on staff, that wasn’t a huge obstacle. She was perfectly happy to help once Jon explained the situation.

So that’s how Jon found himself sequestered in his office after the Institute was officially closed, poring over stacks of financial records.

It took him several days to sort through them all. Most were the standard affair: lip service donations to all the charities billionaires usually considered worth their time. There were a few outliers, though.

First, the Magnus Institute. Obviously. Then there was the London Skeptics Society. Unsurprising that a family of vampires would want the public to be skeptical of their existence. A few donations to a cult called the People’s Church of the Divine Host, which Jon suspected was affiliated with the Darklings.

Then there was a record of a massive donation to some place in central London called Blackwood Bookshelf. The donation wasn’t the interesting part, though. What was interesting is that the proprietor, one Martin Blackwood, had returned it.

“Over seven thousand pounds,” Jon muttered. “Why not take it, Martin?”

The address listed on the record was within walking distance of the Institute. Jon took a picture with his phone and resolved to go there the following day.

The following day saw Jon standing outside Blackwood Bookshelf on his lunch break. The board above the door was plain: the words “Blackwood Bookshelf” written in simple handwriting, and below that, “Used Books, Library, Apothecary.”

There was a display of antique cookbooks in one window, and in the other was an absolute forest of potted plants. The displays had no view of the rest of the store, and there was no window in the door.

Jon entered, one hand tightly gripping the strap of his leather satchel. A bell rang pleasantly as the door opened.

The store appeared totally empty, but it was hard to be sure in the dim light. The rows of bookshelves were tight and cozy, and wherever there weren’t books there were stacks of crystals, amulets, artifacts, and herbs. It took Jon a moment to locate the actual counter, cluttered as it was with things for sale. The counter bore an old computer, but given how well-maintained it was, its age seemed to be a choice rather than a burden. There was no one behind it, but there was a door marked “Employees Only.”

A closer look revealed what Jon had suspected. Every single crystal, amulet, artifact, and herb was the real deal—that is to say, it had a use in the arcane. Nothing dark, which put him at ease. Tim would have a field day here—he was always complaining about how the grocery store never had what he was looking for.

He picked up a fire agate carved roughly into a star, the price scrawled on a sticker attached to it. He was no witch, but he could feel the faint buzz of protection from its center. Not that that meant anything; plenty of people sold arcana without knowing what it was.

“Oh, sorry! I was just sorting through some stuff in the back!”

Jon turned to see a man appear from the back corner of the store. He was a big man, especially compared to the small size of the bookstore, yet seemingly had no problem moving through the tightly spaced bookshelves. Despite his size, though, there was nothing even remotely intimidating about him. He smiled apologetically upon seeing Jon, and quickly went behind the counter.

“Can I help you find anything?” the man asked.

Jon scanned the man closely. He was soft, no sharp edges and no aura of danger that Jon had learned to detect from years of hunting dangerous things. No black sclera or pointed ears even when Jon knew what to look for, so not fae or darkling. Just a man who ran a bookshop.

“Are you Martin Blackwood?”
The man nodded.

“Does the name Peter Lukas mean anything to you?” Jon asked.

If the question surprised him, he didn’t show it.

“Yeah, why?”

“What can you tell me about him?”

Martin shrugged. “Not much. Just what’s public record, I guess.”

Jon held up the sheet with the donation record on it. “And he donated to this place.”

“Yeah, I turned it down. Let’s just say he was very rude to me once, and I don’t take apologies in cash.”

Jon made a noncommittal noise. Martin didn’t seem like he was lying, and it was certainly true that you didn’t need to be involved in the paranormal to hate the Lukases.

“Anything else?”

Jon took another look around. Many of the books bore titles he didn’t recognize. Perhaps there were some useful ones. The Institute library was full of lore on all sorts of creatures, but there was one area where information remained maddeningly muddled.

“Do you have any books on vampires?”

Martin’s eyes lit up.

“What are you looking for? Romance, lore, stories, YA…unusual ones?”

Jon had no idea what “unusual ones” meant, but he requested them. Unusual books were either very useful, very useless, or very dangerous, and the Institute was interested in all three categories.

Martin disappeared into the depths of the store—impressive, given the store was tiny—and returned with three books. One self-published and spiral-bound, one old and leather, one tiny paperback novella.

“These ones are just for loan,” Martin said, “so you’ll have to get a card.”

The card, as it turned out, was just as old-school as the computer. It was just a piece of paper with Jon’s name and an identification number Martin wrote down in a giant ledger along with the books Jon was checking out. Once he had finished that, he grabbed the fire agate Jon had been looking at and passed it to Jon.

“I didn’t—“

“On the house for a new card. For protection.”

Jon’s hand closed around the star-shaped gem. It thrummed pleasantly.

“See you in two weeks, Jonathan.”

“It’s just Jon. And…thank you.”

“My pleasure. Jon.”

*

The man who had just walked into Martin’s shop was probably a vampire. Newly turned, too. His face was dignified and handsome, but carried a gaunt exhaustion. His hands were skeletal and clutched the strap of his bag with suspicious desperation. His eyes were fierce and burning—clearly he hadn’t mastered his mask yet. Most telling were the bags forming under his eyes. Every newly turned had them. It wasn’t anything unique to vampires, just the stress of a life upturned.

So Martin was about 60 percent sure the man was a vampire.

That number went up to 70 percent when the man asked about Peter Lukas. The patriarch of the Lukas manor, a place crawling with nightstalkers that had rejected their humanity. The man so well known among the denizens of the dark that “knows Peter Lukas” was practically code for “is a vampire.” The thing who’d left Martin poisoned and empty of blood in an alleyway. The vampire who’d probably turned the fidgety customer.

Martin gave him a cautious answer, and the man’s eyes gleamed. It was the eyes that were the strongest evidence, really. Hungry, intense, scrutinizing. Captivating.

The man’s next question bumped Martin’s confidence in his suspicion up to 80 percent.

“Do you have any books on vampires?” he asked with practiced disinterest.

“What are you looking for?” Martin asked, and he didn’t just mean the books. “Romance, lore, stories, YA…unusual ones?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Unusual ones.” 90 percent.

Martin went to an easily overlooked (by design) corner of the bookstore and pulled out three books, his curated crash course for the newly turned.

The man stared in awe and ravenous curiosity at the books, and Martin felt his heart swell with pride at piquing his interest.

The man signed the library card with enthusiasm, and Martin passed him a protection icon. Nothing too strong, but it should keep him safe from hunters long enough to get on his feet and off their radar.

I’ll see you again, Jon, Martin vowed as Jon left. He was sure of it.

Chapter Text

As Jon took the bus to his apartment, he took out the three books for further examination. He had little hope that they would prove useful: many books were full of vampire lore, but none of it seemed to be correct.

Jon quickly discarded that thought as soon as he saw the first book. The self-published one. “Children of the Night” by Trevor Herbert.

The late Trevor Herbert was a legend in the hunting community. People suspected he’d written a book, and the Institute had a statement from him implying as such, but no one had ever actually found proof of its existence. And yet here it was. Jon held it with reverence. If this was real, it contained information on vampires from the most successful vampire hunter in the modern era. Such data would be invaluable.

If it was real.

Jon put it back in his bag, suddenly incredibly aware of how many people were in the bus. He would try not to get his hopes up; it was entirely possible some prankster or monstrous trickster had written up a pamphlet of total misinformation to plant in the closest library to the Institute. He pulled out the next book.

“Monstrous Tales,” read the embossed gold lettering. No author.

Jon opened the book. The piece of paper on the inside cover didn’t list any of the previous people to rent it. But the paper had clearly been placed over a different bookplate. Jon shined his phone flashlight on it and saw the telltale traces of a J and an L on the covered-up bookplate.

He slammed the book shut. Leitners were informative at best and deadly at worst. No way was he reading this book without getting Artifact Storage to take a look at it.

What on earth was a Leitner doing in a small bookstore? There was definitely something unusual about Martin if he could keep a Leitner in stock without consequences.

The last book was new, published two years prior. It was a novella entitled “Heartbeat” by Tracy Kraner. He read the back.

Felicity is a vampire, a bloodsucker of the night. But she’s also a human, and doesn’t want to hurt anyone. How can she keep a heart that no longer beats?

Seemed mediocre, and certainly not unique or even unusual. Still, the other two books were sufficiently relevant that he’d give it a try once he got home.

His thoughts drifted to the librarian. The man who had picked out these books. There was no way Martin Blackwood was just a random citizen, coincidentally involved in the world of the monstrous. His books were relevant and his merchandise was full of the kind of things Tim spent hours scouring the internet for. Martin Blackwood could be an invaluable asset for the Institute’s operations, Jon decided. There were certainly worst assets to have. Martin’s smile was warm and nonthreatening and his hands were soft and quick. He seemed level-headed enough. A must for their field.

He made a mental note to give Tim and Sasha the address for the place. London was low on decent arcana stores: plenty existed, all full of half-baked misinformed spiritualists at best and malicious fae at worst.

He would see Martin Blackwood again, and this thought made Jon happier than he cared to admit.

*

Daisy was late, and it made Martin very nervous.

The full moon was tomorrow. Usually, she came by to pick up her medicine a week in advance. Daisy was always prepared for everything, even if all the preparation she needed were her own two hands, so her absence made Martin very nervous. Perhaps she’d been caught in a mess. Something not even a wolf could escape. Or, worse, she was perfectly capable of coming by, and she’d chosen not to. Daisy was a ruthless lone wolf, but she’d never gone off the rails, and Martin shuddered to think what Daisy unhinged would do.

By noon, Martin was a jittery mess. He barely paid attention to his few customers. He fumbled a soft pax flower restlessly between his fingers and tried to leaf through the ledger to distract himself.

His eyes fell on the most recent name. Jonathan Sims. The twitchy vampire with the burning eyes and the sharp cheekbones. Martin realized, with some consternation, that he found Jon quite handsome. Not that that meant anything. Plenty of people were handsome.

Jon seemed…dangerous. Most vampires did. It was always a gamble: would they walk the path of Martin or Peter? Would they decide to live like a human? Or would Martin find Jon’s teeth marks in a drained corpse?

What had happened, Martin wondered. It was a question he asked every time a newly turned walked through his door. He didn’t always get the answer. Most of them drifted away as soon as they were back on his feet. One became his landlord, but even they didn’t talk much.

With Jon, though…Martin had the feeling his story was more than the standard bloodsucking. His eyes already shone with a hunger, a hunger that was more than a thirst for blood. His eyes didn’t just light up at the books because they were to do with vampires.

Martin decided to ask Jon for his email. He had a monthly book recommendation list that he had a feeling Jon would like. Different authors every time.

The bell rang and a disheveled woman crashed through the door. Daisy. Her eyes were dark and pissed, and her clothes were stained with brown and red.

“Daisy!” Martin cried. “So glad you’re okay. What happened? I—I was worried, I thought—“

“Not in the mood, Martin,” Daisy growled. She was on edge—clearly, she was feeling the moon’s proximity.

“Right. Right.” Martin passed her the thermos full of the brew he’d concocted. “Do you want to stay for tea?”

Daisy grimaced. “Not tonight. Just coming back here was hard enough, and I don’t have time.”

She downed the brew, and Martin winced. The stuff was disgusting. At least, it smelled awful.

“Sure you can’t make it taste any better?”

Martin shook his head ruefully. “Took me ages to get the formula just right. Sugar or honey or whatever’ll knock it all out of sorts. I did put in some lavender.”

Daisy sighed and handed him the thermos back. “Anyone new?”

“N-no,” Martin stuttered.

Daisy glared at him with a baleful yellow eye. Martin crossed his arms.

“Well, yes, but I don’t have to tell you.”

“I thought we were past this.”

Martin merely stared at her.

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Martin assured her. “Just, well…I have to keep people safe. Same reason I don’t tell any of my customers about you.”

“And because I’d beat you to a pulp?”

“And because you’d beat me to a pulp.”

Daisy gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I have to go.”

“Good luck!” Martin called as she left.

He pitied whoever she was after. He hoped Jon hadn’t fallen afoul of the law this soon.

Chapter Text

Jon handed the Leitner off to Artifact Storage to be researched, emphasizing that the book was due back at the library in two weeks. It wouldn’t do to raise suspicions—he’d get the book back to Martin unless they found out it was dangerous. Tim and Sasha were out shopping for the night’s hunt, so Jon sat down with Trevor Herbert’s book and a cup of tea.

The book was fairly rambling, and a lot of the lore within was stuff Jon had never even heard of. Some, though, was established stuff. The transformation, for instance. The fact that sun didn’t hurt them, and the garlic thing was just a myth like the crucifix thing. Apparently they didn’t have to live off strictly human blood, but they did need it from time to time. And the more human blood they drank, the stronger they got. According to Trevor.

Jon took very diligent notes—the book was only about 50 pages long, so it only took an hour or two. He sent the notes and photocopies of the book’s pages off to the research department.

He’d see exactly how useful Martin’s library was

=

“Tim, component pouch?” Jon asked.

“Check.”

“Sasha, you have your knife?”

“Check.”

“Jon,” Tim said, “you got your diviners?”

Jon neatly ruffled a pack of altered tarot cards between his hands. “Of course I do.”

“Anything else we need?” Sasha asked, tucking her knife into her long coat. “For a big spider?”

Tim patted the trunk of his car. “I got a bunch of bug spray.”

Jon gave him a long, judgmental look. “Bug spray?”

Tim elbowed Jon playfully. “Hey, you just keep to your info gathering and let Sasha n’ Stoker figure out the killing. Bug spray for us, Raid for it.”

Jon rolled his eyes. He was tempted to chide Tim for not taking the hunt seriously, but he knew that wasn’t true. Tim might make light, but Jon had seen firsthand how seriously he took monsters, and he was sure that Tim had some very nasty magic prepared for the thing they were hunting.

“All right, Jon,” Sasha said. “Find us a spider.”

Jon knelt down and laid the cards in neat rows on the asphalt of the Institute parking lot. It wasn’t a normal deck—he’d altered them himself, erasing the names and numbers with white-out and drawing in the symbols that made them actually useful for divination. It had taken him quite some time, so he treated the cards with great care.

Tim and Sasha kept talking as Jon did his reading. Jon spinning a location out of thin air was far less impressive to people who knew that the readings only every worked after a lot of research. The cards could be quite precise in the hands of a skilled diviner. Jon was not a skilled diviner.

Once the cards were in a compass rose, Jon closed his eyes, opening his mind to the little buzz at the back of his head. He reached into his pocket and mindlessly fidgeted with whatever clutter he could find. That always seemed to help.

His fingers traced the rough edges of Martin’s fire agate, and knowledge speared him through the head.

He sprung to his feet, and the three of them clambered into the car, Jon driving. No one said a word as they raced to the foreclosed apartment Jon had seen. Holding onto that knowledge was like grasping water. Even if Jon hadn’t needed to focus, Tim and Sasha were obviously on edge. Even Tim’s charming humor wouldn’t be able to mask that anxiety. They were going to kill a big spider, and it wasn’t going to be easy.

Jon put on his glasses as they pulled up to the apartment.

“This the place?” Tim asked, hushed.

Jon nodded. His glasses showed the dark, warped cobweb that coated the apartment. The lair of a creature that had killed three people and traumatized five more.

They got out of the car. Sasha pulled out her knife. Tim snapped his fingers a few times until a sputtering ball of fire appeared in his hands. Jon always took a moment of fascination when Tim did magic. It just came so easy to him. Like breathing. Not at all like how Jon felt with divination. Jon’s magic always felt like trying to sip water from a firehose.

Jon didn’t have anything to help. He used to carry a weapon with him, but he was far more of a danger to his teammates than any monster. So he would stay a few paces behind, looking for vital information.

Well, at least once the door was open. Jon was the best at lockpicking. He’d learned it in middle school in hopes of impressing a cute boy. It didn’t work at the time.

Jon switched on his torch as they entered the dingy apartment. There were cobwebs everywhere, and he was suddenly very grateful for Tim’s bug spray. He could see skittering legs in the darkness. God, Jon hated spiders. They bore unpleasant associations.

Raid in one hand, torch in the other.

“Where are you?” Tim muttered. The whole building had been gutted, and it was dead silent. They had no idea even what floor the spider was on.

“Jon,” Sasha said, “a little insight?”

“Okay, okay,” Jon said. He set down his torch and his spray and fished his cards out of his pocket. “Just give me a moment to—“

“Jon!” Sasha cried.

Jon whipped around just as Sasha tackled him to the ground and Tim sent a blast of fire roaring over their heads close enough to singe the hair on the back of Jon’s neck. The spider screeched as the fire hit it in the eye—how had it snuck up on them? Its pincers were inches from where Jon’s neck had been.

Jon and Sasha both scrambled to their feet. Sasha readied herself for a fight, her knife glowing in the darkness, while Jon darted for the hallway. It wasn’t cowardice that motivated him: Sasha and Tim had made it quite clear that any attempt at bravery on Jon’s part would only get in the way. Jon reached for his cards and found nothing. He turned around to see his cards tattered and ruined, stomped beneath the spiders legs or burned by Tim’s fire.

He cursed. It would take him forever to remake them.

He looked at the spider, hoping to See something useful. All he saw were the staring eyes of that huge spider, and his heart skipped a terrified beat.

God, Jon hated spiders. He hated the way the giant thing’s legs moved. Hated the way its tiny servants scuttled in the dark. Hated the way its glistening pincers tasted the air.

Sasha rushed the thing and stabbed it in the leg. It screamed and tried to bite her, but Tim hit it with a blast of Raid followed by a stab of glowing energy.

Just another day at the office, really. They’d fought far worse. Tim and Sasha were an excellent team.

The spider fell to its knees, spitting and frothing and clearly losing. They were starting to figure out the spiders. In the dark, when they had the element of surprise, they were very deadly. But in an all-out fight, the thing stood no chance.

Sasha stabbed up and into the spider’s gut. She gagged as green goop dripped onto her arm.

“Jesus!” she yelled. “I think some got on my face.”

“That’s what she said,” Tim laughed.

He made a clean upwards motion with one fist, and Sasha’s knife caught fire, burning the spider from the inside. It gave a horrible scream and its legs scuttled wildly over the floor, leaving deep gouges. Jon winced. Sasha gritted her teeth and kept pulling the flaming knife through the abdomen of the spider until it finally gave a pathetic cry and collapsed. On top of Sasha.

“Oh, gross!” she spat, wriggling out from under the thing.

The spider was dead. All in a good day’s work. No casualties save for Jon’s cards and Sasha’s spider-gut-covered clothes.

Jon sighed and rubbed the agate absentmindedly. He really didn’t want to have to make new cards.

He thought he remembered some decks in Blackwood Bookshelf. Well, he was already looking for an excuse to bring Tim and Sasha there.

The next morning, then, they would go to Blackwood Bookshelf.

=

Something was sucking people dry and leaving them in alleyways, and Martin had tracked it to this apartment. If it was one of the newly turned, it was his responsibility. If it was something else, something more dangerous, well—better he face it than some hapless human. Daisy might chase criminals, but it was Martin’s responsibility to keep track of London’s bloodsuckers.

There were scratches around the door, like the lock had been picked. Martin opened the door with caution.

Total silence. There were scorch marks in the corners of the hallways and rooms.

It didn’t take him long to find the room. The corpse of a giant spider lay in the middle of an empty living room, its pincers removed and its body burned.

“Huh,” Martin said aloud.

So that was what had been draining people. Giant spiders didn’t normally come into the city, but it was routine enough.

The real question was what had killed it. Perhaps the fae or some rival creature. That was the best case scenario. The alternative was that it was the Magnus Institute. If they’d gotten there before Martin, that meant they were getting better at tracking “monsters.” And that meant that they’d become more dangerous.

Martin had hoped the Institute would be left defanged after Gertrude’s death. But maybe he was wrong. There was no sign of blood, human or otherwise, and the kill seemed clean. Whoever had killed the spider was dangerous.

As he thought about the Magnus Institute, his thoughts turned to Jon. He’d have to warn Jon about the Institute if they were getting more savvy. He really didn’t want Jon to end up burned in an alley with his teeth in a trophy case.

Chapter Text

Martin looked up as the bell rang cheerily. For a moment, he was very irritated: the shop was minutes from closing and he’d had a long and stressful night. That irritation quickly vanished when he saw who it was. Jon with two friends in tow. A man and a woman.

The woman was wearing a very cute yellow jumper that seemed to complement her personality, but it also suggested a figure that could bench press Martin’s considerable weight. Her eyes brightened at Martin’s retro computer. Martin got the nagging feeling that he’d seen her before.

The man wore a thousand-watt smile and a Hawaiian shirt that Jon clearly found offensive. He was dressed for the boardwalk, even though the forecast promised snow that night. He gave Martin a wink and a wave. Jon slapped the man in the arm.

Neither of them looked like vampires. The man, though, was rather handsome, and smelled like smoke and charcoal. A fae, perhaps?

“Hello, Jon,” Martin greeted. “Who are your friends? What can I do for you guys?”

“Sasha,” said the woman.
“Tim,” said the man, and he insisted on shaking Martin’s hand. He had a firm handshake. “Quite a store you’ve got here. I can see why Jon talked about it so favorably.”

Martin would have blushed if he was still capable of doing so, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of Tim or Jon.

Jon was sorting through Martin’s decks of tarot cards with the clinical air of a man who knew his stuff. That suggested Jon was involved in the occult and arcane before he was turned. That made sense, if he was friends with a man who smelled like magic.

Tim was leafing through Martin’s extensive collection of fresh and dried herbs. He showed particular interest in the wolfsbane and the forget-me-not.

“Martin,” Jon said, “what can you tell me about your tarot selection?”

He said Martin’s name like “Mahtin.” It was terribly endearing.

“Depends what you’re looking for,” Martin said casually. “Games? Divination?”

Jon worried his lower lip, clearly on the fence. Martin waited expectantly, palming under the counter the deck he knew Jon was looking for because it was a deck that worked in a way few people actually looked for. Hand-painted by Martin with looping arcane symbols, the names and numbers covered in white-out.

“You seem to specialize in the unusual,” Jon said. “That’s what I’m looking for. That’s what I’m always looking for.”

Martin grinned, and it didn’t escape him how Tim’s eyes lingered on his smile. Nor did it escape him how Jon’s voice seemed to suggest he’d liked the last unusual thing he’d purchased. He slapped the deck onto the counter and lay the cards out for Jon to see.

Jon’s eyes lit up like the Fourth of July. Clearly, this was exactly what he was looking for.

“Anything else?”

“No, no, this is all fine.”

Martin hesitated for a second. He wasn’t very good with confrontation, and he was afraid Jon didn’t want to speak any longer, but he had to warn him.

“So,” Martin said cautiously, “a man so interested in arcana as you…you must have heard of the Magnus Institute.”

Jon’s whole body tensed, and he was suddenly paying far more attention.

“I’m…familiar with it.”

He was guarded now. Cautious.

“People go there if they need help…killing vampires and such. Just something to keep in mind.”

Jon smirked, amused. “You think I’m going to kill a vampire?”

He sounded incredulous, but not at the suggestion that vampires existed. He was incredulous at the suggestion that he would hunt them. Which he obviously wouldn’t.

“Be careful, okay? Plenty of scary things out there.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Jon replied, glancing over his shoulder at the sulfur man and the woman with strong arms. “I’ve got scarier friends.”

After all, why would a monster be afraid of monsters?

“All of these, please,” Tim said decisively, dumping an armful of herbs and gems on the counter along with a ratty old grimoire. “Man, this place has everything!”

Tim clearly knew what he was doing. Martin was happy to sell him the arcana he needed.

Jon was turning out to be a regular. Martin was very encouraged by that fact, especially considering Jon’s interesting and attractive friends. They were captivating, even beyond how vampires and the fae naturally were.

And that Sasha…he was certain they’d met. Where had they met? Perhaps at that Seelie ball Martin had made the mistake of attending: he’d certainly been wasted enough to forget any introductions that might have happened.

Well, he’d probably remember the more she came back. It gave him quite a pleasant warmth in his stomach to think of seeing them again.

=

As they exited the shop, Jon ruffled through the tarot cards. They were obviously hand-marked, in a very rough and homely and obviously Martin way. He’d only ever used his own marked cards before, but he would be happy to use Martin’s art in his magic. The cards gave him the same warm buzz as the fire agate in his pocket.

“What did you find?” Sasha asked.

Tim grinned and pulled out some anise and barberry. “Some anti-worm stuff for our Prentiss problem. I’m working on learning some new cleansing spells.”

Sasha sighed. “Wish we had an actual reliable way to kill those things.”

Tim scowled. “My magic works just—“

“I said we, Tim. Not all of us are flamethrowers!”

“Maybe we’ll ask Martin next time,” Jon said, already accepting that there would be a next time. “He may know something.”

“Speaking of Martin,” Tim elbowed Jon in the ribs, “specimen of a librarian, huh?”

Jon frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” Tim chuckled. “He’s hot! Admit it!”

“He’s right,” Sasha added. “And you haven’t gone on a date in…in…Tim, has he ever gone on a date?”

Tim shook his head ruefully. “Not since I’ve known him.”

“I don’t—we’ve—both of you, stop it!” Jon ordered.

Tim put his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. “All right, all right! But seriously, if you want me to set you up—“
Sasha lightly smacked him. “Let him do it at his own pace. You know he’s…”

Jon and Tim took another few steps before realizing they had outpaced Sasha. They turned to see Sasha staring at a cafe across the street.

“Jon, Tim,” she said, voice strangled, “remember the distorted man I told you about?”

Jon looked through the window of the cafe, and there he was. He looked ordinary: long and curly blonde hair, a pink turtleneck, coffee held in totally normal hands. But the cards buzzed as Jon looked at him, and his limited Sight let him see flashes of what the man really was. Long fingers. Twisted torso. Eyes that escaped comprehension.

Tim frowned. “Which man? I don’t see anything unusual.”

“The blond one,” Jon told him. “Trust me. He’s…not human.”

Tim folded his arms, and Jon started to smell smoke. “So what do we do?”

“He’s probably dangerous,” Sasha said.

“Come on.” Jon walked up to the crosswalk. “I’m not going to let this man just stalk my employees.”

Tim shifted his two bags to one arm, leaving his other hand ready for casting.

As they walked through the door of the cafe, the distorted man looked up at them expectantly, like he’d been expecting them. The three of them lingered in front of the door for a moment, unsure, until a barista gave them a dirty look and they made for the distorted man’s table.

The man gave them an unpleasant smile. Not unpleasant in its intent, but unpleasant in its execution.

“Hello, Archivist,” he hissed. “Mage. Hunter.”

The Archivist, the Mage, and the Hunter. The composition of every Magnus Institute team. Some documents suggested an old role called the Liason, but Elias claimed to know nothing about that.

“Who are you?” Sasha demanded.

The man laughed like a bell tolling for the dead. “But I forget my manners. Please. Sit.”

Tim, Jon, and Sasha glanced at each other, then sat at the strange man’s table.

“I am not a who, Hunter,” the man continued. “I am a what.”

“That’s not helpful,” Jon told him.

“I meant,” Sasha added, “why are you following me.”

The man looked politely shocked. “You seem to think I want to hurt you.”

“It’s a fair assumption, yeah,” Tim said.

The man laughed, a laugh that went on and on and grated horribly on Jon’s ears. The smell of smoke grew stronger. Sasha squeezed Tim’s wrist.

“I am here to help,” the man said. “I have information you want.”

“Information?” Jon leaned in, one hand on the table and one hand on his new cards. “Okay, then. Let’s start with your name.”

The man took a moment to consider. “Michael. Michael is a name you can call me.”

“Is it your name?” Tim asked.

“It is a name you can call me.”

Jon sighed and forced himself to lean back. “All right, then…Michael. What information do you have that you think we want?”

With a flourish, Michael pulled a slip of paper from his—its—pocket. He slapped it onto the table, and Jon read an address.

“Tomorrow at 7:45. There is something there you have been looking for.” He looked at Tim. “Bring your cleansing magics.”

The man got up and walked out the door. Tim got up to follow him, but Jon grabbed his arm.

“What?” Tim snapped.

“The door,” Jon told him. “It wasn’t there before.”

Tim looked at the door with narrowed eyes and sat back down.

“Where does it lead?” he demanded.

“Give me a second.”

Jon started laying cards down on the table. The new cards weren’t broken in, and they were stiff and awkward between his fingers. He swore more than a few times as he couldn’t get the layout right, and the reading wasn’t nearly as precise as he’d like.

“Well?” Sasha asked.

“Somewhere bad,” Jon told them. “That…thing…is a distortion. I don’t know quite what that means, but it’s not Fae. Probably a Dreadchild, like the Darklings.”

“Great,” Tim groaned. “Just great. Because we needed more of those to deal with.”

“So…” Sasha said, “we’re going to this address, right?”

“Yes, yes, I think we have to,” Jon sighed. “It’s not like we’re getting any leads on the Prentiss situation.”
“Are you two,” Tim demanded, “completely out of your minds?”

“Not completely,” Sasha defended.

“We are not following some—some—distortion to some shady bar at night just because he said we might find something! He’s probably going to stab us as soon as we show up!”

“Yeah, but we can take him,” Sasha argued. “We just have to go over, check it out, and run or fight like hell if it goes bad. Collecting information and acting on it is our job, Tim! We don’t have much of a choice.”

Tim threw up his hands. “Fine! Fine! But if we die, I’m making sure whoever’s writing my obituary writes in that it was your fault.”

Jon packed up his cards, and as he put them back in his pocket, he felt the contours of the fire agate. At first it had seemed like an oddly shaped star, but now he wondered if it was meant to be a crude opened eye. Whatever its intended shape, he felt oddly invincible while he held it. It certainly gave him the bravery he needed to commit to going to that address the following night.

“Well,” Jon said decisively, “let’s all meet back up at the Institute at 7:00 tomorrow.”

“You’ll be working that late anyway,” Sasha muttered.

Jon glared at her and continued, “Sasha, bring as many weapons as you can. Tim, prepare some cleansing spells and something for seeing past distortions. I’m going to go through our library and see if I can find out what that thing is.”

He thought about going back to Blackwood Bookshelf that night, but remembered it was closed. He’d have to go back the next day.

Chapter Text

The day seemed to fly by, much to the dismay of Jon, who was very much not looking forward to the night’s activities. All he had to occupy his mind were the books. Research and Artifact Storage had just gotten them back to him—they’d archived a copy of the Herbert one, which appeared to be genuine, and the Leitner was uncharacteristically benign. They were going on the assumption that they contained accurate information, so now Jon was assigned to refine their hunting strategy based on the books. Which was going to take him a while. At least whatever they were going after that night probably wasn’t a vampire.

7:00 came far too soon. Jon groaned a tad melodramatically as Tim and Sasha walked in all kitted out for a hunt. He always felt woefully unprepared next to them. It wasn’t like he had any specialized equipment, just some cards and his two eyes. And the protection charm in his pocket. He did feel a lot safer with that, even if it was just a buy-two-get-one gimmick.

“Ready?” Tim asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he sighed. “Hang on, let me see how this shakes out.”

He set his half-eaten bagel to the side—it was a better dinner than he got most days, at least—and started laying out the cards in a basic forecast pattern.

“I still never understand what he’s doing,” Tim muttered.

“The theory’s pretty simple,” Sasha commented. “I read about it. Can’t do it myself, though, it’s apparently really hard…”

“Will the two of you please shut up? I need to focus.”

Tim and Sasha whispered and tittered while Jon finished the reading. He leaned back on his heels to examine the cards.

“Well,” he announced, “I’m not getting any high risk of death, but it’s dangerous, and…we’ll lose something.”

“Like, a limb? Or, like, a watch?” Sasha asked.

Jon shrugged. “You know I can’t clarify like that. All I know is we have a decent chance at this, it’s not a trap, and it’s important.”

Tim sighed. “Whatever you say, Xanathar.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Jon asked.

Tim stared at him. “You’re telling me that you, awkward nerd supreme, have never played Dungeons and Dragons.”

Jon shot him a vicious glare. “I am not a nerd, and I don’t appreciate—“

“Boys,” Sasha interrupted, “we have a weird distorted man to meet.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Jon said. “Tim, do you have any Raid left?”

=

The address Michael had given them was that of an abandoned bar. It looked filthy, its windows so grimy that Jon couldn’t see inside. He tried the door and found it unlocked.

“Weapons out,” he whispered.

He saw a flash out of the corner of his eye as Sasha’s knife appeared in her hand. Tim started to smell like smoke.

Jon opened the door very slowly, but his attempt at stealth was rendered irrelevant by the horrible squeal released by the hinges. Michael was sitting at the abandoned bar, and smiled pleasantly as they entered. He waved. His fingers were just a bit too long.

“I’m so glad you decided to join me,” he purred. His voice was like old wood, halting and splintered and probably unsafe.

Jon heard squirming below him. He looked at his feet and saw scattered silver maggots. He yelped and jumped backwards.

Michael pointed a bony finger—was that an extra joint?—at the back corner.

“I found a…what is the phrase? Person of interest,” he said proudly.

One of Tim’s hands burst into flame, while another clutched a can of Raid. Sasha took a look at the maggots, and her knife flashed out of her hand to be replaced by a hammer.

“Lead the way, Jon,” Sasha whispered. Jon always led the way. That was the job of an Archivist.

He inched forward, Sasha and Tim right behind him. There was something in the corner, a dark lump. It twitched. Jon took the fire agate out of his pocket and ran his fingers over its bumps and spikes. It was warm.

It was a human in the corner. They turned to look at Jon, face creased in agony and pockmarked with worms. It was a man, by the look of it. One of Prentiss’s victims, the first one Jon had ever seen up close. He forgot to breathe, and once he remembered, he didn’t want to. The man stood slowly, mouth opened in a silent scream but his vocal cords eaten away, writhing and wriggling shapes falling away from his body and squirming slowly but inexorably towards Jon.

“Tim,” Jon breathed, “set that thing—“

Without warning, the man leaped forward, worms spewing from every orifice. Someone screamed—Sasha—and fire sliced through the dark air. Jon tried to stumble backward but slipped on a slimy worm corpse and fell, defenseless. The worms came closer. He couldn’t breathe.

White fog started spewing. Jon turned to see Sasha holding a fire extinguisher and spraying it over the worms. It seemed to be working: the man fell with an agonized scream and the worms shriveled in the spray. Some of them wriggled away. Soon, all the worms were gone.

Except one, Jon realized, and with that flash of magical insight he started to feel it. His hand went to his stomach and found the hole the worm had chewed through his shirt and into his skin.

“Sasha,” he said, his voice far higher than he was comfortable with, “get out a knife, Sasha, one of them’s in me.”

“What?” Sasha yelled.

They’d never dealt with this. They didn’t know how to get the worms out. They barely knew how to kill them when they were outside the human body. God, Jon was a useless Archivist.

She knelt by Jon’s side, a thin stiletto blade in her hand. She peeled back Jon’s shirt and looked at the hole with obvious horror and disgust. Jon clutched at her wrist.

“Kill it,” he pleaded, “I don’t want to become like—like that.”

“Michael!” Tim yelled. “You brought us here, now get that worm out of him.”

Michael simply laughed, a horrible echoing sound that bounced off the walls and rang in Jon’s ears.

“Oh, no,” he said, “I cannot wait to see what you come up with to remove it. I could get it out, but…where’s the fun in that?”

Jon felt the thing wriggling inside him and tasted acid bile in the back of his throat. Sasha positioned the knife over the hole and prepared to stab.

“Wait!” Jon stayed her hand. “It won’t work. There’s…something in the way. Something important. Unless you’ve got surgical precision…”

It was either sliced organs or squirming innards. They needed a third option. Jon reached for the agate and realized he’d dropped it. He glanced around wildly, but saw no sign of it on the bare floor. He felt oddly bereft without it, but he had far more important things to worry about.

“Blackwood,” he realized suddenly. “We don’t know anything, b-but maybe he does. He’s got all those herbs, right? If there’s a magical solution…”

“Okay. Okay,” Tim said decisively. “Let’s go.”

=

By the time the car screeched up to Blackwood Bookshelf, Jon was in agony. He was sure it had only been one worm that pierced him. He was also sure there was more than one worm currently inhabiting his gut. He clutched his stomach and tried not to whimper, mostly unsuccessfully. Tim and Sasha had to carry him to the store, and Jon could tell how much his helpless cries bothered them, but he couldn’t stop. The store was closed, and for a moment Jon knew he would die, until he saw light pour from under the door.

Tim hammered on the door. “Open up!” he yelled.

The door opened a crack, and Martin peered through.

“Tim, isn’t it?” He seemed befuddled. “What are you—“

“Worms,” Jon told him through gritted teeth. “Do you know how to get worms out? From Prentiss, do you know, ah…”

“Prentiss?” Martin repeated incredulously. “How did you run across—“

“They’re in me, Martin,” Jon interrupted in a tone approaching a wail. “The worms. Can you get them out?”

“Worms? In you? Oh no, oh no.” Martin swung the door open and plucked Jon from Tim and Sasha’s grasp like he was picking an apple. “How long ago?”

“Ten minutes, give or take,” Jon groaned.

Martin carried Jon behind the counter and kicked open the door labelled “Employees Only.” Jon got a glimpse of the room within—it looked like an apothecary, but with crates of books everywhere—before Martin laid him down on a workbench.

Martin snapped on some leather gloves and pointed at Tim and Sasha.

“You two. Out.”

“We’re not leaving—“

“And I’m not risking dealing with three victims! Out!”

He didn’t wait for Tim and Sasha to answer before pushing them out the door and slamming it. He returned to Jon and deftly removed his shirt, then probed experimentally at the skin around the entry hole. Jon cried out in pain.

“Sorry, sorry! Just finding them!”

Martin disappeared, and Jon heard the hasty sounds of shaking and mixing.

“You’re lucky I had a batch of worm stuff prepared,” Martin told him. “I’m giving you a sedative.”

“A sedative? Why? What sedative?”

“Um. So. I’ve never, ah, uh, you know what? It’s actually probably better if I don’t tell you.”

“Fine,” Jon grumbled, trusting that Martin wouldn’t hurt him. He’d been sedated before, so he knew what to expect.

What happened next was not what he expected.

Martin placed a leathered hand over his eyes, and Jon felt two sharp pricks in his neck. He’d never tried heroin, but the feeling that emanated from the dual syringe approximated about what he thought it was like. A tantalizing, intoxicating relaxation that spread through his veins like sleep. He was floating, even as he felt the dull presence of the table beneath him. The worms kept moving, but they didn’t hurt.

He felt amazing.

“All right,” Martin said. His voice wasn’t far away. It was the most present thing of all, like Martin was all that existed. “I’m going to put a mix on your stomach. Might sting a little.”

He trusted Martin. Martin would take care of him. He felt Martin’s hands on his stomach—despite the sedative, he felt Martin’s hands down to the ridges of his fingerprints. If this was what it took to get those hands to touch him, he’d get eaten by worms any day. They were deliciously cold.

“Um, yeah, I run a bit on the cold side,” Martin said, sounding a bit awkward.

Had Jon been talking? Oh dear. Hopefully he wouldn’t say anything about how adorable Martin’s voice was, or how his smile was like sunshine.

“Oh, um, thank you?”

Well, shit.

Martin’s strong, sure hands started rubbing something into Jon’s stomach. He felt the effect immediately: the worms started wriggling frantically, hungrily, writhing towards the surface. He felt the entry hole expand as they emerged from his stomach. It didn’t hurt at all. Jon was aware of his body only incidentally.

“Got you,” Martin muttered.

He swept the worms off of Jon, and then slammed something several times very hard against the workbench. Jon heard little squelches with every slam.

“All right,” Martin declared, his voice trembling, “let’s fix up the wound.”

The entry wound was bleeding, Jon realized. Had it been bleeding this whole time? In his addled state, he could barely hold on to the question, let alone find the answer.

All thoughts were pushed from his mind as soon as Martin started dressing the wound. He just felt sure hands and delicate gauze. Martin murmured inane reassurances throughout the entire process, his voice almost as soothing as the sedative. Jon felt suddenly very guilty about losing the agate, but managed to hold his tongue on the topic.

“There,” Martin said decisively. “All better!”

“Thanks,” Jon muttered. It must have been a fairly quick-acting sedative, because he already felt his lucidity returning.

He tried to sit up and his vision swam with black. So maybe he wasn’t totally lucid. He heard the door creak open.

“You guys can come back in, he’s fine,” Martin called.

Footsteps rushed to Jon’s side, and he soon saw the faces of Sasha and Tim peering down at him.

“You all right?” Sasha asked.

“Of course he’s all right,” Tim said decisively. “Would take more than a few worms to kill our Jon, isn’t that right?”

He affectionately elbowed Martin. Martin crossed his arms.

“How did you run across Prentiss?” he asked.

“We didn’t run across Prentiss,” Sasha corrected. “Just…her worms. Some of them. In a man.”

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why,” he demanded.

“Um. Accident?” Jon offered.

What else was he going to tell Martin? That they’d taken the advice of a creepy distorted man to come to an abandoned building at night?

“Please be more careful,” Martin sighed. “I worry about you.”

“You do?” Jon muttered. The sedative still held onto him like a soporific cloud.

Martin awkwardly smoothed the tape around the gauze. “All right, you guys need to get him home and in bed.” He looked at Jon. “Bed rest for three days, do you hear? Eat a lot, you need your nutrients.”

“Good luck with that,” Tim muttered. “Pretty sure the man never sleeps or eats.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighed, “yeah, that…tracks.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he really that obviously decrepit?

“Don’t worry,” Sasha said, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t come into the office.” She gave Jon a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll bring you some soup! Would you like some soup?”

Jon grabbed her hand lazily. “Yeah, yeah, I’d like some soup.”

“He seems pretty out of it,” Tim said. “I’ve never seen him this chill. What’s your secret?”

“Heavy magical sedatives.”

“Any chance you could get me some of that?”

“Absolutely not.”

=

Martin watched as Tim and Sasha deposited Jon in the back of their nondescript car. He cursed himself a thousand times for forgetting to check if Jon was a vampire. He had been right there, too, his teeth in Jon’s neck. His skin felt warm enough, but that could have been a mask. It certainly was hard to maintain a mask while in that much pain, but Jon seemed tough.

There was one thing Martin did know for sure: despite himself, he had a crush on Jonathan Sims. He’d had every opportunity to quash that feeling, and he’d chosen not to.

Being a vampire wasn’t a fate he’d wish on anyone, so Martin felt horrible for hoping Jon was one. Because there was no way Martin could be loved by anyone who wasn’t a monster like him.

He’d had plenty of crushes over the years, all of them ending in disaster even before he was turned. Martin was too needy and yet too distant, too clingy but needing too much space. He had long since resigned himself to loneliness. He tried to give up as much of himself as possible, and yet no one reciprocated—clearly, there was something wrong with him. Something that potential partners saw and fled from. Some shameful legacy from his parents, something he couldn’t even blame on Peter Lukas.

Vampire or no, Jon wouldn’t go for a man like Martin Blackwood. That made him safe, a crush distinct from Martin’s history of horrible dates. It was fine to just look at a man and find him attractive, to look forward to his visits and his smile, without ever doing anything about it.

(Even if he wanted to do something about it and wanted Jon to love him).

(Even if he hated himself for the way his heart skipped at Jon’s voice).

(Even if he was beating himself up for the way his stomach swooped sickeningly when he saw Jon in obvious agony, his only desire to erase that pain even if it meant risking exposure).

=

The next day passed in relative peace. Martin hoped that Jon had gotten home safe. He was glad Jon had Tim and Sasha. The newly turned tended to be weak.

Good thing he had that agate. A weak new vampire like him would be easy prey for the Magnus Institute.

He started cleaning up a bit early, as business was almost nonexistent. Just a few fae buying party supplies and a confused woman looking for directions that Martin was fairly sure was a selkie.

He was just about to close up when the bell rang and an all-too-familiar woman walked—shambled, more like—through the door.

“Prentiss,” Martin said, his voice far calmer than he felt. “What are you doing here?”

His hand crept towards the corkscrew he kept by his computer.

“Blackwood.” Prentiss’s voice was sibilant and echoing, like a thousand tiny voices spoke with her. Which they did. “How is business?”

“Cut it out,” Martin ordered. He was not in the mood to play games with Prentiss after the worms he’d had to coax out of Jon. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

“Your goods found their way to the Institute,” she hissed.

Martin blinked. He didn’t sell anything to the Institute.

“If they did,” he said, “I didn’t sell to them directly.”

“Maybe,” Prentiss sang.

She threw something onto the counter, and Martin caught it. It was spiky, rough.

The agate he’d given to Jon.

He looked back up at Prentiss, ready to bare his fangs and lunge.

“What did you do!” he yelled. “If you hurt him—“

“A hunter dropped it,” said Prentiss. “An Archivist, they told me. That’s what they saw.”

Martin’s blood ran cold—well, colder than it was already. Prentiss was many things, but she wasn’t a liar, and she didn’t have the subtlety for elaborate deception. If her worms had found Jon’s agate in the hands of an Institute Archivist, that could only mean one thing.

Jon had been too weak last night, and the Institute had got him. Captured or killed, Martin didn’t know.

“No,” he breathed.

“You know what needs to happen,” Prentiss purred. “The Institute must fall. Bare your fangs, Blackwood. Let them see what happens when they cross us. Let them be the hunted.”

For several long moments, Martin was on the verge of saying yes. It was so tempting, to march up to the Institute and demand recompense for the man they’d hurt.

But Martin knew he couldn’t. Because the Institute might be misinformed, but they didn’t all deserve to die. He couldn’t just go on a revenge spree because of one man. There were people who needed him, people he had to keep serving.

And he couldn’t prove Peter Lukas right.

He clutched the agate and tears burned behind his eyes. He knew he was doing the right thing, but he still felt like a miserable coward.

“I—I can’t,” he told Prentiss. “You know I can’t. I’m not a fighter.”

Prentiss’s expression turned ugly.

“You’re a coward, Blackwood,” she hissed. And then she lunged.

Martin screamed and waved the corkscrew wildly. He stabbed her in the arm, she recoiled, and Martin had just enough time to bolt for the back room and slam the door. Prentiss’s weight slammed against it, and Martin heard the squelching sounds of worms trying to squeeze through the cracks.

He started piling boxes of books against the door and stuffing towels and bandages into the cracks to block out the worms. Fortunately, with his strength, it didn’t take long before he’d barricaded himself in the workspace.

Unfortunately, he was now barricaded in the workplace.

He looked around. Nothing in here but books and an apothecary. He had mixes for small batches of worms, but nothing that could help him against the Hive Queen. If Jon was still alive, there was no way Martin was getting out in time to save him.

He slid to the floor, clutched the agate so tightly his hand hurt, and started to cry.

Chapter Text

Much to Jon’s chagrin, Tim and Sasha were true to their word and refused to let him come in to work. After Jon had stayed in bed for three days—torture all its own, even with his friends’ frequent visits—he tried to sneak into the Archives. Tim immediately scooped him up and drove him home.

“I stayed in bed for three days!” Jon protested. “Like Martin said!”

“Nope. Your stomach got eaten by worms. At least another week.”

Since then, Tim and Sasha had taken it in turns to do their research in his flat. They insisted Jon lie down as much as possible.

It made Jon very antsy. There were things to hunt, research to do, secrets to find! He had to keep working. He had to keep keeping London safe.

By day 5 stuck in his house, Jon felt like he’d been pumped full of bees instead of worms. He had to do something. He was anxious and jumpy.

“Just one more day,” Sasha capitulated. “One more day and you can go back to work. If you chill. And no hunting for a while.”

“Sasha,” Jon groaned, “I’m going stir-crazy in here! I have to do something!”

Sasha thought for a moment, then perked up.

“How about we bake something?”

Jon almost brushed off the suggestion, then took a moment to reconsider. He had been thinking about getting Martin a thank-you gift.

“Can we give it to Martin?” he asked. “As thanks for his assistance?”

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea! I think we should make brownies.”

“Frosted ones?”

“Frosted one, and then you can write ‘Thanks for saving my life’ on them?”

Jon rolled his eyes. It was a corny idea, but he secretly wanted to do it very much.

“I’ll get Tim to pick up ingredients,” Sasha said, already looking up a recipe on her phone. “We can all make brownies together! It’ll be like a team bonding exercise.”

“You know, we can just use a mix—“

“Jon, you’re a heathen and a coward.” Sasha clapped her hands together. “This is going to be so fun!”

Jon got up and started getting out some bowls, brushing off Sasha’s objections. His stomach was fine. It still ached, but had healed extraordinarily fast. Whatever Martin had used to treat it had worked like a charm. Really, he could have gone to work the day after if he kept movement to a minimum. Grumbling, Sasha got up and insisted on getting things out of the top cupboards.

Tim turned up with the ingredients as the afternoon sun started streaming through the windows, and the three of them set about making the brownies. Jon owned no aprons and few baking tools, so they made a big mess and had to improvise most of the process. Tim wasted no time “forgetting” his hands were covered in flour and clapping Jon on the back. Sasha scolded Tim for jostling the wound. Tim winked at her and snatched a handful of chocolate chips.

It wasn’t the smoothest result by any means. The brownies were slightly overcooked and the lettering was clumsy. But Jon was still proud. He’d actually helped make something potentially edible. He just hoped Martin would like it.

“Now to deliver it,” he said.

Sasha frowned. “Nope, you’re still supposed to be—“

“Oh, come on,” Tim relented. “Surely we can make an exception for this. It’s for a good cause—getting Martin a thank you gift and maybe even getting Jon a date.”

“Now hold on—“ Jon objected.

“No, you’re right,” Sasha conceded. “What nobler cause is there than getting Jon a date?”

Tim slung an arm around Jon’s reluctant shoulders. “C’mon, Jon. You think he’s cute, right?”

“Yes,” Jon grumbled.

“And he’s super nice…”

“Yes.”

“And he saved your life!”

“You know what?” Jon said decisively. “Fine. I’ll ask him out.”

Tim and Sasha cheered.

“Oh, stop it, you two,” Jon muttered.

Tim jangled his keys. “Not a moment to lose! Grab that pan and let’s get this twink a man.”

“I’m not a twink!” “Let’s get this manlet a boyfriend!”

“What did you just call me?”

As they kept teasing each other on the ride to the Bookshelf, Jon felt hope and pride, because it had been so long since he’d even tried to let a new person into his life.
=

Martin was bored.

He had plenty of books, but the squelching and squirming distracted him. It sounded like there were less worms, but he still heard Prentiss’s footsteps in the store. It was stupid to keep up his mask with no one there. A waste of energy. But if Martin was going to die, he was going to die holding onto his humanity. Even if it meant he trembled with hunger and exhaustion.

He didn’t have any blood in the workshop. He hadn’t had anything fresh in two weeks, so his stamina was flagging.

He’d tried bargaining with Prentiss, but his knocks and yells went unanswered. She heard him—he heard her pause when he spoke—but didn’t say anything. The worms were the worst. Martin cursed his enhanced hearing for letting him hear their every movement.

Then someone knocked at the door to the shop.

Oh, no.

=

Blackwood Bookshelf was closed, which was odd, since it was 1:00 on a Wednesday. Jon handed the brownies to Tim and rapped on the door.

“Hello?” he called.

“Must not be in,” Tim said. “Weird.

Jon frowned. The cards in his pocket buzzed. Something was wrong, and Sasha spotted it before he did.

“Um, guys?” Sasha’s voice was high and careful. “Below the door.”

Familiar writhing silhouettes curled and curdled in the dim light. There were worms in the store.

“Oh, no,” Jon breathed.

Without missing a beat, Tim ran for the car. He threw the brownies into the backseat and pulled out a pair of fire extinguishers. Tim passed Sasha an extinguisher and gestured for Jon to unlock the door. Normally, Jon would have done a reading, but he wasn’t thinking straight, and he certainly wasn’t about to wait a moment longer. He clumsily picked the lock and let Tim kick the door open.

Jon scanned the bookshop. There were far less worms than expected, but Prentiss was there, a specter standing in front of a rack of greeting cards. It sent a chill up Jon’s spine to see her in a place he’d come to view as safe. She turned in surprise and hissed as Tim slammed the door open. The worms started squirming feverishly towards them. Tim and Sasha let loose with the extinguishers, and Jon prepared for a fight.

There wasn’t one.

Prentiss turned tail and darted for the back door, her few living worms following behind. Running wasn’t her MO, but Jon didn’t have time to think about it. He looked wildly about for Martin, dreading that he might see that beautiful man turned to a huddled hole-filled shape in some corner. There was no sign of Martin, though. Jon wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or relieved at that. What if there was nothing of Martin left?

“Martin!” he called. “Martin, are you here?!”

“Jon?” came a muffled voice.

“Where are you?” Tim asked the empty air.

Something shuffled from behind the “Employees Only” door. Jon rushed to it and knocked.

“Martin? Martin, are you in there?”

“Jon, is that really you?” Martin sounded close to tears. “Is—is she gone?”

“She’s gone,” Jon reassured. “Don’t worry, it’s safe. It’s safe out here.”

“Oh, thank God. Jon, are you okay?”

More sounds of shuffling boxes—Martin must have barricaded the door. Finally, it burst open, and there was Martin, haggard and panicked with bags under his eyes.

“Jesus, Jon, I was so worried! I thought—“

“You were worried about me?” Jon laughed incredulously.

Martin hesitated for a moment, then his hands clasped Jon’s forearms, and he leaned into Jon like iron to a magnet. Jon could feel the trembling of his hands through the thick fabric of his jacket, and desperately wanted to be closer. It had been so long since he’d actually wanted to be so close to someone.

“I was so worried about you,” Martin kept babbling. “You left, and you were weak, and then Prentiss came in, and then she said you’d come across something dangerous, and then I thought you—“

Jon gave in to the hunger in his chest and pulled Martin into a hug. His chin didn’t even reach Martin’s shoulder. Martin’s breath was shuddering, and he clutched Jon with desperation. Martin’s embrace was comforting and safe and smelled like sage and iron, and Jon wanted to stay there forever.

It was funny, really. He hadn’t known Martin for very long at all, yet felt like he’d known Martin for years. The same sort of thing had happened with Tim and Sasha. Nothing made people bond like facing death together. Well, no—it wasn’t quite like what happened with Tim and Sasha. He’d never wanted to date Tim and Sasha.

“Thank you,” Martin muttered into Jon’s shoulder, “for saving my life.”

Jon chuckled. “Guess we’re even.”

“Hey, it wasn’t just Jon who saved your life, you know,” Tim complained jokingly.

Jon and Martin broke apart, suddenly remembering there were other people in the room.

“Thank you,” Martin said to Tim and Sasha. “I’ll have to bake you something…do you guys like brownies?”

Sasha giggled. “We actually made brownies for you. That’s why we’re here.”

Martin looked surprised. “Oh! Oh, you did?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. He elbowed Sasha. “C’mon, Sash, let’s go get them.”

“Can’t you get them y—oh! Oh, yeah, I’ll help you get them.”

Once they were left alone, Martin let out a shuddering breath and slid down to the floor.

“Seems like London gets more dangerous every day,” Jon sighed, sitting down beside him. “Martin, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Martin laughed nervously. “More than fine, really. Good thing I’ve got you, huh?”

Jon smiled. “I was just going to say the same thing.” He really was so lucky to have Martin. “Seriously, though, do you need a hospital? You don’t look so good, and I imagine that was a traumatic experience—“

“Jon.” Martin rested a hand on Jon’s knee, and his cold palm sent delicious tingles down Jon’s spine. “I’m okay. Really. I keep food back there, I had plenty of books…it was fine.” He looked down, a bit self-conscious. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. His presence didn’t often make people feel better. It made no sense that a man like Martin would have his emotional state improved by a man like Jon. Maybe it was some sort of joke or disingenuous flirting.

He took the plunge and placed his hand on top of Martin’s. Hand on hand on knee. Martin’s hand was cold. Jon’s hands always tended to run hot, so holding his hand was extremely nice. He took a deep, steadying breath. It had been a while since he’d been close to someone like this. He had to say something, because suddenly Jon couldn’t bear the thought of a life where he didn’t get this. Where he couldn’t be close to Martin.

“Martin,” he said, “I wanted to ask you a question. Well, bring something up. And it’s totally okay if you don’t want to talk about this right now, I just…wanted to talk about it. For whenever you’re ready.”

Martin gave another of his sunshine smiles. “Go ahead.”

Jesus Christ. Jon had thought he was keeping it together, but then Martin whipped out that smile and he was holding his hand and Jon was blushing. His cheeks were hot. He was a mess—his heart was pounding.

“Would you like to go get coffee sometime? With me?”

Martin’s face lit up in surprise. “Are…are you asking me on a date?”

Jon’s face was burning. “Y—you don’t have to give me an answer. I just thought, well, I wanted to tell you how I felt. Sorry, I know it’s selfish, I just…well…”

Martin grinned even wider. “Jon, I’d love to get coffee with you.”

Jon realized he was smiling like a dope. “Oh! Okay, then. How does Sunday sound? 10:00, maybe, at that little cafe across the street?”

“Hot Shots?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that one.”

“I’d love to,” Martin said softly. “I’d really love that.”

Right on cue, the bell rang, and Tim and Sasha came back in with the brownies. They had taken a very long time, and Jon had a sneaking suspicion why.

“Here you go!” Tim said proudly, offering the brownies to Martin. “Jon did the icing.”

Martin peeled back the foil and gave a surprised little laugh at the crude lettering spelling out “thanks for saving my life.”

“You guys are too sweet,” Martin said fondly. “Hey, we should share this! You guys did just save my life, after all.”

“Well, if you insist,” said Sasha, eyes already fixed on the treat.

Martin grabbed a blanket from the back room and spread it out on the shop floor. The four of them sat on the blanket around the pan—Martin didn’t have any utensils, so they just ate chunks of brownie with their hands. Martin seemed particularly ravenous, despite his reassurance that he’d had access to food.

Jon’s hands were covered in chocolate and still held the memory of Martin’s skin. As Tim laughed at some rude joke and Sasha teasingly threw a chunk of frosting at Martin, Jon felt warmth and love swell in his chest.

Was this what it felt like to have a family?

Chapter Text

Jon was finding it hard to focus on his work. Jon never found it hard to focus on his work. He was taking ages just to read research notes, and trailed off in the middle of reading statements. It was honestly embarrassing. He just kept counting down the days to Sunday. It had been so long since he’d had anything going on outside the Institute—it was a very weird feeling. He was actually looking forward to something.

Tim and Sasha were as excited as he was. They constantly mentioned the date, and were obviously very eager to hear how it went. Jon always preferred to keep his work and romantic life separate, but it was hard to be irritated. Tim and Sasha really liked Martin, and that was nice. It was always nice for significant others and friends to get along.

God, Jon was already thinking of Martin as a significant other. He reminded himself to take it slow. He still didn’t know the exact nature of Martin’s involvement with the supernatural, even if he was confident it was benign.

Finally, Sunday rolled around. Jon woke up early and spent far too long getting ready. He hadn’t been on a date in ages. Was a button-up too formal? He didn’t want to wear his work clothes—those were clothes made for sewers and bloodstains. Jon was suddenly aware how ratty he usually dressed.

Jon sighed and conceded that he had no idea how to dress fashionably. He called Tim, who enthusiastically agreed to help and was at Jon’s flat far faster than strict adherence to traffic laws would allow.

“All right,” Tim announced, rubbing his hands together. “If anyone can make you presentable, it’s Timothy Stoker.”

“Don’t go overboard,” Jon grumbled. “It’s just coffee.”

“Just coffee! Jon,” Tim admonished from within Jon’s closet, “Martin is a gentleman! He’s one-of-a-kind! You’re going to try to reel in that catch, so help me.”

He emerged with a button-up, some maroon pants, and a red scarf.

“You don’t give me much to work with, but try this.”

Tim left the room, and Jon changed into the clothes. He’d forgotten he owned them. His neck felt strangely vulnerable without a turtleneck. He had to admit, though, that he did look quite sharp. It felt…strange. It had been a long time since he’d cared about his appearance: monster hunting left little room for vanity, and there wasn’t anyone he really wanted to impress. Until Martin, that is.

He opened the door, and Tim wolf-whistled as he strolled back in.

“Oh, shut up.” Jon rolled his eyes.

“Hm. You’re looking sharp, just needs a few more touches. First, tuck in your shirt. Makes your legs look longer.” Jon did so. “And one more thing…” Tim deftly undid the top two buttons of Jon’s shirt. “There we go!”

Jon swatted his hand away and did the buttons back up. “I can’t pull that off, Tim.”

“Yes, you can! Confidence, Jon. You are going to saunter into that coffee shop and get yourself a man.”

“It’s just coffee! It probably won’t go any further after he talks to me for more than five minutes, anyway.”

Jon had had very few relationships, because most people found him insufferable. He’d resigned himself to Martin feeling the same: it was easier if he set himself up for failure, so the inevitable rejection didn’t come as such a shock. If he didn’t guard himself, being shot down by a man like Martin Blackwood would probably kill him.

“Don’t talk like that. He’d be lucky to have you. You’re sexy! In a professor sort of way.”

“Thanks,” Jon sighed.

He squared his shoulders in the mirror and tried to feel as confident as Tim. Staring back at him were gaunt cheekbones and a tangle of sharp joints, A body that yelled at people to go away and a face that didn’t argue with it. Sexy like a professor—the kind of professor that everyone hated, because he was dry and distant and a total bastard.

He undid the top button. He had to try. Martin deserved so much more, but the least Jon could do was try.

=

It was only when he was getting dressed that Martin realized he’d been subconsciously planning for this date. He knew exactly what to wear. Also, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt like his heart was glowing. Someone had asked him on a date! A very nice and attractive someone, no less!

Slow down, Martin, he reminded himself. He still didn’t really know the first thing about Jon, and rushing headlong into a relationship without thinking could get him killed. Still, he was confident that Jon had no dangerous secrets, maybe unreasonably so. After all, everyone in this city had dangerous secrets. He just couldn’t ever envision Jon hurting him.

The agate was still on his nightstand. He wondered whether or not to return it, then decided against it. Given what had happened to Jon’s stomach, it was obviously a pretty bad protection charm. He’d make sure to get Jon a new one. Something with really potent magic—maybe he could call in a favor from Annabelle or Oliver.

He took a deep breath, and his phone dinged.

It was Daisy.

Daisy: date today, right

Martin: yes! i’m really excited!

Daisy: be careful

Martin: yeah yeah i know, i’m sure you’ll kill him if he’s a creep or whatever

Daisy: damn right. text me how it goes

Martin was confident he wouldn’t have to call in Daisy for support. This date was going to great. He just knew it.

Even if he was feeling a little faint. Really, he should have eaten something—someone—fresh a week ago. He was already behind schedule when Prentiss trapped him in his back room. He’d planned on hunting as soon as he got out. But then Jon asked him on a date, and Martin just couldn’t. He couldn’t face Jon as anything less than human. Even if Jon was a vampire, which he almost certainly was, Martin couldn’t handle the shame of facing him with blood still on his lips. The taste always took days to leave his mouth when he fed from someone. If he was going to make this work, he had to try his very best to hold on to the part of him that could love like a person. And he really, really wanted to make this work. It had been so long since he’d hungered so much for something that wasn’t blood. He wasn’t chasing food for a dark passenger. He was simply following the light of the spark he’d felt as Jon’s hand touched his.

So he drank about five glasses of blood meal dissolved in milk. He’d need to feed soon, but he could hold out a while longer.

=

Jon’s heart fluttered as Martin walked into the coffee shop. He looked absolutely adorable in a sweater vest and bow tie, and his face lit up when he saw Jon. Suddenly, the cafe seemed more sunlit than the outside. Jon waved unnecessarily.

“Jon!” Martin greeted, sitting down in the chair Jon had pulled out in anticipation of his arrival. “Um, hello! You look really nice.”

Jon grinned. Chalk one up for Tim. “You, too.”

He looked closer and realized that Martin’s bow tie had little cows on it. God, that was the cutest thing Jon had ever seen, and he told Martin so.

“I like your bow tie.”

Martin fidgeted with it, surprised. “Oh, thank you! I like cows.”

“Cows are very good,” Jon agreed. “Have you seen Highland cows?”

With that, the conversation really got off to the races. Talking with Martin was so easy. Even the pauses were natural and comfortable. There was no pressure, no smothering expectations. He supposed that, after he’d writhed and rambled on Martin’s workbench, it was kind of hard to feel self-conscious about small talk.

They were about twenty minutes in and discussing the merits of different cow noses when Jon realized they hadn’t actually ordered anything.

“Oh, um, we should get something to drink,” Jon said.

“Oh, right!” Martin laughed. “I totally forgot about that.”

Jon ordered a hot chocolate with a half-shot of espresso—he wasn’t really a coffee drinker—and Martin got a pumpkin spice latte. Martin cheerily greeted the barista by name. Jon simply watched the exchange with a smile.

The rest of the date was perhaps the best date Jon had ever been on in his life. Martin was a perfect mix of charming and awkward. He was endearing in an honest way and looked at Jon like the sun, which was funny because it was Martin who shone the brightest. Jon felt like he could take on the city—no, the world—with someone looking at him like that.

Martin wasn’t just cute, though. He was tough and witty, and Jon wasn’t surprised how quickly he’d bounced back from Prentiss’s attack.

Unfortunately, it had to come to an end. Jon offered to walk Martin home—apparently, he lived above the shop, which was terribly quaint and also had the advantage of being near Jon’s work.

They paused on Martin’s doorstep, and Jon worked up his courage to ask a question.

“Martin,” he said, “I really had a wonderful time today.”

Martin smiled, gentle and warm. “Me, too. I really felt a connection.”

Jon rubbed his scarf nervously between his fingers. “Can I kiss you?”

Martin’s eyes lit up. Jon loved it when they did that.

“Oh, o-of course! I’d love that.”

Jon had to go up on his tiptoes to kiss Martin. Martin’s lips were soft and cold, and his hands were firm at Jon’s back. He was large and safe and beautiful. It was only a quick kiss, a first-date kiss, but it left Jon craving more. There was a soft, honeyed hunger in his chest, a hunger for love and touch and the beautiful man with the sunshine smile. His heart purred from Martin’s kiss as he settled back down on his feet. Martin’s eyes were impossibly green and shining, and Jon knew that kiss would be the first of many.

Patience, Jon reminded himself. They had plenty of time. One date at a time.

“It’s good that you live so close to where I work,” he commented. “For next week.”

They’d scheduled the second date, of course. Jon felt the exciting flutter of something between them within the first ten minutes. Electric potential.

“Where do you work?” Martin asked, and Jon was filled with fantasies of them dropping in at each other’s offices, delivering treats and flowers and maybe even kisses.

Jon’s profession wasn’t something he waved around, considering how derisive most people were towards the paranormal, but Martin wasn’t most people.

“The Magnus Institute, just five blocks that way.”

The joy drained completely from Martin’s face, and Jon saw sheer terror in his eyes for a moment before Martin’s expression settled into a cold mask. Jon frowned. What had he done wrong?

“The Magnus Institute,” Martin repeated carefully. He took a step back.

“Is…that a problem?” Jon asked.

He already knew the answer. Martin’s body language had changed from “lovestruck” to “cornered animal." Jon cursed himself a thousand times. He’d messed up somehow. He didn’t know how, but he’d made a mistake.

“You’re an Archivist,” Martin breathed. “That’s why Prentiss…”

He took another step back and put a hand on the doorknob to the shop. Jon thought for a moment he saw tears in his eyes.

“Martin,” Jon said, baffled, “what’s going on? I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“Institute employees aren’t welcome in my store,” Martin told him with vehemence. Jon recoiled like he’d been slapped. “And they certainly aren’t welcome in my life.” He opened the door. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon’s stomach dropped, and he felt like he was going to faint.

“Martin, what?” Jon stepped forward. “Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had a problem with the Institute, if we can just talk about it maybe I can explain and we can figure something out, I really want to see you again—“

“Jon,” Martin cut him off, his voice strangled. “Don’t do this.”

He entered the shop and slammed the door behind him. Jon heard the lock click.

He stood there, shocked and alone, for several moments. What had just happened?

Martin had dumped him in the strongest terms possible. He never wanted to see Jon again. Or Tim or Sasha, for that matter.

Was he skeptical? One of the arcanists the Institute had offended over the years? Or was it something more sinister? Did Martin have a reason to fear the Institute?

No, no, that couldn’t be it. There was a simpler explanation: Jon had done something wrong, committed a horrible faux pas, and hadn’t even noticed. He’d messed up hard enough to push away someone he really cared about, someone he wanted to form a relationship with.

He moved his hand to knock on the door, then let it fall back to his side. Martin had made it very clear he didn’t want to see Jon.

The numb shock started to fade, and the full weight of what had just happened settled on Jon like a boulder. He was suffocating under the weight of his failure, Martin’s words stabbing into him like serrated knives. They wouldn’t stop echoing.

He didn’t actually remember or process the trip back to his flat. He just was suddenly standing in his living room, keys dangling numbly from his fingers.

He didn’t want to eat. It was noon, and he just wanted to go to bed. Maybe he would wake up and it would be Sunday, the conversation on the threshold just a dream brought on by nerves. As soon as he had the thought, he knew it wasn’t true. The pain was too real, too sharp to be a dream.

What had happened? The question howled like a hurricane in his brain, whipping and tearing at the inside of his skull, sharp with the knowledge of his failure. He’d tried to prepare himself for this, but even that padding barely did anything to break his fall. What he had planned for had happened. Usually, that was good. He could deal with that.

Except he couldn’t.

He decided to make some risotto. He got about as far as putting the rice in a pot before he gave up.

He thought about calling Tim and Sasha, but the thought of their pity and their words made his head spin. His head and heart were already turbulent enough.

God, he had to come in to work tomorrow!

Jon realized he’d been crying. He wasn’t sure when the numbness had given way to this deep, aching pain, and he also wasn’t sure which was worse.

Get over it, he told himself. You’ve been rejected before, by people you’ve known far longer.

But this pain was unique, because Martin was like the sun, and without the sun there was no possibility for light except for the dim stars of reassurance that Jon tried to grasp.

Chapter Text

As soon as Martin closed the door behind him, he collapsed against it and slid to the floor. He heard Jon’s footsteps walk away, and as soon as he was confident the man wasn’t in earshot, Martin started crying, a quiet, choked cry that shook his shoulders almost painfully.

Jon was an Archivist.

That was the thought that kept pounding at the inside of his skull with doleful finality. Jon was an Archivist. Jon had dedicated himself to hunting down and killing things like Martin. Monsters like Martin. Things that drained people in back alleys, leaving them baffled and bloodless.

The worst part? It was all Martin’s fault. The hurt on Jon’s face and in Martin’s heart wouldn’t have to exist if it weren’t for what Martin was. If he was just a normal person, maybe he could have been happy with Jon. But he was a monster.

What was the point of masquerading as human, pretending that drinking dry cow blood somehow made him less of a vampire? He still felt the same swooping fear when met with someone who was just trying to make the world better.

Martin clutched at his wrist, digging in his fingernails until they left a circle of red half-moons around the eternal bruise Peter Lukas had left there.

There was an uncharitable part of Martin that was mad at Jon. That was the monstrous part. He was angry at the Magnus Institute for making him afraid, for not practicing moderation in who they hunted.

He got up, grabbed the agate from the counter, and threw it in the trash. He stood there, chest heaving, for a moment, then desperately cast his hand into the trash can to find the stone again. He held it like a talisman, clutched it close to his heart. No wonder it hadn’t kept Jon safe. He could only do so much for someone intent on throwing himself into the worst kind of danger.

God, Martin was stupid. He had wanted so badly to believe that Jon was a friend that he’d ignored all evidence to the contrary. Suddenly Jon’s profession seemed glaringly obvious, and Martin wondered how on Earth he’d missed it. He’d gotten blinded by a pretty face, and now he was on the Institute’s radar. Daisy joked sometimes that Martin’s soft heart was going to kill him. Turns out she was right.

Right. Daisy. He had to text Daisy, or she’d get worried. He opened up his messages and just stared at his screen. What would he tell her? The truth? No, she’d kill Jon if she knew he was from the Institute and posed a danger. None of this was Jon’s fault. Martin didn’t want him to die.

Eventually, he just typed a quick message.

Martin: Date didn’t work out. I’m fine.

He took a deep breath and put his phone back in his pocket. This was fine. It had to be fine. This wouldn’t be the first time this would happen, so he had to get used to it.

He had to get over Jon. Sure, the man’s fleeting smile and piercing eyes were burned in Martin’s vision now, but that would pass. After all, he hadn’t known him long. It shouldn’t take long to forget him, to turn that longing into indifference. Martin had a bleeding heart, but surely it didn’t bleed that much.

=

ARCHIVE THOTS (name changed 7 hours ago by Timothy Stoker)

Tim: jon

Tim: jon

Sasha: jonathan

Tim: jooooooonnnnnn

Tim: JON

Jon: What is it.

Tim: your date!

Sasha: you have to tell us Everything!

Jon: I’d rather not talk about it.

Tim: that well or that bad?

Tim: did you get dumped or laid?

Jon: I said I’d rather not talk about it.

Sasha: shit

Sasha: that bad
Tim: or maybe it went fine, and he’s just being his normal self

Jon: If you must know

Jon: He said he didn’t want to see any of us again, as Institute employees are apparently not welcome in the store.

Jon: …I think I said something wrong.

Tim: ….shit

Tim: sorry, man

Sasha: what

Sasha: that makes no sense

Jon: Really? It makes no sense that I would totally fuck up a social interaction?

Tim: i mean not THAT badly

Jon: In any case, I don’t want to talk about it.

Jon turned his phone off and tossed it onto the couch. He hoped Tim and Sasha would stay away from the Bookshelf. It was Jon’s fault, after all, and he didn’t want his friends leading an ill-conceived attempt at vengeance.

Jon’s stomach grumbled. He ignored it.

He’d joined the Institute for a myriad of reasons. He’d been warned that socializing would be hard, but he didn’t think it would be a problem. He’d made friends with Sasha and Tim, after all, which was two more friends than he’d had for most of his life. He’d been content with that.

And then he just had to go and want. He had to want someone beyond the Institute, and he’d crashed and burned in spectacular fashion. It was tempting to blame it on the Institute, but that would be…disingenuous, somehow. After all, the Institute fit Jon like a glove. If Martin had a problem with the Institute, he’d probably have a problem with Jon even if he didn’t work there.

Jon’s insatiable curiosity started to stir in his chest, asking why Martin had reacted so dramatically to the mention of the Institute. He tamped it back down. The answer to that question would probably burn him even more.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder, because Jon was insufferable like that. Maybe Martin was mad because Jon had led Prentiss to his bookshop. Would Prentiss had gone to Blackwood Bookshelf if an Archivist hadn’t dropped merchandise from it? God, that was probably it. Jon had gotten Martin trapped and terrorized, and Martin understandably fled once he connected the dots.

He paced the flat for at least thirty minutes before finally settling down with his laptop. He still had a few statements to categorize. He didn’t want to focus on work, but he pushed through anyway, ruthlessly shoehorning his brain into doing what he wanted. He’d made the mistake of letting his mind wander, but his work was too important for that.

He decided to let the date be a lesson.

Chapter Text

Worms were starting to show up at the Archives, and Jon found this extremely concerning. He stomped out every wriggling maggot he could find, but even when he was sure there were none left, his stomach still twinged. He was on edge.

All in all, the week was not going well for Jon. Prentiss wasn’t letting him catch a break after the disastrous date on Sunday. The days just blurred by, a mess of heartache and silver maggots. Jon was getting grumpy—that is to say, Jon was returning to his natural state.

On Thursday, after stomping a significant amount of worms, Jon stomped into his office and moved some books aside to put down his laptop, then froze. He recognized the shape of those books. One leather, one spiral-bound, one small and paperback. And he’d gotten them two weeks ago.

Shit.

The books were due back at the library. The library him and his friends had been instructed to never set foot in again. And these books were obviously unique and valuable, so neither his conscience nor Martin would let him just…keep them. Not that he wanted such a tangible reminder of Blackwood Bookshelf. He had to get the books back to Martin. Maybe return his library card while he was at it.

He thought about walking through that door and slapping the books and the card on Martin’s counter, and cringed. Partially because of how bad it would go and partially because of how badly he wanted to. He couldn’t go back to Blackwood Bookshelf. That much was very clear. He had to just forget about it. He’d barely known Martin at all!

He just stood there, books in hand, wondering what to do. As if sent by an angel, Tim walked in.

“You’re in late,” Tim remarked.

“It’s 7:30.”

“Late for you.” Tim noticed the books. “Wait. Isn’t that the Leitner?”

“Yes,” Jon sighed. “And they’re due back at Blackwood Bookshelf.”

Tim crossed his arms. “I say we keep them. That’s the price he’s gotta pay for being a total dick to you.”

Jon shook his head. “It wasn’t his fault. And what if he comes by looking for them?” He waved the books. “This is a Leitner, for God’s sake. He’s not just going to let it go, unless he knows a lot less than he lets on, and—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Tim sighed. “So, what do we do?”

“Well, I obviously can’t return them.”

“Good morning!” Sasha cheerily peeked her head into Jon’s office, bag in hand. Her attitude was discordant, but welcome. “I picked up some day-olds from Hot Shots, you guys want anything?”

“Obviously,” Tim said, sticking his hand in the bag. “Hey, Sasha, you wouldn’t happen to know how to return a library book without going to the library?”

“I’m assuming it’s not an e-book?” Sasha took a bite of a scone.

Jon shuddered at the thought of an electronic Leitner.

“Leave it outside the door?” Sasha suggested.

“In the snow?” Tim said. “No, that’s not going to work.”

“Hm.” Sasha looked at the books. “Why can’t you just—oh. Oh, those are from Blackwood Bookshelf, aren’t they.”

Jon nodded sheepishly. Sasha gave him a look of pity, which he did not appreciate.

“Tim and I can take them back,” Sasha offered.

“He doesn’t want to see any of us,” Tim reminded her.

Sasha shrugged. “Tough for him. It’s just dropping some books off, anyway.” Tim still looked skeptical. “Tim,” Sasha wheedled, batting her eyelashes, “it’s just a few blocks.”

“All right,” Tim sighed. “We’ll return them.”

“Hang on,” Jon objected. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Tim glowered at him. “Since when? Pretty sure Elias has written you up for rudeness five times in the last week.”

“Fair,” Jon grumbled. “It’s just that—well, I messed something up, and I don’t want to disrespect his boundaries.”

“How is returning library books to a library a violation of a librarian’s boundaries?” Sasha asked.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Exactly.” Tim elbowed Jon lightheartedly, and Jon leaned into the contact. He used to flinch away from Tim’s casual touches, but he’d learned to enjoy them. “C’mon, boss. We’ll just pop these over for you after work.”

“Thank you. Really. And you don’t have to call me boss. It’s weird.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

=

“That bad, huh? You’re really not over a guy you went to coffee with once?”

Martin looked up as Daisy entered the shop.

“What are you talking about?” he sighed morosely.

Daisy pointed to the tinny speakers in the corners of the ceiling. “You’re playing Queen. Just like you were when I popped in two days ago. Aren’t you tired of ‘Somebody to Love’ by now?”

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted. “It’s just a good song.”

“Sure.” Daisy roughly paged through a used book on meat curing with total disinterest. “Martin, if he didn’t want to date you, that’s his loss. Play some Lizzo or something.”

Daisy thought it was just a normal bad date. Martin hadn’t told her what Jon was—he wasn’t ready to get Jon killed, after all.

“Are you going to buy anything, or are you just going to stand there and mock me?”

“I’m definitely going to stand here and mock you.”

“Figures,” Martin muttered.

Daisy’s phone vibrated. She looked at the screen and sighed.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to stand here and mock you later. Basira needs me down at the station.”

She left, as usual, without saying goodbye. Martin used to find it rude, but now he found it comforting. A silent guarantee that she would return.

Martin watched the other patrons of his store. One of Osinov’s crew was looking through a manual on taxidermy. A woman he didn’t recognize was selecting some herbs. He watched the third person particularly warily: Annabelle Cane. He didn’t like her. Her eyes were unnerving.

He’d been keeping an eye out for worms, but none had shown up. Prentiss was planning something. She might even attack the Institute. But Martin wasn’t going to warn them. He might feel guilty, but ultimately, he valued his life, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk it for an Institute that wanted him dead.

It was easier now to think clearly about the Institute. He’d eaten, for one thing.

It had been the night after the date. The effort to stay human for Jon had exhausted him, so as he was locking up outside, he hadn’t been able to resist when a lone, slightly drunk college student wandered past the door. It was business as usual. Follow him into an alley, sway him into compliance, suck his blood. Maybe a bit more blood than usual. After all, why pretend to be human when it was impossible to be anything more than a monster?

So now his muscles were strong and his senses were sharp. He felt amazing. He felt horrible about it.

The bell above the door rang. Martin took a languid moment to glance at the door, and every muscle in his body immediately tensed as he recognized the two figures. Sasha and Tim. The Hunter and the Mage. Both of which would kill him and shouldn’t be here. Tim, as usual, was dressed for the beach despite the snow. Martin had thought this was due to fae endurance, but now he suspected this man was the cause of those burnt cobwebs. A mage specializing in fire. A vampire’s worst nightmare. Sasha looked fairly normal, but Martin knew that beneath her long wool coat were black lines of intricate, twisting, sharp ink. An Institute Hunter. Another vampire’s worst nightmare. All things considered, as bad as the implications of that date had been, he’d been lucky choosing Jon out of the three of them.

“Please leave my store,” Martin told them flatly.

Tim simply raised an eyebrow and slammed three books onto Martin’s counter. Martin flinched from the noise before looking down at the books, half expecting them to be some sort of threat. It was the three books he’d rented to Jon. The vampire’s survival kit. He had to admit, he was glad to have them back. He’d already beaten himself up plenty for sending a Leitner and a vampire hunting guide into the Institute.

“Oh,” he said, opening the ledger to note that they were returned. He felt a little pang seeing Jonathan Sim’s crossed-out name. The same pang he’d felt the last twenty times he’d opened the ledger since he’d taken a vicious pen to it. “Thank you. And good day.”

“Not so fast,” Tim said. He leaned on the counter, and Martin took an involuntary step back from the smell of smoke Tim carried with him. Could Tim smell the blood on his breath in turn? “I think you owe us an explanation.”

“Especially for Jon,” Sasha added. “He’s really sad, you know. He was actually excited for that date. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Martin kept his eye on the exit and gripped the corkscrew. Of all the bookshops for Jonathan Sims to walk into, he had to choose the one that would get him hurt.

“What’s with the ‘no Institute’ rule?” Tim asked. “And what did Jon mess up?”

Martin blinked. “Mess up?”

“Yeah,” Sasha said. “He’s convinced he messed something up on your date, and that’s why you rejected him.”

Well, that certainly twisted the knife. Martin had hoped that Jon would get over him. Apparently not. God, why did Jon have to be a romantic?

“Listen,” Martin said, voice low. “It was nothing to do with Jon. It wasn’t his fault, it’s just…” He took a deep breath. “The Magnus Institute brings trouble. And I really, really don’t want trouble. I’ve had it in here before, and…I just can’t afford to deal with the Magnus Institute.”

“So you’re a coward,” Tim summarized.

“Well, I wouldn’t say—“

“Yup, coward,” Sasha agreed. “You know, Jon’s a really nice guy. Shame you’re too scared to date him.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Martin thought. Tim and Sasha’s gazes, full of contempt, were painful to bear. Martin consoled himself: at least their dismissiveness meant they were taking his words at face value.

“If that’s all,” Martin said, “please leave. And don’t come back. I’m sorry.”

“One more thing,” Tim said. “You know about the worms.”

It wasn’t a question, so Martin didn’t answer.

“They’ve started showing up at the Archives,” Tim continued. “We need a way to kill them. You have a way to kill them.”

“Do I, now.”

“Martin,” Sasha said. “Tell us what you know.”

God, Martin was glad Jon was a new Archivist. He didn’t think he could handle another Gertrude. At least for now, whatever he told them he did so of his own free will. He tried to hold his tongue, but he thought about those worms twitching beneath Jon’s skin, and he caved.

“I—listen, it’s just a brew I whipped up. I don’t know anything useful besides that.” He sighed and reached under the counter for a small jar of anti-worm poultice he’d taken to keeping close at hand. Hopefully this small peace offering would keep them away. He handed it to Tim. “Here. It lures the worms to the surface of the skin. You’ll have to kill them immediately once they’ve emerged.”

Tim took it, looking a bit surprised. “Well, thanks.”

“Goodbye forever!” Sasha said cheerily.

Martin watched them leave. They were dangerous and would kill him without hesitation. So why did he feel a little pang in his chest as they walked away?

Chapter Text

Martin’s uncle had been a race car driver. Martin had gone to a few of his races, and enjoyed none of them. Every time, his eyes followed that car, unblinking, terribly conscious of the small and fleshy frame of his uncle speeding around far faster than humans were meant to go.

And afterwards, he always asked his uncle why he kept doing something that would kill him.

“It’s about the love of the sport,” his uncle said. “You find something like that, something that fills you with adrenaline and joy…well, there’s no way you can stay away, even if it might kill you.”

When his uncle had died in a crash a year later, Martin wasn’t surprised. He knew it was uncharitable to think ill of the dead, but he couldn’t help but criticize his uncle in the dark corners of his mind. There must be something wrong with a man drawn to death like a moth to a flame.

That was his attitude towards smokers and skydivers and soldiers. Surely life was the most important thing. He never understood people who proclaimed love for something dangerous, who said they couldn’t stop doing something with the ultimate cost.

Well, at least he didn’t understand before he met Jon.

Jon would kill him if he knew the truth, that was undoubtable. Jon was death. There was no other way to put it. And yet Martin couldn’t stop thinking about him. Jon’s hands might clutch a vampire-slaying stake, but Martin couldn’t stop wanting to hold them. Jon’s eyes might scour London for monsters to kill, but after a month they still burned like stars in Martin’s memory. His voice might be the last that Martin ever heard, but damn, what a way to go.

He had put the agate on a cord, and he wore it around his neck. He tried to convince himself it was just practicality, that he may as well wear a protection charm now that he was on the radar of the Magnus Institute. It was just coincidence that the agate had a glimmer of that warmth Martin had felt when Jon kissed him.

=

Jon passed Blackwood Bookshelf sometimes on his way to work, and every time he tried to look away, and every time he failed. He saw Martin unlock the door one morning. They pretended not to see each other.

The worms were intolerable at this point. Jon kept a fire extinguisher on hand at all times. Tim had divvied up the balm into three little vials, one for each of them. Just in case Sasha’s knives weren’t enough. Jon took the balm with him everywhere he went. It smelled like anise and chokecherry. It smelled like that night when the worms had burrowed into him. It smelled like soft hands and morphine and a smile that sent away pain.

The balm didn’t help when the shelf hit the wall and the worms started streaming through. And it was a reality check—mooning after Martin would do him no good, besides filling his nostrils with anise and chokecherry as he ran.

=

The Bookshelf didn’t have windows, but Martin recognized the sound of sirens. Ordinarily he wouldn’t investigate, but there were no customers in the store and he was on edge, so he opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

At least five ambulances and ECDC vehicles streamed by at a very urgent speed. Martin felt dread creep down his spine as he followed them with his eyes. They were headed in the direction of the Magnus Institute.

He knew he should just step back inside and mind his own business. He knew he had to silence his curiosity. But Prentiss had been planning something. And they were headed in the direction of the Magnus Institute. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Happy that she was striking at his enemies, probably. But he couldn’t make himself feel happy. He just envisioned worms wriggling into Jon’s flesh.

It was fine. The vehicles might not be headed for the Magnus Institute. He just didn’t know, and he didn’t have to know. He went back inside, then stepped back outside.

“Shit,” he muttered. He really didn’t have a choice. He had to know.

He posted the “Closed” sign on the door, stepped into an alley, and transformed. He didn’t do so often: he far preferred being a human to being a raven, and the transformation was extremely painful if he hadn’t had fresh blood recently. But he had, so it was barely an issue, and how else was he going to get close to the Institute covertly?

He leaped into the sky with a ruffle of black feathers, and quickly confirmed that the emergency vehicles were pulling up outside the Magnus Institute. The Archives, to be exact. People in hazmat suits streamed from the vehicles.

Brandishing fire extinguishers.

Uh oh.

Martin swooped down and perched on a railing outside the front door. He didn’t dare try to fly inside, but he was able to snatch flashes of conversation. From what he could tell, they’d been called in to deal with an “unknown parasite.” At this point, denial of Prentiss’s involvement was useless. If Gertrude was still the Archivist, he’d have taken it for granted that the Archives would be fine, no matter how mixed his feelings on the matter. But Jon was the Archivist, and Martin had no idea how competent he was. Jon had no idea how to deal with worms, Martin knew that much.

If he had nails in this form, he would have bitten them. He wanted them to be okay. He wanted Jon to be okay.

Sasha was the first to emerge. She was on a stretcher, but seemed conscious, if hazy. She was wearing a t-shirt, and Martin could see her sharp tattoos spiraling down her arms. No injuries, though. Her eyes were frightened. From what the attending EMTs said, it was just too much carbon dioxide.

“We got two more in there,” one of the EMTs said. “The worms got ‘em bad. I’m gonna need some help and some tools. We need to get them to the hospital as soon as possible, but...I’m not quite sure how to move them.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. Figuratively, of course. His blood was always cold, even when he wasn’t in a bird’s body. All he could do was wait.

A few minutes later, Jon and Tim were wheeled out. They were both unconscious, with desiccated worm corpses languishing in holes in their flesh. Their skin was pockmarked and starting to turn blue. Jon was already gaunt, and with the worms he looked like a man dead for weeks. This observation turned in Martin’s gut. He’d never seen Jon look actually alive. Like he already had one foot in the grave.

Maybe if he’d been honest with them, they would have been more prepared.

He shook the thought away. If he’d been totally honest with them, he would have died. That wasn’t much of a choice, even if London would be better off without him.

He followed the ambulance down the streets. It didn’t feel like he had a choice. Like he was tethered to Jon. The flashing lights mirrored the beating of his heart. The wind bit through his feathers—it was horrible weather for flying.

God, he hoped Jon didn’t die. Tim, neither.

He transformed back into a human—well, back into something that looked human—behind a dumpster. He had a clear shot to run into the hospital, but no doubt people would notice him and kick him out—it was a quarantine area. If he wanted, he could pull threads of compulsion around himself and pass unnoticed. Just disappear into the crowd, eyes sliding over him as he did whatever he needed to do. It was a shameful legacy from Peter Lukas and the reason he didn’t hire others to staff the Bookshelf: it was too easy to vanish if he could depend on someone else to deal with customers. Sometimes he still did it without thinking about it, and every time he hated the old man and himself in equal measure. Martin vacillated on the asphalt. He was starting to get weird looks from doctors.

Finally, he took a deep breath and bit the bullet. The weird looks slid away. Martin hated how good it felt to be unnoticed, to not have to worry about prying eyes.

He would just stay until he knew where Jon’s room was and what his condition was. So he could keep track of a possible threat.

He got the answers to those questions pretty quickly by eavesdropping on doctors. Jon and Tim were seriously injured, but stable. Martin hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been holding until he heard those words.

Jon would live. Those bright eyes would open again. Even if they wouldn’t look at Martin, knowing they were out there would be enough.

Dropping the disappearance act was like drinking sparkling water with his whole body. The attention of others hurt sometimes.

He flew home preoccupied and nearly had an unfortunate encounter with a power line. Once he got back to the store, he started collecting tea herbs before he even realized what he was making. A recovery brew for quick healing.

He sighed. Two roads diverged before him. He could choose to mind his business and stay safe, or have some care for these people.

He knew which one Peter Lukas would tell him to take, and that was what made his decision.

Life was more than safety. Life was watching bright eyes from a distance, and appreciating the warmth of a flame he could never touch.

So he made two thermoses of tea and took the bus back to the hospital. He felt kind of stupid doing it. Like he was running errands. It was easy enough to sneak back in to the quarantine rooms. Too easy. Jon and Tim weren’t supposed to have visitors, but he was sure the doctors wouldn’t mind if their wounds healed a bit quicker.

He was going to help the doctors. That was all this was.

As Martin entered Jon’s room, Jon stirred in his sleep. He was resting fitfully, it seemed. He was supposed to be sedated, but the medical units that dealt with paranormal phenomena were always wary about using any more medication that necessary. It was smart, really. Magic and medicine didn’t always mix well. But Martin still winced at Jon’s pain.

After a moment of thought, Martin took off the agate and left it by Jon’s tea. Maybe bad things happened to Jon when he had it, but worse things happened to Jon when he didn’t have it. Maybe Martin was Jon’s bad luck charm. Either way, maybe it was selfish, but he just felt better knowing Jon had it. Knowing Jon hadn’t left Martin totally behind.

A peace offering. He still couldn’t afford to have contact with Jon, let alone a relationship, but he didn’t want Jon to hate him either. Martin cursed himself. His feelings about the Institute were complicated enough without him swooning over the Archivist. Peter was wrong about so much, but right about one thing: the Institute was dangerous. Especially its Archivists. That’s why Peter stayed away. Which, in turn, was why Martin stayed close.

As Martin adjusted the tea for easy reachability, Jon stirred and his eyelids flickered open. Martin froze, terrified. What if Jon recognized him? He pulled the disappearance around himself like a cold, wet blanket. As soon as Jon’s eyes were open, he tried to move, and immediately groaned in pain. His hands curled, his fingertips trying to scratch the bandages on his palm.

“Don’t move, Jon,” Martin whispered.

He gently placed a hand over Jon’s eyes, closing his eyelids. Jon didn’t try to open them again.

“Hurts,” Jon groaned. “They’re still in me…”

“Jon,” Martin told him, trying to make his voice lower so Jon wouldn’t recognize it, “you’re fine. The worms are gone. Go back to sleep.”

“Who are you?” Jon muttered.

The question was a bit too clear and a bit too direct. Jon should have already forgotten Martin was there. A chill went down Martin’s spine. It felt too much like the encounters he’d had with Gertrude and that one unfortunate meeting with Elias Bouchard.

“A doctor.” An easy lie. It sprang readily to Martin’s lips, and tasted bittersweet.

“I need more painkiller,” Jon moaned through gritted teeth.

His muscles were tensed in discomfort, and his fingers fidgeted. He seemed to be waking up more and more every second. That wouldn’t end well.

Seeing Jon in pain was like being in pain himself. All Martin wanted to do was make it go away.

“Okay,” Martin said. He lifted Jon’s right wrist, the one without an IV in, delicately to his mouth. “I have an injection I can give you. Is that okay?”

Jon nodded desperately. It didn’t really feel like informed consent, but...well, it was just to help ease his pain.

He slid his fangs gently into Jon’s veins. He didn’t take any blood—that would be just cruel, considering the state Jon was in. Instead, he let what Peter called “tranquilizer” (he hadn’t come up with a better name yet) seep into Jon’s blood for the second time. The long-acting kind this time—Jon was going to be in bed for a while, and he wanted the effect to last until he got another dose of medical sedative.

The effect was instantaneous. Jon’s eyes fluttered closed, and he moaned in pleasure. His arm was limp in Martin’s grasp, and the rest of his body seemed equally pliable, all the tension gone in an instant. Martin wanted to take that body in his arms and just hold it until it stopped hurting. He shoved the traitorous thought from his mind.

Jon’s mouth opened to say something, but all that he managed was a whine. His hand nuzzled against Martin’s cheek, and Martin’s eyes closed for a moment. Jon’s hand was hot with fever, and it was rough and dry and so tantalizing that it was physically hard to place the arm back on the hospital bed.

“Go to sleep, Jon,” he murmured. He wanted desperately to brush a lock of Jon’s hair from his face, but that would be creepy.

Jon complied instantly and was snoring in seconds. Martin winced in guilt. He hadn’t meant to compel Jon, but perhaps it was for the best.

“Good night,” he whispered.

He went to the hallway window, cracked it open, and leaped into the night, transforming into a bird mid-fall. If he was stuck with vampirism, he may as well be overdramatic about it.

Chapter Text

Jon’s eyelids were so heavy, it took most of his energy to drag them open. He was alone in the room except for the gentle hum of the computer, but he saw flashes of movement through the shades of a small observation window. Whatever sedative was in the IV left his limbs limp and numb, but not quite numb enough to erase the pain that shot through his skin every time he shifted position. He could still feel the ghosts of wet worms wriggling beneath his skin. It ached. It itched.

He’d woken up in the night. Or maybe he’d had a dream. Or maybe he’d been half awake? Jon didn’t quite know. Carbon dioxide, shock, and sedatives had wreaked havoc on his perception and memory.

He didn’t think he could totally blame the sedatives for the numbness in his mind, though. He still couldn’t quite process what had happened. Prentiss was a threat, yes, but he’d never thought she’d actually attack the Institute. It felt like a bad dream, but the holes in his flesh attested otherwise.

He turned his head and saw a tiny table by the bed. On it rested a thermos. It didn’t seem standard-issue for a hospital, but he assumed a doctor had provided it. He tried to reach for it, but the way his skin stretched under the bandages hurt, so he dropped his hand. He grunted in frustration. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time for his body to give out.

He gave the thermos another go. By force of sheer spite, he inched himself into a sitting position and grasped the thermos. The two places where worms had pierced his palm throbbed against the metal.

The tea smelled like licorice with an underlying bitterness. He took a sip and immediately made a face. It was far too bitter. But he felt a little warmer and a little more relaxed, so it must be some sort of medicine. It made sense that it would be herbal—paranormal doctors generally didn’t use much modern medicine, considering they had much more delicate methods with a few less side effects. He downed the tea. The tea burned in his chest, and Jon felt the telltale itch of healing magic in his stomach. It was very gentle, yet he could tell it was effective. Whoever brewed this was good at it.

He set the thermos back down, and his hand brushed something else. Stone wrapped in leather. He picked it up, and it hummed against his skin, nuzzling into his palm like an affectionate animal. The fire agate, warm and rough. It was strung on a leather cord like a necklace. At first it was a welcome comfort, but then he realized the implications of its presence.

He’d dropped it in that encounter with Hodge. The worms had it last. The agate belonged to the flesh hive. So how had it ended up at the hospital? Was Prentiss still alive, taunting him?

He let the agate go, then clenched his hand around it, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. The agate still made him feel safer, but he couldn’t trust it. He needed his cards. He needed to know where the agate came from.

He had to get back to work.

=

There was an envelope waiting on the counter for Martin when he opened the shop. It was bright red with a gold wax seal stamped with a clown face. Martin sighed in irritation. It had only been two weeks since the attack on the Institute, and here was more bullshit.

He picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was cardstock with an elaborately printed invitation. The writing was a bit hard to read—the letters didn’t look right.

Esteemed Bookkeeper,
You are cordially invited to attend the Unseelie Yule Ball from December 22 to January 2. Parties and Celebrations will be offered throughout. Food and drink provided, but we understand if you are suspicious of it! But you need not worry! We will not trap you!

“Try it, Nikola,” Martin muttered. Thanks to Lukas, he was immune to the traps of the Unseelie Court. Even if he wasn’t, the Yule Ball was by far the safest context in which to deal with the Unseelie.

The festivities begin at 7:00, December 22, in the Orsinov House of Wax. Come dance with us!

Cordially,
Ringmaster Orsinov of the Unseelie Court

Martin sighed and tucked the invitation behind the desk.

He hated parties normally. When friends invited him out, he was always so damn anxious that it was just easier to stay home and pretend he wasn’t missing anything.

But on the other hand, well. Nikola could throw a damn good party. And Martin was feeling monstrous and self-pitying. Maybe he needed to get shitfaced on strong wine and dance with some hot guys whose skin never felt quite right and whose eyes glinted black. Plus, every monster seemed to congregate in London at Yule, and the Unseelie Yule Ball was the only place he was absolutely sure Peter Lukas wouldn’t go. He found revelry disdainful. The Lukases preferred austere dinners with gourmet meals and chairs lining the walls, each one with a glassy-eyed human unrestrained yet unmoving, knowing they were trapped yet unwilling to escape, their fault their blood seeped away—

Stop it, Martin told himself desperately. His fingernails dug into his palms.

The Orsinov House of Wax was only an hour away by train. He could take a week or two off. He could spend a few days drunk off his ass, lounging on a couch, ordering pomegranate seeds from people that didn’t move like people.

God, the Unseelie Yule Balls were fun. He’d been suspicious at his first one—he’d only stayed for a day, awkwardly standing in the corner with a flask of sparkling cider he’d brought from home. But monsters that would tear each other to pieces any other day of the year always put aside their differences for the Ball.

Martin decisively put the Ball into his schedule. He could use some time off. Maybe he’d meet a nice monster and forget about Jon.

=

It had been two weeks since the attack on the Institute. Jon was supposed to be off work for another week. Needless to say, Jon was not taking off work for another week.

Sasha had found Gertrude Robinson dead in the tunnels. Jon had known about the tunnels. They’d all known about the tunnels—they were a very efficient way to get around the area. But, somehow, impossibly, they’d never found Gertrude Robinson.

She’d been drained completely of blood. It couldn’t have been someone in the Institute, because no one in the Institute was a bloodsucker. They couldn’t hide that. At least, Jon didn’t think they could. But that only made him marginally less paranoid. After all, Gertrude was a very good Archivist. It would take quite the vampire to take her down. And if a vampire had been bold enough to attack Gertrude right below their Archives...how did Jon know he wouldn’t be next?

And then there was the matter of Martin Blackwood.

Jon had asked the doctors what the tea was, but they all reacted with immediate concern that someone had given him unauthorized medicine. It had cost him a few extra days in quarantine. So it wasn’t the doctors. And Jon knew one person who a) wouldn’t let Jon see him and would thus deliver in secret, b) was a good herbalist, and c) was associated with the agate. But Martin Blackwood also was suspicious of the Institute. Maybe even suspicious enough to—

Jon shook himself and returned to the notes he was going over again and again. They had statements on dozens of vampires. Surely, whatever vampire had killed Gertrude would appear in them. He just had to keep reviewing the statements.

Jon stood up and started pacing. Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Jon called.

Tim peeked through the door.

“Hey, boss,” he said warily. “So...about yesterday’s statement. I canvassed the area, and nothing. Nothing from the police, either.”

“Nothing that they’d tell you, you mean.”

“Hmm, well, I suppose his mouth was otherwise occupied—”

“Tim, Christ! Forget I said anything.”

Jon’s thoughts quickly drifted back to Gertrude. Tim evidently noticed, because he stepped fully into the office and rapped his knuckles on the desk.

“Jon. What’s our next move? This is our second new statement about a vampire fitting this description, and you’ve got that other one you found in the files. Whoever this is, it could be whoever killed Gertrude.”

Jon dug his palms into his hands. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Chances are, whoever killed her, they never even showed up in a statement.”

“How do you figure?”

“Survivorship. The vampires that kill people don’t leave people to make statements.”

Tim sighed and leaned against Jon’s desk.

“You’re not gonna take a day off, are you.”

Jon glared at him.

“Speaking of,” Tim continued, “Yule Ball’s coming up. Wanna go?”

Jon gave him an even darker glare. “I don’t think I’m welcome. Frankly, I don’t think any of us are. And not all of us have connections.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Tim slung a cajoling arm around Jon’s shoulders. “They’re not that bad. The Court understands that as long as they’re not killing people, we’re good. It would be like a diplomatic mission! ‘Sides, Danny could totally get you in.”

“No, thank you,” Jon said crisply. “I dislike parties even when they aren’t thrown by the Unseelie Court.”

Tim shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss. I’d offer to bring you back a snack, but…”

“Yes, thank you, Tim,” Jon sighed. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Tim peered over Jon’s shoulder at the map of London he’d marked up. One mark for every reported vampire attacks. He’d started to figure out some of the different territories. The problem was the three red dots near the Institute. Something was hunting in the area.

“You need a break,” Tim told him.

“I’m not going to that party—”

“Not what I meant.”

“Tim, we might not have to kill this thing, but we still have to find it—”

“Also not what I meant. Sasha and I have a lead on a ghost.”

“A ghost,” Jon said, deadpan. He’d only ever heard of one or two real ghosts. Most of the reports that reached the Institute were about ghosts. It was a headache to read them.

“Yup. In Cambridge Military Hospital.”

“So you got a report of a ghost at a popular haunting sight. And...who did you get this information from?”

Tim fidgeted guiltily. “It...might have been Melanie King.”

Jon groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“We’ve gotten a few leads from her in the past,” Tim reassured him.

“Whatever,” Jon sighed. “We’ll go tomorrow. Get it over with.”

=

Melanie King strode through the doors of Blackwood Bookshelf, stormed up to the counter, and demanded to know where the sea salt, black tourmaline, and sandalwood were located.

“Um,” Martin said, “why?”

Melanie rolled her eyes at him. “I pissed off a ghost,” she sighed.

“A ghost,” Martin replied, deadpan. “You know, a hello would be nice.”

“Hello, Martin. Please sell me the goods I requested, because you run a store and I am a customer.”

Martin eyed Melanie over critically. Melanie always got aggressive as a defense mechanism. She hunted and reported on ghosts for a living: whatever had happened must have been unusual and unsettling if she was seeking out protection charms.

“All right,” Martin leaned over the counter, “but you should tell me what happened. So I know what kind of thing to give you. Just—what happened? What kind of ghost?”

“There’s not much to tell. We went to the Cambridge Military Hospital looking for a grey lady. And we found...something. Something violent. Dressed like a soldier. He ran at us, went straight through me. It hurt. Like hell. And then it was gone.”

“Have you felt any...lingering effects? Is it still after you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“So...you need these just in case? All right, you shouldn’t need the tourmaline, since I’d have to order that, but I can get you some—”

“I’m going back.”

“What? No! N-no, don’t do that! You got away once, if you come back, they’ll know you and you won’t get out.”

“Martin, this isn’t my first rodeo. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not saying you can’t. But they’ve caught your scent. It’s so dangerous to revisit a haunting site. So. Dangerous.”

Melanie crossed her arms. “I have to go back and investigate the site more thoroughly. I know it’s a bad idea, but...it’s my responsibility.”

“Okay,” Martin said, “okay, I get it, you need more information. Let me help.”

“What?”

“I’ll go in tonight, check the place out, and take some pictures for you. You get your research and the ghost doesn’t get you.”

“I’m not letting you fight my battles for me!”

“How about this, then,” Martin said decisively. “I’m going to go into the hospital tonight, on my own initiative. Then I’ll give what I find to you. And then you come back here for protection if you need it. If what I find isn’t enough.”

“Fine,” Melanie grumbled. “Fine. But I’m buying you dinner before you go.”

“Oh, n-no, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. You’re my friend, and you’re doing me a favor. It’s the least I can do. 6:00 at that Indian place two blocks down.”

“Okay,” Martin acquiesced.

=

There was a red envelope in Jon’s mailbox when he returned home to his flat. It was sealed with a gold seal of a clown’s face.

Jon groaned. He knew what this was. He opened it anyway once he was in his tiny kitchen.

Esteemed Archivist,
You are cordially invited to attend the Unseelie Yule Ball from December 22 to January 2. Parties and Celebrations will be offered throughout. Food and drink provided, but we understand if you are suspicious of it! But you need not worry! We will not trap you!

The festivities begin at 7:00, December 22, in the Orsinov House of Wax. Come dance with us!

Cordially,

Ringmaster Orsinov of the Unseelie Court

An invitation. That was a surprise. Jon almost threw it away, then paused.

Tim was, unfortunately, correct. The Institute couldn’t succeed without the cooperation of the more reasonable creatures of London, and given how new Jon was, he should probably make some connections.

He threw the invitation on the counter. He’d talk about it with Tim before they checked out the Hospital.

=

Martin walked into the hospital smelling of salt and sandalwood. Always paid to be safe. He’d packed a few extra flashlights. He didn’t bother with any divination or detection gear; he wouldn’t know how to use it. He made do with a night-vision camera and a notepad.

He took pictures of every wall that seemed spooky. So far, there were no noises or phenomena. Maybe the ghost had finished its business by attacking someone. But he still kept recording with the camera, for Melanie to go through later.

Then he heard the footsteps echoing down the long metal hallway. He readied the camera and took off running. No use trying to sneak around—the spirits knew his position from the moment he entered their domain.

He sprinted around a corner, camera at the ready, and just had time to see someone standing in the hallway before he lost his footing and crashed headlong into a figure much too solid to be a ghost.

The two of them fell to the floor in a tangle. Martin’s camera skidded away, and he thanked his lucky stars he’d thought to buy a casing with it. Him and the mysterious figure finally slid to a stop against the wall, Martin instinctively curling his body around the other person to shield them. He looked down at the person his arms were wrapped around, and caught a telltale glimpse of round scars and silver-streaked hair.

Martin’s stomach leaped into his throat as he realized he was currently on top of, of all people, Jonathan Sims. They just stayed there for a second, staring at each other in shock. Martin realized distractedly how many colors were mixed into the brown of Jon’s eyes. Like a fire agate.

Martin shoved himself off Jon and scurried back into the corner.

“What are you doing here?” he panted.

Jon stood, not even bothering to brush off his dusty coat. “I could ask the same of you.”

His voice was clipped, wary, and guarded. Martin couldn’t blame him. It was definitely for the best for Jon to guard himself.

Martin tried to brush off the grime that now clung to his knit sweater, but it clung there stubbornly.

“You’ve got a, um…”

Jon reached out and brushed a cobweb from Martin’s ear. Martin was too startled to reject the contact.

“Uh. Thanks?” Martin didn’t know what else to say.

Jon looked like he wanted to say something, but just shook his head and walked away. Martin hated watching him walk away, even if he did get a nice view. God, it was his fault Jon was leaving. It was always his fault.

Martin picked up his camera, which was mercifully undamaged. Jon was probably here for whatever ghost Melanie had seen. The Institute could be trusted to take care of anything dangerous. He’d let Melanie know there was nothing to worry about.

=

He really should have asked Martin about the tea. Jon sighed morosely and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. Hands that still felt a little cold from where they’d braced against Martin’s broad chest.

It was then that Jon decided he’d go to the Yule Ball. Tim was, unfortunately, right. He needed a break. Not to mention, whatever had killed Gertrude might be at the party. It would be like an intelligence-gathering mission.

Chapter Text

On December 22 at 3:30 p.m., Jon decided there was no way he was going to the Unseelie ball.

He probably wasn’t welcome. He wasn’t much for parties. He didn’t want to just stand there in the corner for hours, awkwardly staring at his phone. He’d just be a drag on Tim, anyway. There wouldn’t be any valuable intel.

Jon’s hands were shaking.

“Hey, boss,” Tim greeted, popping his head into the office. “What’re you wearing to the Ball tonight? Better leave now if you want to get ready and get there in time.”

“I have made the decision not to attend,” Jon told him.

Tim groaned dramatically. “Jonathan! You said!”

“I am aware of what I said,” Jon replied stiffly, “and I am retracting it. I am sure Sasha would be more than happy to accompany you.”

“You know how Sasha feels about the Unseelie. Which is to say, unreasonably nervous for reasons I can’t quite figure out.”

“Well, then I guess you’re going alone.” Jon returned to his files.

Tim walked into the office and sat on the edge of Jon’s desk.

“All right, boss, what’s up. You look nervous.”

“I’m fine,” Jon snapped. “I have a lot of work to do, and the Ball would be a waste of time.”

“You’re the Archivist. It’s networking, Jon. You like networking, right?”

“I hate networking.”

“Well, it’s still important. I know you know that. So what’s going on?”

Jon hid his shaking hands under the table. “I just...don’t want to.”

“Thirty minutes,” Tim wheedled. “Then you can leave.”

“No.”

“I’ll pay for your ride back?”

Jon sighed. “You’re not going to drop this, are you.”

“Nope!” Tim said cheerily.

“Fine,” Jon groaned. “Thirty minutes.”

“Yes!” Tim punched the air. “Cannot wait to see you wasted, boss.”

“I will not be drinking any of the refreshments.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll bring some. Now, come on. You’d better leave now if you want to be ready by the time I swing by to pick you up.”

“I was just going to wear this.” Jon gestured to the fine work clothes he’d chosen to wear. Sweater vest and khakis. Respectable enough.

“Absolutely not,” Tim declared. “You are not wearing fucking khakis to a Yule revelry.” He grins. “Fortunately, we’re about the same size.”

“I don’t foll—ah. I see. We’re doing this again.”

“Admit it,” Tim said, “I’m way more fashionable than you and you’re glad for my help. Now, c’mon. I’ll even give you some of my leftover risotto.”

=

Jon was already regretting attending his first Yule Ball, and the feeling didn’t fade as they approached the decked halls of the wax museum.

Thirty minutes, and you can leave, he reminded himself.

The lobby of the museum was totally empty save for a sharp-toothed, pointy-eared man dressed like a nutcracker standing behind the desk. Tim headed straight for him.

“And what are you called,” the man asked.

Jon felt a little more at ease. They were deliberately trying not to gather names.

“I’m Danny Stoker’s plus one,” Tim said, “and he’s my plus one. Well, I mean, technically he was invited. As the Archivist.”

Jon felt a bit self-conscious as the fae greeter gave them a long look, clearly thinking them a couple. Then again, maybe not, as Tim was clearly out of Jon’s league, a vision in rustling red fabric. Jon was dressed simply in a loose, pirate-style blouse paired with tight slacks and a jacket styled after the wings of a moth.

“Humans,” the greeter sniffed, “from the Institute.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Tim reassured. “Unless you’ve got a pile of corpses in the basement.”

Jon held his tongue. His social skills were deemed ‘awkward’ at best and ‘the reason twelve people are banned permanently from Olive Garden’ at worst.

The greeter just stared at them.

“Oh, c’mon, Daniel,” said a voice from the shadows, a voice that Jon thought was Tim for a moment.

Jon turned to see Danny Stoker step into the lobby, grinning a bit too wildly, his sharp teeth on show. Jon had met Danny once or twice, but never with his mask down. It was downright uncanny seeing obviously fae features on a face so much like Tim’s. Usually, changelings grew far apart from their birth families by age 30 at the latest, but the Stokers were an exception. It showed in Danny’s face—he clearly hadn’t stopped taking his appearance cues from Tim, though he hadn’t imitated the scars.

Danny playfully smacked the greeter on the arm as he passed. “No need to give them a hard time, other Danny. These,” he gestured with a flourish to Tim and Jon, “are my honored guests!”

The greeter stared. “I suppose you can guide them to the party, then.”

“With pleasure.”

Danny winked at Jon. He was attractive in a way that tickled the anti-enchantment glyphs tattooed on the back of Jon’s neck. He slung an arm around Jon’s shoulder and steered him towards a staircase leading down.

“You’d like to be called Jon, right?” Danny said. “Pleasure to meet you. I was hoping Tim would convince you to come.”

“Yes, well, quite.” Jon squirmed uncomfortably.

“Nervous, huh?”

Jon huffed and nodded reluctantly. Was he really that obvious, or were the Stoker brothers just that observant.

“First Ball’s always hard. Don’t worry,” Danny reassured him as they entered a small coat room, “it’ll be fun. I predict within the hour, you’ll be having the time of your life. If not, you can leave whenever you want.”

“If I’m careful,” Jon muttered.

Tim had started rifling through what appeared to be a box of masks.

“Oh! That reminds me.” Danny planted a quick kiss on the top of Jon’s head, then another on Tim’s. Jon recoiled in surprise, but Tim seemed to take it in stride, as if it was a routine. “Everyone’s agreed to behave, but just in case, that should protect you. Same with the masks.”

“The masks?” Jon inquired. He’d heard people mention the masks, but never as more than a fashion accessory for a people obsessed with the aesthetic of the hunt and the wild.

TIm pulled out three masks—a red fox, a silver fox, and an owl. The masks were masquerade-style—as Tim put on the red fox mask which oddly seemed to have no way to fasten it, for a moment it only covered its eyes. Then something changed. Tim’s face shifted in a way that made the hair on Jon’s arms stand up as his Sight tried and failed to keep up. Tim looked like a stranger who looked like Tim. Jon knew it was Tim, but would have trouble picking him out of a crowd.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Tim said with a grin. “Leaves you recognizable enough to meet friends, but hidden enough to have plausible deniability. You see the person in the street the next day, you pretend you never saw each other in the wax museum.”

Tim handed Jon the owl mask. He observed it with trepidation. He didn’t like wearing an item of Unseelie enchantment, and he especially dreaded walking into a room where his eyes—his only defense—couldn’t be trusted. But Tim had done this before and seemed fine with it. And Jon was trying to at least give the Ball a try.

The owl mask had no clear way of fastening, but when he placed it against his face, it stayed there, somehow morphing to rest over his glasses. It was light, comfortable, and very obviously enchanted.

“Shall we get this over with?” Jon sighed.

He glanced at his watch, confirming the hands still moved. He didn’t want to lose track of time.

Tim grabbed Jon by the wrist—as always, his hands were unseasonably warm yet dry—and led him down a hallway. Jon could hear the thumping of what sounded like EDM mixed with classical music. Tim shoved open an architecturally unusual door, and they emerged into the ball proper.

Jon had to blink a few times before he took the whole scene in. The halls were, to say the least, decked. Garlands and baubles covered the enormous space. A live band and a DJ collaborated on the music. There was a bar giving out free drinks and banquet tables laden with food. Fairly mundane so far, but it was only day one. Mingling like a school of fishes was a crowd of masked strangers. Some danced, following the lead of a very tall faerie in the uniform of a circus ringmaster. Ringmaster Orsinov, presumably. Many frequented the bar and the banquet. There were even some board games—that made Jon chuckle a little. Through one of the many doors off the main space, Jon could see a game of Dungeons and Dragons. He was relieved that the more...erotic activities seemed to be confined to the rooms provided for that purpose.

Jon was very, very glad he was here on day one. Right now, it could just pass for a normal party, but he knew that in two days was Samhain and within the week the whole place would erupt in a frenzy of macabre dance and hunting. No humans were allowed in the last three days, as the party accelerated to such Bacchian heights that any humans who tried to participate died of exhaustion.

The masks gave Jon a headache. His searching eyes desperately tried to impose order and recognition on the faces of total strangers. He thought he saw Sasha, then realized he was looking at a woman of a totally different skin color. He saw a figure that looked like Elias out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned it was a tall and imposing vampire in the mask of a viper. He shivered. People really were coming from all around.

To Jon’s great relief, Tim and Danny stayed with him, intent on being his guides. The brothers first led him to a table by the door laden with glowsticks. There was a sign over the table associating colors with various genders. Tim grabbed a purple one, while Danny grabbed blue, and Jon immediately went for the color the sign had deemed meant “not interested.”

“Now you’re ready, boss,” Tim said cheerily, patting Jon on the back.

“Don’t call me ‘boss.’ We’re at a...rave. It’s weird.”

“No problem, boss.” Tim paused. “Have you ever even been to a rave?”

Jon crossed his arms. “I know what a rave is.”

Tim sighed and rifled through his bag. “We’ve got to get you drunk before you get punched.”

“I’d prefer to keep my faculties about me, thank you,” Jon said stiffly as Tim pulled a whole bottle of whiskey out of his bag.

Tim shrugged. “More for me.”

Jon continued to follow Danny and Tim through the sea of strangers. At first it was distinctly awkward, and he very much wanted to leave. But Danny and Tim kept up their smiles and didn’t leave his side, and Jon started to relax. The thudding music that he’d found so jarring was starting to pulse in three-four time with his heartbeat. He tapped his foot to it as he stood to the side, watching the people on the dance floor.

“You should get out there,” Tim told him.

“I don’t dance,” Jon replied.

“Don’t or can’t?” Jon’s downcast look was apparently all the answer Tim needed, as his face broke into a grin. “All right, boss, time to learn.”

Jon protested weakly as Tim pulled him into a less crowded corner of the dance floor and began his lesson.

“Okay, I’ll lead,” Tim instructed. “So you put this hand here, and the other holds mine—you got it, boss!”

“Can you please not call me ‘boss’ while your hand is at my waist.”

“Sure thing, boss. Now just step with the rhythm—look at my feet—one, two three. One, two, three.”

Jon felt better looking at Tim’s feet. It was weird to stare into a friend’s face made near unrecognizable. Not to mention the situation was already a bit awkward, given he was technically Tim’s boss. Jon didn’t want to be unprofessional by staring at the way those round scars traced Tim’s sharp and handsome jaw, He definitely pulled them off. Tim’s scars made him look rakish and tough. Jon just looked moth-eaten.

Tim’s steps seemed so easy, but Jon stumbled over his feet. He tried to calculate, to time the rhythm, but it didn’t work.

“Get out of your head,” Tim advised. “Would it kill you to stop overthinking? You gotta feel the music.”

“How am I supposed to figure out how to accomplish a task without thinking about it?”

“Just trust me,” Tim said.

Jon sighed and listened to the music. A simple thudding like a slow heartbeat.

“Now you’re getting it!” Tim cheered. “Now look at me so you can see what I’m going to do next.”

Jon forced himself to look back up as his feet kept shuffling. He had to crane his neck a little to meet Tim’s eyes.

“There we go,” Tim encouraged. “Now I’m gonna twirl you slowly. Just follow my arm.”

Jon slowly turned. He was getting the hang of this. His eyes scanned the sea of people as he twirled, none of whom he recognized, of course.

And then he saw the man at the bar, and he stumbled so badly Tim had to catch him by the waist.

The thing was, the masks worked. Jon had seen no one he would be able to later accurately describe, and even Tim and Danny were strange. Which is why it startled him so much that, despite the badger mask, he recognized Martin Blackwood instantly.

Martin was dressed in a simple yellow suit paired with a golden cloak. He was a radiant vision, like the only light in the dark party basement. He was idly sipping red wine and talking with a man whose garb was star-studded and whose skin bore the mark of lightning.

Tim followed his gaze and frowned. “What’s got you spooked, boss?”

“I, ah…” Jon trailed off. He didn’t really want to tell Tim. His recognition of Martin felt somehow like a secret. “I need to talk to someone. You can find someone better to dance with.”

He darted away before Tim had a chance to reply. When he was about halfway to Martin, he slowed down and reconsidered what he was doing. His first instinct had been just to run to the man, but now it was tempered by remembering exactly what Martin’s feelings towards him were. If Martin was here, he was expecting not to be recognized. It wasn’t fair of Jon to violate his anonymity.

And then Martin met his eyes, and Jon could tell from his face that he recognized him instantly too, and Jon was just standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He approached the bar.

“Hello,” Jon said.

“Hello,” Martin said. His voice had no bite to it.

“How are you enjoying the party so far?” Jon offered.

Plausible deniability was the thing. Jon knew it was Martin, and Martin knew it was Jon, but the masks made it so they could pretend they were talking to a stranger. Jon could pretend to leave their baggage behind and just talk to an unrecognizable man radiant and beautiful in yellow fabric.

“Fine, I suppose,” Martin replied. “It’s a great place to meet new people.”

People didn’t really ask for names at the Unseelie Ball, and they could pretend that etiquette was why they didn’t ask each other’s names.

“It’s my first time here,” Jon confided. “I’m a bit nervous.”

Martin’s expression was unreadable, and it wasn’t because of the mask.

“Care to dance?” Jon blurted.

Martin just stared at him with a little intake of breath. His cheeks are starting to turn a little red, but that might just be the wine.

“I-I just learned,” Jon continued, fully aware he was babbling, “and I think I need more practice.”

Martin’s expression softened into a smile.

“Well,” he said, “dancing with strangers is a Ball tradition.”

Martin stood and offered his hand to Jon. No sooner had Jon taken it that Martin whirled them both onto the floor. His hand at Jon’s waist was deliciously cold in the room of sweaty revelry, and he held Jon’s hand with a grip far more desperate than his previous rejection would suggest.

“You’re really not a bad dancer,” Martin murmured.

By rights, his voice should have been too quiet to hear over the music, but it was as if they were the only two people in the room. Their bodies didn’t need to be that close as they danced, but there was a magnetism to Martin that Jon couldn’t resist. Jon was attracted to Martin like a planet orbiting a sun—he couldn’t get too close, and every reminder of his radiance seemed to burn Jon’s skin. Jon and Martin couldn’t have a relationship—Martin had made that very clear. He really shouldn’t torture himself with pretending they could be close. But they were at the Unseelie Ball, and they had plausible deniability. Jon could enjoy Martin’s touch and pretend that he had been dancing with a stranger when Martin ignored him in the street the next day.

Dancing with Martin was easier than dancing with Tim. For all Martin’s inscrutability, he telegraphed his movements well. Jon didn’t say anything, and neither did Martin. The silence was heavy yet comfortable between them.

Jon wanted to ask why Martin hated the Institute, if he had left the tea, if maybe they could be friends or acquaintances or people who didn’t hate each other. He couldn’t find the words, though. For all his education and reading and vocabulary, Jon had no idea how to talk about feelings.

Instead, as the music transitioned into a slow dance, he rested his head against Martin’s chest. It was broad and safe, and he could feel the slow and reassuring rhythm of Martin’s breath. Martin’s chin rested on Jon’s head, and Jon knew that in the morning they could blame their closeness on the morphine-like enchantment of the Court that felt like cold water on the back of Jon’s neck. Martin didn’t know about the glyphs, after all. For all Martin knew, it was magic that made Jon seek his touch.

Jon closed his eyes and leaned into the stabbing heat in his chest, the part of him that yearned for this so badly. Maybe the abjuration tattoos needed a touch-up: he’d only been on one date with this man, and it had ended badly. They’d known each other for maybe a few months. And here he was flocking to Martin’s touch like a moth to a flame, complete with the burning hurt that would inevitably come at the end.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind and just swayed from side to side, leaning into Martin.

Then the dance was over, and Martin disappeared into the milling crowd. Jon texted Tim that he was leaving and then called an Uber. The Unseelie Ball tried to cling to him, to call him back, but the glyphs at his neck and the kiss on his head allowed him to break free.

He needed some sleep.

Chapter Text

There was an outfit in Martin’s closet that he wore once a year. It was made of fine fabric, with roses embroidered on the cuffs and a cape lined with gold. It cost more than Martin’s bookshop, and it came from the coffer of the Lukas family. It was the one gift from Peter he hadn’t thrown away, because it was intended for him to wear to certain solemn dinner parties and Peter hated him wearing it to the Yule Ball.

The process of putting on the suit was almost meditative. Buttoning the vest. Making sure the skirt hung right. Tying the cravat. He used to feel very uncomfortable in all that finery, feeling like an imposter, and then he’d seen the outlandish things that other guests showed up in. He did look good in the suit.

He was looking forward to the Yule Ball. Finally, a break from the stress and angsting that Jonathan Sims had brought into his life.

His mind, unbidden, produced an image of Jonathan Sims in formal wear. Martin quickly pushed it away before he started swooning. The whole point of this was not to think about Jon.

After a moment’s thought, Martin stashed a condom in one of the vest pockets. There was one surefire way to forget about an ex, and the Yule Ball was an excellent place to do so.

He took a cab to the museum, fortunately insulated from weird looks by his long coat that hid his finery. Daniel just nodded as he entered.

Martin could finally breathe easy once he entered the Ball. The music thudded and he didn’t recognize anyone. Most importantly, no one could recognize him. He still didn’t show his true form, though. Even though no one in the room would bat an eye at pointed ears and feathered wings. It was the principle of the thing, really. Like dressing for the job he wanted, if the job he wanted was being human.

He flitted from conversation to conversation with people that looked like people he knew. Most of the conversations were pleasant, except for a rather uncomfortable interaction with a tall, cold vampire whose eyes were far too searching.

The Ball was the one chance Martin had to actually talk to these people without jumping through the hoops of supernatural politics, because no one wanted to break the mask of plausible deniability. He managed to talk about knitting with Annabelle without her once trying to imply that he should be involving himself more with the Institute. Oliver actually had some interesting things to say about poetry once he wasn’t complaining about the Unseelie to Martin, or worse, asking him if he’d drained anyone or taken a thrall yet.

He eventually found himself at the bar with the man with the lightning scar. Mike Crew outside of the Ball. But here he was just the lightning marked. Am Fear Liath Mor, some called him. For an ancient folktale, the man was a rather bland conversationalist. But he was polite, which Martin appreciated, and he had a love of tea that rivalled Martin’s own.

As Mike explained some of the collection of the spellbinder Jurgen Leitner, all information that Martin already knew. Martin let his eyes wander across the sea of strangers. Many of them looked like people they knew. Probably were people he knew, but there was plausible deniability, of course. Most of them had a reason to be there.

Martin frowned as he caught a glimpse of the Hunter, Sasha, in the crowd. For a moment, he was scared. Then he shook himself. That obviously wasn’t Sasha. Her skin was far lighter, her hair was short and dyed blonde—she looked nothing like Sasha. Why had Martin thought she was Sasha?

All thoughts of Sasha were forced rudely from his mind as Martin met the eyes of Jonathan Sims.

Despite the pearlescent owl mask, he recognized Jon’s face instantly. Like the enchantment wasn’t working at all. Judging from the stunned look on Jon’s face, the recognition was mutual.

That shouldn’t happen, unless someone was casting a powerful counterspell or some other magic was involved. But what? Martin certainly hadn’t done anything, and judging from the shock on Jon’s face, neither could he. All Martin could think of were the bites, but he hadn’t even taken any blood. There shouldn’t have been any magical connection between them—the only such bond a vampire and a human could have was that of thralldom, and Martin was pretty sure he’d have noticed if he’d bound Jon to a lifetime of servitude.

But there was a more important question. What was Jon doing here? Gertrude had certainly never come to the Ball, and Jon seemed even less like the partying type than her, if that was even possible. It wasn’t fair. Martin was here to forget Jon, and now here he was, his stricken expression reviving the butterflies Martin had desperately tried to kill. All he could do was stare as Jon made his way across the dance floor towards the bar. It especially wasn’t fair that Jon was ethereal in a moth’s-wing tunic and black trousers that made his bony figure seem lithe and handsome, and was that a hint of copper eyeliner? His wasn’t the beauty of the fae—he was beautiful like a caught breath, like a choked laugh, like a speeding racecar.

“Hello,” Jon said, sliding into the barstool across from Martin. When had Mike left? A nuclear bomb could have gone off, and Martin probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Martin’s hands were trembling.

“Hello,” Martin replied. He tried to sound mean and drive Jon away, but he just couldn’t. He was too weak and too selfish.

“How are you enjoying the party so far?” Jon asked.

Martin nearly laughed. Jon was pretending like they were strangers, and Martin found himself not wanting to shatter the illusion. They knew the other recognized them. But if they pretended they’d just met, they didn’t have to address any of their history. They didn’t have to think about the worms and the date and the military hospital. They could just be two strangers lost in each other’s eyes.

“Fine, I suppose,” Martin answered. “It’s a great place to meet new people.”

That was what they were to each other. New people. Masked figures made unrecognizable. Of course, they both knew it wasn’t true, but they could still pretend as long as neither of them addressed the elephant in the room.

And it was a great place to meet. Despite all his hope that he wouldn’t run across the Archivist, Martin found he couldn’t make himself feel angry that Jon was there.

“It’s my first time here,” Jon told him. “I’m a bit nervous.”

Made sense for an Archivist to be uneasy in a room full of fae and monsters. Most of them were the kind that the Institute was happy to let be. But others were only kept in check at the Ball by Orsinov’s insistence on etiquette. Yet despite his nerves, Jon’s eyes were fixed on Martin. Martin wished he would look away. His honeyed stare was making it terribly hard for Martin to keep up his resolve to stay distant.

And then Jon asked him to dance, and Martin’s resolve revealed itself for the flimsy farce it was.

It was a Ball tradition, he told himself as much as Jon. Nothing wrong with dancing with a stranger. Hell, he’d done it a few times already. He could pretend that this was just a man who happened to look like someone who’d kill him. He guided him onto the floor with all the delicacy their fragile peace demanded.

He didn’t miss the way Jon’s breath caught as their hands met, or the little shiver his cold touch sent up Jon’s back. And yet Jon leaned closer. A bit too close for two strangers. Close enough for Martin.

“You’re really not a bad dancer,” he murmured, far too quiet for Jon to hear over the music.

The want that Martin felt in his chest made the worst blood hunger feel like a passing craving. He yearned to hold Jon close, to sweep him up and kiss him till he saw stars. But that would just end in both of them getting hurt. He didn’t want to end up on the radar of the Institute. And there was Jon’s safety. He’d gone on a date with Jon thinking the man was already acquainted with the Lukases, but now that he knew Jon wasn’t, he’d move heaven and earth to keep it that way.

He swayed in time with Jon, knowing that when they passed in the street the next day, they would both pretend this hadn’t happened. That was the point of the masks, after all. Plausible deniability.

The plausible deniability would be broken if Martin said anything, so he didn’t ask the questions he yearned to voice. Was Jon okay? How had he been dealing with the aftermath of Prentiss’s attack? Why come to the Ball? He really didn’t seem the reveling type.

Instead, he just led Jon to an area of the dance floor that wasn’t as well-lit, giving them the additional protection of darkness. Jon’s hand still rested in his own. Martin ran his thumb slowly over a pair of round scars—they’d healed well. Hopefully his tea had helped. He wished he could kiss them to give them whatever feeble benediction he could.

The music became even slower, transitioning from song to song like water, and Jon leaned his head against Martin’s chest. Martin didn’t always breathe, but in that moment, breathing seemed as natural as—well, as breathing. Jon’s presence anchored him to the humanity that often felt so distant. Maybe it was just the fear of discovery that made his blood actually pump and rush to his cheeks. Or maybe it was something more, something deeper that thrummed and sang with Jon’s pulse. He felt a little pang of guilt. Jon’s desire for closeness was probably due to the enchantment of the Unseelie Court that led everyone to seek another’s skin. He rested his chin on top of Jon’s head. Jon was so small and frail even when he wasn’t in a hospital bed, and Martin wanted to protect him so badly it hurt.

Martin realized Jon’s eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, though he was in the embrace of a dangerous man who had left him shocked on the sidewalk. Closing one’s eyes was a dangerous business in any fae court, and yet Jon trusted Martin enough to let down his guard. A lump rose in Martin’s throat. He didn’t deserve this. He wasn’t even human.

But he was weak. Too weak to do the right thing and shove Jon away. So he just danced and tried not to think about how Jon’s body pressed against his own wasn’t something he could ever have again.

As soon as the song was over, he disappeared, watching attention slide off him. He suddenly didn’t feel the heady thrill of the Ball anymore.

He flew home despite the cold. The biting chill of the wind against his feathers seemed adequate punishment for his transgressions.

=

As he changed out of his party outfit and into his pajamas, he abruptly froze while packing it away into the dry clean bag until next year. It hit him, suddenly, that he had danced with Jonathan Sims in an outfit picked and paid for by Peter Lukas.

He dropped the outfit, not bothering to hang it up. The sheer wrongness of him punched him in the chest. He’d exposed Jon to something Lukas. God, he was grateful he’d kept his mouth shut that first day in the Bookshelf. He didn’t want Jon to know anything about the Lukases, because then he would investigate. That was what Archivists did.

The Lukases would love to get their teeth in an Archivist. They wouldn’t make it quick, either. They’d leave Jon drained and glassy-eyed, unrestrained and unmoving, slowly watching his life drain away but rendered useless by thralldom—

Martin knew this train of thought was unproductive and led nowhere good. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. That wouldn’t happen. Martin wouldn’t let it happen.

Martin couldn’t protect everyone from the bites of the Lukases. But he could protect Jon. Maybe even Jon’s friends.

Hopefully Peter Lukas wouldn’t come calling for some time.

Chapter Text

Peter Lukas had come calling. He was standing in Martin’s bookshelf, benignly scanning through towers of greeting cards as if he visited every Tuesday. All Martin could do was stare. He didn’t even have the comfort of other people in the store. They’d all left when Peter entered. Peter’s magic was subtle, yet powerful, and he used it almost exclusively to avoid awkward social situations.

Martin wished he had the courage to tell Peter to leave, but the truth was, he didn’t hate Peter enough to risk an all-out conflict. He hated the rest of the Lukases, but his feelings towards Peter were far more complicated. Peter had turned him, yes, but had probably saved his life in the process. Not to mention the months preceding, the torture that had ended when Peter had dragged him up from the depths of hell.

He didn’t clench his corkscrew or brace for an attack. Peter had never lifted a finger against him—he was far more dangerous than that, although again, he was preferable to the rest of his family. Martin had to keep his mind and his emotions on guard.

Martin cleared his throat. Peter looked up.

“Peter,” Martin said, hating how his voice rose an octave, “what are you doing here?”

“Martin,” Peter replied pleasantly, “can’t I just stop by for a visit?”

“Actually, you can’t. This is my territory, Peter. And I run a very tight ship. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“My boy! The traditions aren’t so strict to keep a friend from visiting, are they?”

Martin sighed. Peter did not do casual visits, and he especially didn’t do friends. He avoided Martin because their conversations were awkward and full of hidden tension, which meant that Peter only showed up when he desperately wanted something, and it was never something Martin liked.

“What do you want, Peter?” he demanded.

“The dinner is soon,” Peter said casually.

The mention was anything but casual. Martin knew exactly what dinner Peter was referring to. He wished it had a better name.

He should have seen this coming. Every year, Peter came and tried to get Martin to come to the dinner. He was always sad when Martin refused, as if it didn’t happen annually.

“You know I’m not coming,” Martin told him.

There was that inevitable little frown of disappointment.

“A shame,” Peter said. “You know, Martin, I was hoping by now you’d have someone to add to the bloodline, or at least a thrall.”

Martin bristled. “I’m never going to subject anyone to that.”

“It’s not so bad. You’ve set up a very cozy life, haven’t you?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I did try to help you. You turned down my very generous donation.”

“I mean this life isn’t because I’m—because of what you did. It’s because of me. I don’t belong to you, Peter. Not anymore.”

Peter merely shrugged. He didn’t have much emotional investment in anything.

“Suit yourself, Martin. I would love it if you came to the dinner, though.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Did you go to the Yule Ball, by the way?”

“It’s really not your business.”

Peter made a little noise of disagreement. “Really, Martin, if you’re going to attend such...events, you may as well go with the Seelie.”

Martin heartily disagreed, but didn’t reply. The Seelie were pretentious at best and cruel at worst. He’d been to one of their parties, and had gotten so drunk he’d passed out on a pure white fur couch. It hadn’t been fun. It was far easier to think about the Seelie than about Peter Lukas. He just looked down at his hands and pretended Peter wasn’t there.

As soon as the door shut behind Peter, Martin collapsed to the floor behind his desk. His breath came in small, quiet sobs.

He didn’t hate Peter Lukas, but he hated seeing him. He hated every reminder of his months in the Lukas Manor. No shower could scrub away the sticky memory of his own blood clinging to his skin, a feeling he knew would linger for days. Dozens of little years-old pinprick scars around every exposed vein throbbed like new, like they’d just given up his blood to sneering creatures.

He managed to stumble to his feet long enough to close down the shop, then dragged himself up the stairs to his flat. It used to be that a visit from a Lukas was enough to ruin his week completely—he’d spent untold hours shivering, sobbing, and vomiting blood. Now, though, he had the energy and coherence to change into pajamas, wrap himself in blankets until he felt like he was wearing armor, and turn on Netflix.

Two hours into Queer Eye, and he remembered to breathe again. To simulate being human again. He could manage it now without the fear of vulnerability that came with humanity. He could even enjoy a nice pint of ice cream.

He didn’t like being alone, though. Loneliness was a feeling the Lukas Manor claimed as its signature. He’d been surrounded by people, or at least things, and yet his soul had screamed with isolation. His current loneliness was quieter. It was the knowledge that he’d come home to an empty house, and though he could be happy by himself, he had little recourse when his skin longed for another’s touch. He supposed he could call Daisy—if she was free, she was usually up for cuddling platonically with him and some pizza as long as he put on a sufficiently cheesy program—but the thought of talking to someone made him wince. That was the worst part about his loneliness. He didn’t actually want it gone very much.

Unbidden, his thoughts turned to Jon. Jon, who he’d definitely not danced with. Martin couldn’t help but remember that, with Jon, the vulnerability of another’s body against his didn’t scare him. Jon was someone he could be alone together with, Martin thought.

He scolded himself. Peter’s visit should have reaffirmed Martin’s determination to stay away, not weaken it. Peter was a reminder of what could happen to Jon if Martin let him get too close.

=

Something was wrong with the Institute.

Jon’s cards were spelling out something uncanny, something dark, though they wouldn’t give him details. Some of the statements had little inconsistencies, little things that made him suspicious. He didn’t have enough to take action, but he was on edge.

A vampire had infiltrated the tunnels somehow. The wards should have prevented that from happening, and yet there Gertrude was. Dead and drained. Maybe a vampire had killed her outside the Institute and someone or something else had set her up in the tunnels? So the killer had a confederate.

Fortunately, Jon had managed to convince a police officer, Basira, to give him access to some of the notes and tapes they’d found littered around Gertrude’s body. He sat down with one of them—a brief fragment of writing on vampires in a neat hand. It wasn’t Gertrude’s handwriting.

The idea of a thrall is almost as old as the stories of the vampires themselves. More modern interpretations suggest the thrall as a sort of slave, a bond that goes only one way, the thrall giving both blood and compliance. However, when we go further back, we see more variation in the relationships between vampire and thrall. In some of the oldest tales from fae sources, the words “thrall” and “lover” are used interchangeably. This suggests the meaning of the word itself has changed over time, from one metaphorically “enthralled” by love to one whom the vampire literally compels. This hypothesis is supported by—

The rest of the paper was cut off by the marks of fire. Jon cast the paper aside. He really didn’t care about thrall lore, except how to free them. He hadn’t come across a thrall yet, but he wanted to be prepared. Slim pickings from Basira’s delivery this week, it seemed.

Basira definitely knew about the supernatural side of London, even if she hadn’t said anything about it. After all, she’d been assigned to a blatantly vampiric case. But just because she hunted monsters didn’t mean she was on the Institute’s side. And even if she was on the Institute’s side, Jon increasingly suspected that didn’t mean she was on his.

Sasha was acting odd. Paranoid. Jon had never known her to be afraid like that—she was fearless to the point of occasional recklessness. Yet she was constantly looking over her shoulder, and she wouldn’t even talk to him about it. Jon hadn’t mentioned it to Tim yet. Maybehe was misinterpreting things.

As always, Jon’s thoughts ended up at Martin Blackwood. If the Institute had some dark secret, it was probably had something to do with Martin’s hatred of it. Meaning Martin might no something. Not that Jon had any idea how to find out what that was.

Of course, as his thoughts turned to Martin Blackwood, he couldn’t help thinking about the Unseelie Ball where the two of them may have danced. Martin had been an island of safety in a life Jon was finding increasingly hard to deal with. All Jon’s stress and worry had melted away as his head rested against that broad chest.

He breathed out, then back in, centering himself. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Someone was out to get him. He just didn’t know who.

He had a statement to record. Another one about Am Fear Liath Mor. That man was getting dangerous—they’d have to put it on the list that was already too long. Jon’s back was still sore from the Darkling they’d killed the previous night.

Jesus, he was a bad Archivist. He felt like he was drowning in responsibility, and the only people who wanted to help him were drowning too.

“Boss? Did you hear me?”

Jon jerked out of his thoughts. Tim was standing there—how long had he been standing there?

“Uh, sorry, what?”

“I was saying, are you excited for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Jon replied blankly.

“Jon, tomorrow’s Christmas! You know, Christmas? When we exchange gifts and get wasted? That holiday?”

“Oh! Right. Yes. I suppose I am excited.”

Tim grinned. “That’s right, boss. Just thought I’d remind you, after what happened last year.”

Jon groaned good-naturedly. “Thanks for the reminder, Tim.”

=

Elias loved scheduling.

The Archives was having some sort of party, but Elias preferred to hole up in his office and schedule the coming month while everyone else was busy celebrating.

He was busy penciling in a finance meeting for the second week of January—a meeting he was not looking forward to, since meetings involving Peter Lukas were never fun—when he heard an odd noise. His head jerked upright. There was the noise again—unmistakably the sound of a muffled guitar string. He thought he heard giggling.

He sighed and strode up to the door, but before he could grab the doorknob, the door flew open to reveal the three drunk members of the Archives. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by an extremely loud and extremely boisterous rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” with Tim accompanying on guitar, Jon singing in a pleasant tenor, and Sasha playing the melody on a trumpet, making up for her lack of skill with enthusiasm and volume. It was not a pleasant experience.

“Jon,” Elias said sternly, “I have work to do.”

Jon merely waved his words away as they launched into a verse that Elias was very sure they had written themselves, but the trumpet overpowered the words.

“Jon,” Elias raised his voice, “please go back to whatever party you’re throwing.”

They just kept playing and singing louder. Elias huffed and slammed the door.

=

After they’d sung their carols, the three of them returned, laughing, to the Archives. They shoved the desks aside and sat in a little circle on the floor, instruments set to the side. Christmas with Tim and Sasha was always fun. It was barely even Christmas—none of them were actually Christian. Tim had already celebrated Yule with his family. Christmas had become a special Archives holiday with its own traditions. After they exchanged gifts—mostly just whatever chocolate and socks they’d put on their lists that they shared with each other on Google Drive—hey bundled up in fuzzy blankets and swapped stories over cups of mulled cider warmed by a magical flame.

“How did the Yule Ball go?” Sasha asked.

‘Excellent!” Tim said. “Jon learned how to dance, I won a game of Monopoly....”

Jon just sipped his cider.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Tim said, “Jon actually took the initiative and asked someone to dance.”

Jon groaned. He thought Tim hadn’t noticed, but that did explain the winks and nudges he’d been getting from his Mage.

“Oh?” Sasha lay down on the floor, kicking her heels like a middle schooler at a sleepover. “Do tell.”

“It was just some person,” Jon grumbled.
“Nope. You’re not getting off that easy,” Tim said. “Give us the details.”

Jon sighed and pulled his blanket over his head. “What happens at the Unseelie Ball stays at the Unseelie Ball, Tim.”

Tim shrugged. “That’s fair.”

“Wait, hang on,” Sasha rummaged through her bag. “I forgot this.”

She pulled out a stick from which dangled misletoe—a regular appearance at every Christmas party. Jon groaned. Tim cheered. Sasha dangled the plant over her head with a cheesy grin.

Tim laughed and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. She moved the misletoe over Jon’s head. Jon swatted it away.

“Oh, c’mon,” Tim cajoled, “don’t you want a little smooch from Tim Stoker, boss?”

“Not if you’re going to call me ‘boss.’”

“You could do worse than Tim,” Sasha told him.

“Fine,” Jon grumbled, acting a lot more put out than he actually was. Before he could lose his nerve, he leaned in and let Tim press their lips together. The kiss lingered a bit longer than was strictly necessary, but Jon wasn’t complaining. Tim was a very good kisser.

They broke apart as Sasha wolf-whistled.

“You’re not a bad kisser,” Tim complimented with a teasing grin.

Jon swatted him. “Shut up.”

“No idea why Martin didn’t want more of that.”

Jon swatted him harder. “Shut up!”

The rest of the party passed in quiet companionability. They had the entire floor pretty much to themselves, and that combined with the quiet snow outside made Jon feel like him and his friends were the only people in London.

It was nice, actually. Jon definitely didn’t wish Martin were there. He definitely didn’t let his mind wander to kissing Martin. And he certainly didn’t feel sad that he couldn’t give Martin a present.

=

“I’m here to see Agnieska Blackwood, please.”

The receptionist gave him a pleasant, cordial smile. He used to be known to all the staff, back when he was visiting regularly.

“And can I have your name?”

“Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

The receptionist’s smile grew a bit wider as her eyes landed on the present Martin had clutched in his arms.

“I’ll let her know.”

Martin knew how this would go, and sure enough, when the receptionist returned with an apologetic expression, he didn’t need her to tell him that she’d refused his visit.

“Can you just give her this?” He handed her the gift.

“Of course. Merry Christmas!”

“Happy holidays,” Martin returned with a sigh.

He didn’t feel the cold too badly as he stepped out into it. He glared a bit uncharitably at the happy holiday decorations adorning every storefront.

The Yule Ball was the only good part of the holiday season. The rest of it was just a reminder of things Martin couldn’t have.

Chapter Text

Jon didn’t realize it was 9:30 p.m. until Georgie called him. He glanced at the phone screen and winced.

“Where are you?” she admonished as soon as he picked up. “You were supposed to be over here an hour ago!”

“Sorry,” Jon muttered, turning back to scrutinizing his cards. “Can we take a raincheck? Something came up at the office.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“It’s really important, Georgie.”

“Jon, you seriously need to get out of the office once in a while.”

“I do get out of the office! Every weekend! To watch movies with you!”

“Hanging out with one friend for part of one day a week is not proper socialization.” Georgie took a bite of something. Jon cringed at the noise.

“I hang out with Tim and Sasha—”

“Your coworkers? Who you see in the workplace?”

“Point taken.”

“Jon. When was the last time you went on a date.”

Jon spluttered, losing his concentration.

“Answer the question, Jon.”

Jon groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Now that Georgie had pulled him out of his trance, he was starting to feel his exhaustion. He stubbornly pushed it aside and looked back down at the cards.

“Okay, I did actually go on a date. Fairly recently, actually. It went badly and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s great! I mean, it’s not great that your date went bad, but you’re getting back out there!”

“No. No I’m not. I just asked out a guy on impulse, and the date went bad. Nothing more to it.”

“You know,” Georgie mused, “Melanie mentioned she had a friend who was feeling a bit lonely.”

“Georgie!”

“Maybe you two could get coffee?”

Jon hung up and put his phone on silent. Someone was watching, and he had to find out who. He could feel divination prickling on the back of his neck.

Sleep could wait.

=

By the time Daisy walked into Blackwood Bookshelf, Martin was already well and truly stressed.

There were murmurs—not enough to act on, but disturbing nonetheless—that the Unseelie were planning something. After the whole Prentiss thing, Martin had the distinct feeling that the Institute had a big storm coming. Which would be fine, if he hadn’t recently become unfortunately emotionally invested in a few of its employees.

Daisy picked up on his nerves—she could practically (or maybe literally, Martin hadn’t asked) smell emotions.

“You look stressed,” she noted.

“Me? No, no, I’m fine. Things are fine. What’s up with you?”

Daisy shrugged and leaned against the counter. “Can’t complain.”

“So what brings you to the shop?”

“I was in the area. I’m investigating the Institute.”

“O-oh?” Martin squeaked.

Daisy gave him an odd look and nodded. “There’s something going on there. Monsters that need to be hunted.”

Martin didn’t feel the need to point out the irony, but Daisy must have read his thoughts on his face.

“Not the literally monstrous kind,” she clarified. “Just humans using dark magic. Not to mention the Unseelie are getting restless.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” Martin sighed. “Still, maybe, um, don’t go in guns blazing yet? The Institute really isn’t that bad. At least they’re trying to do good.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “I suppose. They haven’t done anything bad yet, at least. But I got my eye on them.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “You got any silvered weapons? I’m after another werewolf that’s been terrifying people in Greenwich, and I lost my last knife to a redcap.”

“I don’t sell weapons here.”

Daisy shrugged. “Fine. I’m sure I’ll be able to find one somewhere.”

“Be careful,” Martin ventured.

“You know me. Always careful.”

Martin chuckled weakly. Daisy could actually be remarkably careless sometimes, but with her skills and Basira, she always came out on top.

Martin sighed as Daisy left. He wished he could just go along with his life without worrying about anyone, then immediately retracted his wish. It was a very Lukas wish to make. He hated the way that Peter Lukas’s thought patterns seemed to worm its way into the back of his mind. He hated even more that he couldn’t really blame it on anything paranormal.

He was worried about Daisy. He was even more worried about Jon. A storm was brewing, even if he didn’t have enough details to know where and when it would strike. Whatever would happen, Jon was too stubborn to stay away from it. If only he could protect Jon somehow.

”I can protect you, Martin. That’s the nice thing about thralldom. You give blood and loyalty, and you get protection. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” Peter gave Martin a comforting pat on the leg. “You’ll understand someday. When you find someone you want to protect, you’ll want to make them your thrall. It’s the only way to keep them safe—

Martin gave a little helpless cry and hit the counter with his knuckles. Thankfully no one was in the shop to see tears start to leak from his eyes. He did want Jon to be safe, and it made him feel horrible. He didn’t want to do to Jon what Peter had done to him. He couldn’t do to Jon what Peter had done to him.

Martin promised to himself and to the world that he wouldn’t hurt Jon. He would keep Jon safe.

=

Sasha thought she was being followed.

They’d talked about it the previous night. She’d confessed that she’d seen a mysterious figure following her. So now she was sleeping at the Archives. It was the kind of thing that would have defined his month when he first joined the Institute, but now it was just another thing. One thing after another. Sure, his assistant, his Hunter, was staying at the workplace because someone was following her. Why not? They killed literal big spiders now.

Jon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t gotten it cut in months. This job was wildly stressful even now that he’d run past any reasonable adjustment period, and he knew that this new box of statements from Basira wasn’t going to help.

Still, he took out a piece of paper and read.

He was right—it did not relax him. This one was a statement from the Usher Foundation detailing the lore of a creature they’d gotten quite a few statements about. Some sort of Doppelganger—an Unseelie abomination that stalked people, ate their hearts, and stole their skin. It definitely put a few of their more creepy statements into context. Certainly disturbing, but Doppelgangers were apparently only created when the Unseelie were declaring war, so Jon figured they had nothing to worry about. The Unseelie had certainly seemed amicable enough at the Ball. Surely, if they were creating a Doppelganger, they wouldn’t have invited an Archivist and a Mage.

Jon’s breath always came shuddering and shallow after reading about such disturbing creatures. It was a tough job, and devoting his whole life to it was taking a visible toll on his mental health.

Suddenly, that blind date didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

He shook his head. He did not have time for a blind date, and in a city full of monsters and killers, his personal well-being was a rock-bottom priority.

=

“I liked the Cambridge episode,” Martin offered. “It was sufficiently spooky.”

“Thanks,” Melanie replied through a mouthful of noodles. “Your footage was great. Not sure what that weird encounter with that man was all about. Care to share?”

Martin winced. He’d forgotten to cut that part from the footage he’d given Melanie.

“No, actually,” he said. “I would not care to share.”

Melanie raised a cutting eyebrow. “Martin.”

“It’s nothing. Just...a guy I had a bad date with once.”

“Oh?”

“And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Melanie shrugged. “I could get you a better date, if you like. I mean, really, your taste in men is terrible. Let someone else pick you out a man for a change.”

“Melanie,” Martin groaned.

“I’m serious! You know, Georgie was just texting me. Said she had a friend who needed a life outside of his job, wanted to set him up.”

“No! No. Absolutely not. I am done with dating for now.”

“Martin,” Melanie wheedled. “I’m getting so tired of watching you swan around, moping about how lonely you are.”

“I am not moping!”

“You are! You are totally moping, you sad bear.”

Martin sighed and leaned back into the booth bench. “Whatever.”

Melanie continued scarfing down her noodles. “How’s work going?”

“It’s a bookshop, Melanie. Just, you know, selling books. Fairly quiet.”

“Must be nice. At least you don’t have to deal with ghosts. You just make cryptic statements about them, making me think you have a dark secret.”

“I do have to deal with ghosts. Occupational hazard of being your friend. And my statements are not cryptic. It’s just common-sense ghostology.”

“Ghostology?” Melanie scoffed.

“I don’t need to know the actual word. I’m not a ghostologist.”

“Ghostologist?” Melanie scoffed again, her voice a bit higher.

Martin grinned. Whatever topic kept the conversation away from Jon and the bookstore was a good topic.

=

There was someone in the supply closet. Tim heard muttering and what sounded like scrubbing from behind the door.

“Jon?” Tim called. “Is that you? I’ve been looking for you.”

Someone yelped in surprise. Tim cracked open the door, and sure enough, there was Jon, crouched and focused on something on the floor, cleaning spray in one hand and washcloth in the other.

“Jon. What are you doing.”

“I, ah, found something.” Jon moved aside to reveal some indistinct and smudged white marks on the floor.

“Is that...what? What is that?”

“Come here. Look, look, look.” Jon’s eyes were manic and bright. The bags etched under his eyes were pronounced and dark.

Tim crouched down on the floor, awkwardly nudging aside a mop and some bleach. Up close, he could see that Jon had been scrubbing at what appeared to be some kind of sigil.

“Boss. Are you okay?”

“It’s a divination sigil,” Jon told him breathlessly. “Someone’s watching us.”

“Are you sure another Institute employee didn’t put it there? I mean, we don’t have security cameras. Divination sigils seem like a good substitute. Right?”

“Maybe, maybe,” Jon muttered. He gave the white marks another spray and returned to his scrubbing.

“Have you slept?” Tim asked.

Jon just stared back blankly. It was all the answer Tim needed.

“Okay,” Tim sighed. “You can deal with this tomorrow. Home time. Off you pop.”

“This is important,” Jon snapped. “Tim, I have work to do.”

He obviously hadn’t slept in quite some time. Tim had known Jon long enough to see him get like this a few times. He got fixated on something that stuck in his head and then ran himself ragged. He used to just ignore it. But him and Jon were friends now.

“Get up, Jon. You’re going home.”

Jon made a noise of protest and kept scrubbing. Tim sighed and scooted a hand under his legs, then just lifted Jon up. It was very easy—Jon was a small man.

“Tim!” Jon protested. “What are you doing?”

“The circle is broken, Jon. Whatever that sigil was doing, it’s not doing it anymore. Now, c’mon. You’re going home.”

“T-Tim. I can’t—I can’t just walk away. Someone’s watching.”

Tim could feel Jon trembling as he carried him out of the closet.

“Jon, I know everything seems life-or-death right now, but I promise you’ll feel a lot better once you get some sleep and some food.”

“I’m fine,” Jon said weakly. “Tim, put me down. I have to-to-”

“I worry about you, boss,” Tim sighed. “You know, throwing yourself on a sword is only noble if the sword was actually pointed at someone, right? You moron.”

Jon muttered something indistinct and turned his face into Tim’s chest.

“Now, c’mon. I’m gonna put you down, and you’re going to walk on your own two legs back to your house.”

“No,” Jon whined. “There are more sigils. There have to be, they wouldn’t just put one…”

“Okay,” Tim sighed.

Jon was clearly pretty far gone into paranoia, so either Tim was staggeringly unobservant about his descent into madness, or he was just having an extremely bad day. The latter was probably the case—forgetting to eat and sleep for days, as Jon was wont to do, could do a great job at simulating a total breakdown. Chances were he’d be feeling ridiculous about the whole thing the next morning, and Tim certainly wasn’t going to spare him the embarrassment. He made a mental note to take a few pictures.

“Put me down,” Jon ordered.

“Are you just going to go looking for more sigils?”

“...No.”

“You’re just going to go looking for more sigils, aren’t you.”

“Fuck off. I’m your boss, as you keep reminding me. Put me down.”

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to make you some risotto, you’re going to crash on my couch, and you’re going to feel real stupid about this in the morning.”

Tim started carrying Jon towards the side door that led out to the lot. Jon’s fingers curled into his jacket.

“Tim, put me down,” Jon said again, but his voice had no force behind it.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Jon nodded.

“So trust my judgement.”

“Whatever,” Jon mumbled.

“I make some damn good risotto. People beg me for it. You have no idea how lucky you are.”

Jon was clearly trying to glare at Tim, but his gaze just melted into exhaustion.

“Don’t wanna impose,” he muttered.

“C’mon, boss. How many times have I crashed on your couch after a long night out? Least I can do. Especially since I can make fun of you about it in the morning. I was planning to make risotto anyway.”

=

Jon was fast asleep by the time they reached Tim’s flat. Tim suspected a caffeine crash was involved—Jon did ungodly things to coffee. He carried Jon to the couch and tucked him in with a soft blanket before starting in on the risotto.

Jon looked a lot less stressed when he was asleep. The lines on his face softened, making him actually look his age. He snored a little, which was both annoying and heartbreakingly adorable. In normal situations, Tim supposed it would be weird to think of his boss as adorable—while the man slept on his couch, no less—but considering they’d fought werewolves together, he figured it wasn’t a typical workplace dynamic.

The risotto was a comforting routine. Onions, garlic, rice, stock. It was his favorite dish. Danny loved it, which was why Tim had called to invite him over, but unfortunately he wasn’t picking up his phone. That wasn’t too unusual for Danny; he hated modern technology, but always made the effort to text Tim back in a reasonable amount of time. “Reasonable amount of time” often meant several days, but it was still a loving gesture coming from a fae.

He finished the risotto. It was some very good risotto.

“You awake, Jon?” he sang quietly in the direction of the living room.

Jon yelped and jerked awake, nearly falling off the couch.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re on my couch.”

Jon sat up. “Why am I on your couch?”

“I took you here.”

Jon stood up and immediately stumbled into the coffee table. He collapsed backward into the couch. Tim shook his head and piled some risotto on a plate.

“I have to go back to the office,” he said breathlessly.

“Jon. Sit down. Eat your risotto.”

Jon glared at him.

“I’ll feed it to you by the spoonful if I have to,” Tim threatened.

Jon folded his arms and sat back down on the couch.

“There we go.”

Tim brought their plates over to the coffee table. Jon tried to look haughty and disinterested, but was betrayed by an extremely loud grumble of the stomach. Tim chuckled.

“I suppose I can have some risotto,” Jon grumbled. He took a bite, and his face immediately lit up. “Oh! This is good! Did you try something new?”

“Fresh mushrooms,” Tim said proudly. “Danny brought me them a few days ago.”

Jon gave the risotto a suspicious look.

“He picked it with his foraging group. Human foraging group.” Tim swatted Jon lightly on the arm. “Don’t worry. It’s not fae food. I checked. He’s just gotten really into low-waste food lately.”

They finished eating in amicable silence. Jon was clearly tired, despite his best efforts to hide it.

‘I’m just going to lie down for a moment,” he muttered once he’d finished.

Tim grinned, knowing Jon was well on his way to falling asleep. Risotto was a very heavy food after all. Sure enough, Jon was snoring in minutes.

“Sleep well, Jon,” Tim murmured.

Chapter Text

Martin had no idea how the hell Melanie had talked him into this. He knew dating was a bad idea. All his relationships ended in disaster. He shouldn’t put innocent people in danger. 

And yet here he was, waffling on the threshold of the restaurant, wearing the bright red turtleneck his date would supposedly be looking for. He wouldn’t be going for a second date. He’d just talk to some guy, let him down easy, and finally get Melanie off his back. It would be fine.

He walked past the “seat yourself” sign and into the restaurant proper, looking for a green scarf. Maybe he’d get a nice dinner conversation out of this. It really depended who the man was.

Martin’s breath caught as he finally caught a glimpse of a small, dark man in a green scarf sitting alone at a table. His breath left him completely when he saw who was wearing it.

Jonathan Sims. Of fucking course. Because Martin couldn’t catch a break from this man.

He looked anxious, his hands twisting around his napkin. He was, as usual, infuriatingly handsome. He’d actually brushed his hair, and Martin had the unreasonable desire to touch it. Jon’s eyes skirted the restaurant like a cornered animal, but he hadn’t spotted Martin yet. Martin could just leave. It would be the smart thing to do. Just walk out and let Jon think he’d been stood up by some douchebag.

But Jon was biting his lip in a nervous manner both endearing and sexy, and Martin remembered his broken expression on that sidewalk. The thought of breaking Jon’s heart again curdled in Martin’s stomach.

If he left, Jon would think he was even more of a douchebag. Martin was weak and couldn’t stand the thought. He had to at least try to let Jon down easy.

He clenched his fists and strode up to Jon’s table. Jon looked up and gave a little undignified gasp, his expression that of a deer in the headlights.

“Hello, Jon,” Martin said, trying unsuccessfully to smile comfortingly.

“M-Martin, ah, wh…” Jon trailed off. He didn’t even have the decency to look angry. His eyes finally landed on the red turtleneck and widened.

“Listen,” Martin continued, “I was just going to leave, but I didn’t want to make you think you’d been stood up, or waste your time, so. Yeah. Um. I’m gonna leave now.”

“So…you are standing me up? Just letting me know first?”

Martin sighed and turned before he lost his nerve. Jon’s hand grabbed his wrist. Martin cried out and jerked his hand away, the twin punctures there throbbing.

“Just—wait, okay?” Jon said.

Waiting wasn’t smart. Martin should just leave.

He didn’t.

“What,” he said carefully, “do you want?”

“Listen, Martin, I—um—okay. So,” Jon sighed, deep and shuddering. “It’s-it’s good to see you.”

Martin gave an involuntary, helpless laugh. How was he supposed to respond to that? How could he put into words the supernova that exploded anew every time he caught a glimpse of Jon in the street, so bright he had to look away? How could he explain how he drank in that tired face like water in a drought? “Good to see you, too,” didn’t even touch on how he craved Jon’s touch like Eve craved the apple.

“Good to see me?” he repeated incredulously. “Good to see me after—after—“ He was about to cry, goddammit. Fickle emotions were one of the worst consequences of his choice to not follow the Lukas path.

“Do you want to sit?” Jon offered. “I just want to talk. You just say the word, and I’ll stop and leave and you never have to speak to me again.”

Martin sat as if Jon had a vampire’s compulsion.

“Martin, listen,” Jon said softly. His hands were shaking, and Martin resisted the urge to reach out and still them. “I’ve-I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a bit, and, I, well. Uh. I’m sorry if I—well, I’m not just—you weren’t really fair to me, either, and I. Ugh.” Jon swept a hand over his face.

Martin tried to remain stonefaced. “What are you saying?”

“Can we start over?” Jon blurted.

“Go ahead. What you said made no s—“

“I mean, overall. All of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Start from the beginning. Like this is our first ever meeting. Even if it ends the same, I just want to have everything out in the open.” He met Martin’s eyes. “It’s only fair.”

Martin opened his mouth to refuse. To do what was best for both of them. But he remembered how Jon’s hand had felt in his, the trust of his closed eyes, and not even his cold enchanted blood gave Martin the strength to resist.

So Martin decided to start over. And he’d make a different decision this time. Even if he stayed distant, guarded, at least he wouldn’t be an ass again.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Where do we start?”

“Well,” Jon said with a little smile, “my name’s Jonathan Sims, and I’m the Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

Martin was a vampire sitting across from an Archivist, and he felt safe.

“Martin Blackwood. I run a bookshop.”

“What’s your favorite book, Martin?”

“I like Keats,” Martin offered. “I always make sure to stock a few collections.”

“Really? Keats?” Jon scoffed, then immediately winced. All Martin could do was giggle. After everything, it was such a ridiculous hangup.

“Why did you join the Institute?” Martin asked. “Is it a good place to work?”

Jon hesitated, his hands fidgeting. Martin finally reached out a hand to still them. Jon inhaled. His hands were warm.

“Hey,” Martin said softly, “we’ve never talked about this, right? I wanna know.”

Jon’s hands relaxed, and Martin withdrew his own, suddenly aware of how cold it was.

“I joined because I knew there were things out there,” Jon said. “Terrifying things. Things no one would believe me about. I was so scared to know more, scared to believe, but…well, I joined the Institute because I needed proof. And then I found out I could help people. What I did could mean something.” He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Dress code’s pretty strict, though.”

Martin laughed. “Dress code? At an Institute for the paranormal? What, you guys can’t show your shoulders while you hunt werewolves?”

“Yup.” Jon’s smile was on show in earnest now. “I swear to God, our boss is some sort of Victorian dilettante.”

Martin was smiling, and he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. Peter would hate this. Martin leaned in closer to Jon.

And they just talked. First date conversation with baggage shoved far out of sight. Then the waiter came, and Jon looked nervously at Martin as he said they needed a few more minutes to decide.

“Listen, Martin, this, um. I know this is supposed to be a date, but it doesn’t—let’s just share some wine and it doesn’t have to be anything more than talking. I need more friends.” He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “Do you want me to leave, Martin? Because I’ll leave.”

“Jon,” Martin said softly. “I know we just met, and I’ll be honest, I have some problems with the Magnus Institute. But I also need more friends. And I’d like you to be one of them.”

That creeping heat that stabbed his chest longed for more, but even just “friends” was unfairly risking Jon’s safety. This friendship would be what Martin allowed himself to keep away from the loneliness of the Lukases.

It occurred to Martin that, if he did lose control, he trusted Jon to put him down.

Jon was a good monster hunter. Martin tried to keep monsters from hurting people. They both needed an ally and a friend. This was common sense. But that wasn’t the reason Martin stayed at that table.

He stayed as they both ordered risotto—his with plenty of garlic just out of spite. He stayed as they kept drinking the mediocre white wine he’d chosen for the table. He stayed as Jon tentatively suggested the caramel cheesecake and they shared it—two forks, and Martin definitely wasn’t thinking about what it would be like to feed Jon from his fork in a romantic fashion, because that was a creepy thought to have.

They nearly had an argument over the check before agreeing to split it. Like new friends did.

“I had a nice time tonight,” Jon said softly.

“Me too,” Martin said without any of the regret he knew he should feel.

“So…can we be friends?” Jon said. “I know that’s a weird way to say it, I just like having things in words.”

Martin reached out a hand for Jon to shake. “Friends.”

=

Martin was trembling as he got into bed. He could hardly believe the date had been real. He couldn’t stop smiling. He felt happy. Actually happy. Jon was his friend. Maybe he’d even work up the courage to talk to Tim and Sasha. Add Melanie and Daisy, and that was a decent social circle! Like a functioning adult!

Not that he was a normal adult. But, in the euphoric wake of his second chance, he decided to skip his regularly scheduled nightly angst.

=

Tim nearly crashed into Martin as he left the Institute, as he was staring at his phone. He looked up just in time, and frowned. Martin winced, but didn’t let that scare him off. He was there for a reason.

“Tim, hey,” Martin greeted. “Listen, I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Really?” Tim raised a sharp eyebrow. “So it’s fine if we talk, but only on your terms? And I’ve been here all day. Why not just come in? Too scared to set foot in the place?”

“I’m sorry!” Martin told him. “I’m sorry I was cruel to Jon, and I’m sorry for kicking you out of my store. I overreacted.”

Tim just looked at him suspiciously.

“You’re right,” Martin continued. “I am a coward. But if you need more supplies, my door’s open.”

Tim considered him for a moment, then said, “Okay. Okay, Martin Blackwood. Jon seems to have forgiven you, so I guess we’re good.”

“Oh! Thank you! By the way, where’s Sasha? I’d like to talk to her as well."

Tim shrugged. “Out sick, apparently. Haven’t heard from her in a bit.”

“Oh. Well. Tell her to get better.”

“Sure, I will.”

“A-anyway. I should get back to the shop. Bye!”

“See ya, Blackwood.”

=

Not even the nervous high of the blind date could keep Jon from trembling in horror as he finished reading the update from the Usher Foundation.

Apparently, “steals their skin” was a mistranslation. It would be more accurate to say “steals their surface.” Steals everything they look like and appear to be, but with nothing beneath. And then there was the attached statement linking the Doppelgänger to something in Artifact Storage. Oh, yeah, the Doppelgänger. As in the Doppelgänger that someone had seen two weeks ago.

Sasha wasn’t picking up her phone. Even if she was, he couldn’t trust anyone but himself. The Doppelgänger stole appearances, after all. If there was one stalking the Institute, he had to do this alone.

Trust could get him killed.

Chapter Text

“Go home?” Tim repeated incredulously.

“Yes, I think it would be best,” Jon responded. His eyes were bright and feverish. “Sasha is sick, and I’m sick, so you may as well take the rest of the day off. I’m going to go home in a bit as well.”

Tim folded his arms. He’d learned to read Jon pretty well over the years. Well enough to know that he was not sick. Because Jon had said he was going to go home, and that’s not what Jon did when he was sick.

“Jon,” Tim said waspishly, “what’s really going on.”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just head home. That’s an order from your boss.”

Tim tensed. Jon never pulled rank. Not like that, not with that clipped tone, not while he gave Tim that distrustful glare. Jon was a goddamned adult, and Tim wasn’t going to sit there and coddle him through whatever he was working through if he wasn’t even going to talk about it.

“Fine,” Tim snapped. “Feel free to talk to me when you’ve got whatever the hell this is sorted out.”

“I will, thank you,” Jon snapped back.

Tim made a noise of disgust and stormed out.

He stood outside on the sidewalk, suddenly at a loss for what to do. He didn’t really want to go home, and it was way too early to hit the clubs. Maybe he could go bowling. He called Danny, who didn’t pick up. He called Sasha, who didn’t pick up.

The hairs on the back of his neck started standing up.

Jon had never brought personal issues to work. He never headed home when he was sick. Whatever was going on, it was bad, and he wasn’t listening to Tim. Tim needed backup, and the two people he usually went to weren’t picking up. Which was another thing he was beginning to worry about. Sasha said over text she had someone with her, taking care of her. Then why wouldn’t she text him back?

One thing at a time.

Tim needed to know what was going on with Jon. It was paranoid, yes, but in his business he couldn’t afford to be anything else.

He couldn’t do this alone. If only he knew someone personable, someone Jon had a soft spot for, maybe someone he could easily wheedle into a favor. Someone who had a vested interest in helping Jon.

He started walking towards Blackwood Bookshelf.

Martin was just starting to close up when Tim Stoker walked through the door, looking a bit harried.

“Oh, h-hello, Tim,” Martin greeted nervously. The man still might kill him.

“I need your help,” Tim said without preamble.

“Okay, what do you need?”

Tim blinked, looking surprised, but quickly gathered himself. “Well, it’s Jon. Something’s up with him, and I need to find out what. It’s probably nothing, but…I don’t like dealing with spooky stuff alone, okay?”

Martin didn’t believe that for a moment. The “dealing with spooky stuff alone” part, that is. Tim seemed like just the kind of dashing hero that rushed solo into danger.

“Why me?” he asked, baffled. Tim had spent months hating Martin. Why come to him for help with an old friend?

“Because Sasha and Danny aren’t answering my calls, and if Jon needs his life saved, well, you’ve already done it once.”

“His life is in danger?” Jesus, Jonathan Sims was gonna be the death of Martin. If any vampire was going to be the first one to have a heart attack, it would be him.

“No, no. I don’t think so. But it pays to be careful.”

Martin grabbed his coat from behind the counter. “All right. Let’s go.”

Tim looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Martin to agree. He nodded and followed Martin to the Institute.

“Is everyone ready?” Nikola asked, clapping her hands together as if introducing a party game.

Sasha spat a mouthful of blood. She did not feel up to party games at the moment.

The horrible doppel-thing grinned. “I know I am.”

Its voice was a distorted parody of Sasha’s own. Its imitation of Sasha was a horrible and clumsy thing, and Sasha didn’t want it to get any better.

Sasha tried again, fruitlessly, to summon a knife, but her fingers were still woven through with string, and the two guards gripped her arms painfully.

“Oh, don’t struggle!” Nikola chirruped. “Your skin will make a beautiful coat for our new friend!”

She pulled out a horrible skinning knife, the kind of blade Sasha would never want inked on her. Sasha tried to be brave, but she couldn’t help but close her eyes as the blade approached. The thin bone blade tickled her neck, and Sasha braced herself—

“Wait.”

Sasha’s eyes snapped open. The Doppelganger’s eyes were wide and staring into the middle distance.

“We don’t need it.” The Doppleganger’s grin widened sickeningly. “The backup plan worked. The ward is gone.” Without another word, the thing darted out of the museum with limbs that defied geometry.

Sasha had been listening long enough through her captivity to know that there was a ward in the Institute keeping the Doppelgänger at bay, and that’s why they needed the skin of someone employed there.

She also knew that they had a plan to trick the Archivist into destroying it.

“Hm! Then I suppose I will have it for my collection! Danny, if you would assist me!”

There it was, the worst part of it. Danny Stoker, her best friend’s brother, gripping her with unyielding hands.

“Nikola,” Danny said, “we still might need her alive. We could use her if this doesn’t work.”

“We could use her skin, yes,” Nikola agreed. “I will not lose it, Dux, do not worry!”

“Danny."

“What was that?”

“My name’s Danny. You know that.”

Nikola laughed, a high and horrible sound. “Oh, Dux! You do not have to keep up the charade!”

“No, I suppose not, Ringmaster. Will you give me a countdown?” Danny leaned down and whispered into Sasha’s ear, “It will be easier if you close your eyes.”

She did.

“Very well! Five, four—“

“Run!”

The room filled with light so blinding that Sasha saw it through her eyelids. She’d seen Tim use light bombs like this before, but he didn’t make them often, as the Unseelie hated them. A new blade sliced through the bindings at Sasha’s wrists, and her fingers unravelled. Danny grabbed her arm and yanked her away from the other guard. Sasha’s favorite knife sprang into her hands, and she slashed her way out of the circle of blinded and crying Unseelie.

“Let’s go!” Danny tugged Sasha out of the front doors of the lobby. Waxen fingers grasped her ankle. She kicked the Ringmaster in the face.

They were out, but not out of the woods by any measure. She threw herself into the passenger seat of Danny’s car—she hadn’t even shut the door before Danny floored it.

They drove in shocked silence for at least a few minutes.

“We need to get out of London,” Danny finally said.

“Jon?” Tim called. His voice was only met with the flickering lights of the Archives. “Jon, are you in here?”

They searched the Archives until they were properly deep in the aisles. Martin felt distinctly uneasy. Like he was being watched. Tim threw up his hands.

“Well, I guess this was a wash,” Tim sighed. “Now I feel really stupid. He probably just went home s—“

“ARCHIVIST!”

Tim whirled around and Martin jumped forward as a thing walked through the Archives into Jon’s office with chilling leisure. They both stopped breathing, but only Tim bothered to restart his breath once the thing had passed.

“What the fuck,” Tim whispered, “was that?”

“You can’t escape from me, Archivist!” The voice was fading farther and farther away. “You can’t run forever!”

By the looks of it, the Unseelie had declared war. Tim shouldn’t be here. He was out of his depth. This was Martin’s responsibility. That way, only a dark thing got hurt if this went south.

He took off at a run into Jon’s office, shedding his coat as he did so. Better not to ruin any more clothes than he needed to. There was a trapdoor open in the center of the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tim demanded, crashing into the office after him.

“Go home, Tim,” Martin ordered.

“Like. Hell. Whatever that thing is, it’s my responsibility. Not yours. You should be the one going home.”

“Also not happening.”

“Well, then, I guess we’re going into the tunnels together. Because I’m not abandoning Jon.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

As Martin descended the ladder, he debated telling Tim what he knew. But Tim was already suspicious. And Martin was probably going to have to wear a combat mask before the night was up. He couldn’t risk Tim guessing at his true nature. At least Jon would hesitate before killing him—Tim definitely wouldn’t.

Elias treated himself to some Mozart on his record player. How relaxing, he thought, tossing a bath bomb into the luxurious bath he’d drawn for himself.

He took a sip of red wine. Good thing he had no responsibilities that night.

It had been remarkably easy to lose Tim. Worryingly so, if he hadn’t been wanting to lose Tim. Martin never doubted where the thing was—his sensitive ears picked up a lot, and it wasn’t trying to be subtle. Worryingly, though, he was starting to pick up a scent. He smelled blood, blood he’d tasted but never drank.

He was catching up now. Just a room behind the thing, which was just a room behind Jon. He was close. He could save Jon. He drew magic around him—Jon couldn’t know. Martin had to disappear.

And then Jon screamed.

Martin burst into the next room to see the thing standing over Jon, its horrible hands poised to stab. Jon was on his back, dazed and bloodied, desperately scrabbling for a pipe just out of reach.

The Doppelgänger bared its teeth in triumph. It looked like Sasha, except for everything about it. It was about to kill Jon.

Which was a shame, because Martin liked that jumper.

He launched himself forward with inhuman speed, dropping the mask in midair. The knit fabric ripped as wings unfurled from his back. A snarl escaped his throat as he kept changing, because his natural form wasn’t going to be enough.

He’d tried on what Peter called the “combat mask” soon after he’d been turned. He didn’t need the mirror to be disgusted as his unwanted magic transformed him into something horrifying. He couldn’t even transform all the way—he fell to the floor, shuddering and shaking. He hadn’t tried it since, and if someone had asked him if there was anything that could make him become that thing again, he would have said no.

Before he met Jon, that is.

Martin crashed into the Doppelgänger, shoving him off Jon, and it screeched in surprise. They tumbled onto the floor, entwined together in a desperate tangle of claws. He didn’t need the lonely magic anymore to keep Jon from recognizing him, so he cast it aside. He buried his new claws into what was probably the thing’s shoulder and bit into its neck with a mouth crowded with sharp teeth designed for ripping, not sucking. The thing’s blood tasted sour, with an undertone of burnt hair and iron. It tasted like blood used to taste.

The thing roared in rage and lashed out. Martin cried out through a mouthful of blood as sharp fingers ripped into his stomach. Agony lashed through him, but he didn’t let go.

Jon’s rapid steps darted from the room, and Martin was glad. Now he just had to buy Jon some time.

The thing threw Martin off, and they rose to their feet. Martin's legs were shaking, and blood puddled down from his stomach. He stood between the thing and the door Jon had taken. The last shield.

“Why are you here, little mosquito?” the Doppelgänger crooned. Despite its injuries, it was grinning. It was literally made for this. “Surely you can stand to let the Institute fall.”

Martin only growled and raised his ragged wings, misshapen claws protruding from their bends. His mouth wasn’t quite made for speaking at the moment.

“I know, I know,” the thing said. “Over your dead body and all that.” It grinned and unsheathed its claws. It was so much sharper than Martin could ever be. “I’ll happily oblige you, bloodsucker.”

It moved fast, and maybe Martin could be faster if he’d eaten, but he was starving and sluggish. He cut a wicked gash down its arm, but not before sharp teeth pierced his neck.

Sharp teeth pierced his neck, and it barely hurt, but Martin made a horrible noise in his throat and wildly windmilled his hands, shoving the thing away. He gasped and clapped a hand to the wound at his jugular. It wasn’t bleeding that much, but it was teeth in his neck, teeth the would leave a mark in his neck, and he couldn’t think.

Focus.

He tackled the creature to the floor. No elegant fighting, just tooth and claw. No strategy, just two cornered animals snarling and biting and filling their mouths with blood.

A bite in his shoulder. A slash in his leg—didn’t matter, they were wrestling, not standing. His feathers were matted with blood, and one of his wing’s claws was wrenched out of shape from being yanked out of the thing’s hip.

His screams no longer sounded human. There was flesh in between his teeth.

His blood pounded, or maybe it was the thing’s blood. It was under him now, driving his knee into Martin’s shin. This was what Martin was, a predator. A hunter in the night. His was the domain of the blood and claw.

The thing slammed his head into the stone floor, and Martin saw stars, knocking all his thoughts away. Teeth buried in his neck. Martin cried out as fingers clawed through his leg muscles. It extricated himself from him and started darting for the door. Martin grabbed its calf, and the thing snarled viciously. It wasn’t nearly as hurt as he was, but Martin wasn’t giving up. It was going to kill Jon.

“So you want it to be like this?” it growled. “Won’t just lay down and die? Fine.”

It pulled a long knife from seemingly nowhere, or maybe Martin just wasn’t paying attention, because it wasn’t important where the knife came from when it quickly went into his stomach.

He didn’t have any screaming left, just a choked little gasp as the Doppelgänger pulled the knife out. He whined pathetically as it stalked away. He tried to move. He couldn’t move. There was just the sickening sensation of draining. Of wetness all over as blood seeped reluctantly from him. Blood he couldn’t spare.

The claws and extra teeth faded, and he was just Martin, Martin in his true form. Which was to say, Martin the monster.

Martin was a monster, and as what remained of his blood seeped into his dust, he was thankful the world would have one less monster.

Chapter Text

Someone in the Institute was definitely a murderer, and everyone thought it was him.

Jon sat on Georgie’s couch, head in his hands, trying to slow his breaths and calm his heartbeat.

Sasha had texted in sick rather than called. She could be dead. Tim might die once he went back to the Institute. Either could be dead, and worse, either could be a murderer. It made him sick to think about Tim and Sasha like that, but he couldn’t afford to rule anyone out.

Or maybe there wasn’t just one murderer. Gertrude had been bled dry, while Leitner had been mauled. Vampires didn’t leave victims torn and unrecognizable like that.

Maybe Leitner had faked his death and that wasn’t even his body.

Jon’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. He needed to do something, but he wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t fight the Unseelie alone. All he had were his cards and the agate that rested against his chest.

The cards. The cards would guide him.

“What do I do?” he said, his voice broken and strangled.

He laid out the cards, but his mind was foggy and unfocused and in no state for divination. All he could glean was that he was in trouble, and that things were looking for him.

“Damn it all,” he muttered.

“Are those altered cards?”

Jon yelped and whipped his head around to see Georgie watching him with interest.

“Georgie! Didn’t see you there.”

“I didn’t know you read cards.”

Jon laughed nervously and swept up his deck. “Just, just a little hobby.”

“If you’re using altered cards, it’s not just a hobby. Where’d you learn how to make them?”

“I, ah, bought these ones, actually.” Jon paused. “Wait, how did you recognize them?”

Georgie shrugged. “I do protection sigils sometimes. The cards are nice to...debug them, I guess.”

“Protection sigils?” Jon sputtered. “You’re a witch and you never told me?”

“You’re a diviner, and you never told me? I’m not a witch, Jon, any more than you’re a chef because you know how to make risotto. I just keep my flat safe.”

“Right,” Jon muttered. “Listen, Georgie...I’m in a bit of a situation.”

“Are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Maybe,” Jon sighed.

Jon wouldn’t have killed Martin, Tim knew, but he was having no luck convincing Detective Tonner of this fact.

“Unreciprocated romantic feelings is a motive if I ever saw one,” she said, and despite her small stature she very clearly commanded the room.

“Not for Jon. You don’t know him. I do. He wouldn’t do this! He wouldn’t kill anyone, especially not in such a nasty way. Why would he tear someone apart in the middle of his office and then kill someone else in a way that didn’t leave a trace?”

“It seems to be his M.O., considering you didn’t find Gertrude for months.”

“Jon didn’t kill Gertrude. He was paranoid about the whole thing for—”

“Could be a cover.”

“Will you just listen to me!” Tim yelled. Tonner raised a dangerous eyebrow. Tim took a deep breath. “Listen, I know you Sectioned like to shoot first and ask questions later. But, please, just this once, ask questions first.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you’re wrong, and you kill Jon when he’s innocent, then dead or alive, Martin will never forgive you.”

That gave the detective pause.

Tim could see why Tonner thought Jon had killed the mysterious man. It was in his office, for crying out loud. Even Tim was starting to think Jon had done it, but he knew he had to have a reason. And thinking Jon was a murderer, or at least a killer, was a far better thought than accepting that, if Jon wasn’t the killer, he was probably a victim.

What he couldn’t understand was why the detective was so sure that Martin was dead too. From the literal moment Tim had mentioned Martin, the woman had tensed up and demanded to know if Jon had hurt him.

“What about the other assistant?” the detective asked. “Sasha. Where is she.”

“She’s...on vacation.”

It was a bit of flimsy excuse, but Tim wasn’t about to tell this detective that his brother and his best friend were taking a plane to Paris to flee the Unseelie.

“Right,” said the detective, and Tim could practically see his name inch closer to the top of the suspects list.

“So...can I go? I have some risotto to make.”

Detective Tonner stared at him for several very uncomfortable seconds.

“Fine. Send in your boss.”

As Tim fled the Institute, he tapped in a text to Sasha updating her on the situation. He needed to find Jon and Martin, but both had disappeared without a trace. He refused to accept that they were dead, but there wasn’t much he could do. His allies were vanished or overseas, and Elias certainly wasn’t going to help.

It was just him and magic that suddenly seemed inadequate.

As Elias exited the office the detective had been using for her interrogations, he ran his hand through his hair in a way intended to look cavalier while not disturbing his moussed coiffe. Apparently Martin Blackwood was probably dead, and the detective seemed rather upset about it. Elias tutted. Martin had been quite effective at keeping the area quiet. A shame.

Chapter Text

“You’ve reached the phone of Jonathan Sims, Archivist of the Magnus Institute. I do not have my phone right now, or it is off. Please leave a message, and I will get back to you at my earliest convenience.”

“Hey, Jon. It’s Tim. If you’re hearing this, you’ve probably heard all my other voicemails, so. If you’re hearing this, just...call me back, okay?”

Tim sighed and set down his phone. Jon either wouldn’t call him back or couldn’t call him back. Or maybe he just wasn’t picking up his phone. Jon did that sometimes. It was a very frustrating habit of his.

Elias had given him a few days off. Tim was one day in, and already he’d exhausted all his ideas for finding Jon and Martin. If they were still even alive. He’d called Jon. He’d been to Blackwood Bookshelf and found it empty—he’d locked the door on his way out so the place didn’t get robbed. The fact that it was unlocked was troubling. It meant Martin hadn’t been back. Or he was just being really quiet folded up in a box the back room and Tim had locked him in his shop.

He had also tried to check in on Jon’s other friends before remembering that Jon didn’t ever mention any other friends. Did Jon even have other friends? Tim and Sasha had had to fight tooth and claw to befriend Jon, so Tim wasn’t expecting a huge social circle, but the man had to have at least one friend outside of work. Right?

He was out of his depth. He’d gotten complacent, relying on Jon to point their team in the right direction and know things when they needed to be known. Now Tim was alone, and he was starting to realize just how specialized he was. He was useless when there wasn’t a big spider. He had a few healing spells, he could warm up a room...how was he supposed to find two maybe-dead maybe-murderers?

Maybe murderers. Yes, the Unseelie had unleashed some sort of creature on the Institute, and yes, that had probably killed the man in the office. But if Tim accepted that, then he had to accept that it had probably killed Jon and Martin. And he just couldn’t. He had to hold on to the guilty hope that they’d killed that man. Probably for a good reason.

He’d already called Sasha, and her suggestion had been very reasonable: start at the Institute and work outwards. He’d tried to investigate the office and the tunnels, but the moment he walked back into the Archives, Detective Tonner had been there, and had looked at him very suspiciously.

He needed help. He knew someone who might know something—a friend of Nikola’s. Hopefully he wouldn’t kill Tim.

Blackwood Bookshelf was empty, and Jon was starting to panic.

Martin obviously wasn’t in even though the store was unlocked, and Jon cursed himself for never getting a phone number. He’d risked a lot coming this close to the Institute, and for nothing.

As he was turning away, he saw someone familiar walking towards him. Tim. Jon’s breath caught and he ducked around the corner. He listened as Tim knocked and entered.

He could just walk in and talk to Tim in the empty bookstore. It would be a good place to meet in secret. Then he’d have an ally. All he had to do was trust Tim.

Jon’s fingernails curled into his palms. He couldn’t trust anyone. Sasha was out sick—good alibi, maybe intentionally. Tim was a mage, and plenty of mages had a motive to kill Jurgen Leitner. Elias was another suspect. And now Martin was gone. Maybe Martin had done it.

God, Martin had probably done it.

Jon pulled his hood lower over his face and began the furtive walk back to the Underground station. Martin had a reason to hate the Institute, whatever it was. Had he gotten close to Jon to try to kill him? To kill the current Archivist like he had killed the last one?

Jon remembered the kiss in front of the Bookshelf all those months ago. Those lips so soft and warm, those hands, hesitant yet firm. The way he’d leaned into Martin as if the world revolved around him. Martin had made it very clear he didn’t like the Institute, but he’d never shown any desire to hurt Jon. Jon liked to think he was very perceptive—could he have missed Martin plotting to kill him? Was Martin a honeypot? The thought made his stomach curdle.

If Martin killed Gertrude, though, that meant Martin was a bloodsucker. Jon definitely would have noticed if Martin was a monster pretending to be human.

But he was gone after someone had turned up dead. After something had attacked the Institute. Had he fled from his crimes?

Jon couldn’t trust anyone.

Daisy didn’t usually drink—it was a bad habit—but when she returned to her desk at the station after wrapping up everything at the Institute, she fervently wished for a bottle. She hated when cases got personal. It distracted her from the hunt.

She had to find Martin. Martin wasn’t a super close friend, but he was part of her pack. Luckily, her last dose had been fairly recent, but if she didn’t find him in the next three weeks…

“How’s that Institute case going?” Basira asked as she packed up for the night.

“Bad,” Daisy answered. “I could use your help on this one.”

“You know how I feel about the Institute.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask, but…” Daisy ran a hand through her close-cropped hair. “It’s personal. A friend of mine is a potential victim.” She remembered the teeth marks in the dead body, the signature of a bloodsucking monster uncontrolled. “Or suspect.”

“Damn. All right, I’ll help you out. Tomorrow. C’mon, pack up.”

Daisy groaned good-naturedly. It was getting late. A weight slid from her shoulders with the knowledge that Basira would be by her side as she tried to find this killer.

She sent another text to Martin. One that would probably go unanswered, like her previous twenty texts.

Apparently, Martin had gone on a date with Jonathan Sims. Had probably dumped him once he realized he was an Archivist. Of course Martin had to go out with an Archivist. That was the part that disquieted Daisy the most. She had to track down Jon. If Martin was still alive, she had to keep him safe.

“Tea?” Mike offered.

Tim remembered the thermos someone—definitely Martin, now that he thought about it—had left by his hospital bed.

“Sure.”

“So,” Mike asked as he busied himself at the stove. “How can I help you?”

Tim watched Mike as he made the tea, weighing how much to tell him. Mike was very short, with perpetually windswept hair and eyes that were grey like waves dashing against the rocks. Looking into them was unsettling—it was a reminder that, although Mike Crew was young, Am Fear Liath Mor was older than London. He wasn’t unattractive, and the fractal white scar winding its way up his neck bumped him squarely into the “hottie” category in Tim’s book. Which was why they’d had sex several times in the past. Hopefully that would make Mike think twice about throwing Tim under the bus if Nikola came knocking.

“The Unseelie Court is declaring war on the Institute. Two of my friends are missing, and a man no one can identify is dead. I’m just going to anyone who a), might know something, and b), won’t turn me over to Nikola to get skinned.”

Mike hummed contemplatively. “Sounds like quite a pickle.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“Isn’t your brother of the Court? Why not ask him? Has he chosen them over you?”

Tim’s fingers curled. “No. He...doesn’t know anything.”

Danny had been very apologetic on that front. Apparently, Nikola had kept things from him that she told the others. He’d been excluded thanks to his human brother. Tim didn’t know which made him feel more guilty: that he’d forced Danny to make that choice, or that Danny had chosen him. It was Tim’s fault that Danny was so caught between two worlds.

“I know you’re a mage. Not as good as Micheal was, but surely your magic can help.”

“I’m not an Archivist, short stack.”

Mike frowned and levitated about two inches off the ground. Tim smelled ozone.

“Your Institute is really the place to go for information about Underworld politics. That or Blackwood Bookshelf.”

“Sorry, what? Did you say Blackwood Bookshelf?”

“Have you gone there yet? To ask about this?”

“Martin’s one of the friends who’s gone missing.”

Mike brought the tea over to the table. “Hm. That’s a shame. He was quite a nice man.”

“Was?”

Mike shrugged. “He’s probably dead if he got caught in the crossfire.”

“That’s not helpful,” Tim snapped.

“All I know is the Court is planning something and they sent a Doppelganger, but you already knew that. I certainly don’t have any skills that can help find your missing persons unless they fell from something. I don’t know how much help I can be, Tim, unless you’re looking to...relieve some stress.”

Mike was obviously hiding something. Tim had been around Jon long enough to pick up such things. However, he seemed on the verge of revealing information. Tim had many ways of getting people to talk, and there was one he was rather partial to.

“You know what?” Tim said, starting to unbutton his shirt. “Yeah I could use your help in that area. You’re always electrifying in bed.”

Mike laughed, crackling and sharp. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“It’s a shame you don’t know anything,” Tim yawned, running a finger up and down Mike’s fractal scars. “I was really hoping to help my friends out.”

Mike shivered as Tim pressed a rough kiss to his neck.

“Well,” Mike breathed, “theoretically, if I did know anything, what would it be worth to you?”

“I would be very grateful, Mike.”

“Nikola would be very pissed at me.”

“She sent a monster to the Institute. You’re gonna be the least of her problems.”

“That’s fair.”

“So. What are the Unseelie planning?”

Tim made sure to put his hands in just the right places to keep Mike from composing himself into a lie.

“It’s a dance,” Mike blurted. “A-a ritual”

“Go on.”

“To harness the ley lines of London. It needs cooperation from two sorts of creatures, so Nikola’s been asking around, trying to get help, but we all know that helping the Unseelie—Tim, fuck—doesn’t end well for anyone. If I had to guess, I’d say she’ll try to capture a werewolf and get them to help get the skin during the full moon.”

“The skin?”

“The skin of a seer, apparently. Perhaps from your Archivist.”

Tim’s hands froze. That wasn’t ideal.

“Good news is, getting the skin is the part they need the cooperation on. So he probably isn’t dead. Yet.” Mike winced. “Sorry. That’s a mood-killer, huh?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Hello, Elias.”

“Michael,” Elias snapped. “What do you want.”

“I have replaced all your workplace complaint forms with slices of ham. I was waiting for you to notice, but you didn’t, and it’s been a whole two hours.”

Elias jerked open one of his filing cabinets to find it full of lunch meat. He exhaled through his nose, slow and composed.

“Well, I noticed now. Will that be all?”

“I have also replaced all of the soap in the soap dispensers with Miracle Whip.”

Even Elias’s considerable powers of imagination could not conjure the image of Michael in a grocery store. He wondered where Michael had got these items.

“Please stop terrorizing my employees.”

“What’s a little prank between coworkers?”

“Need I remind you, Mr. Shelley, that you do not work here anymore.”

Michael laughed, long and grating. “Once a Mage, always a Mage, Elias.”

“Did you come here simply to annoy me? Because if so, it will not work the way you planned.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Michael hummed. “But I still find it very fun.”

“So,” Georgie said, “let me get this straight. A Doppelganger attacked you guys, your assistant got kidnapped by the Unseelie, someone killed Jurgen Leitner, you’re suspected of murder...and you came to me for help and aren’t talking to anyone else.”

“I told you, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come here if I had anyone else—”

“What about Tim? Even Martin would have been happy to help, I’m sure.” She laid a hand on Jon’s. “Jon, I’m not saying I don’t want you here. I’m always happy to help you. But you have friends for a reason. You need support in times like these.”

“How do I know they didn’t kill Leitner?”

“Don’t you trust them?”

“Trust can get people killed.”

“Isolation gets people killed even more, Jon. It isn’t healthy and you need allies.”

Jon folded his arms awkwardly. The Admiral made a little happy noise and wedged itself in between Jon’s arms and his lap.

“Just call Tim,” Georgie said softly. “You’ve always been…”

“Paranoid?”

“I was going to say withdrawn. Trust isn’t just important when it’s easy, Jon.” Georgie patted Jon on the shoulder. “I’m going to go get some groceries. You better get over your emotional constipation before I get back.”

Once Georgie left, all Jon could do was sigh. He wanted to pace, but the Admiral had fallen asleep in his lap.

She was right. He needed allies, and he needed friends. Trust didn’t come naturally to him at all—he needed to choose.

So he dialed Tim’s number.

“Jon!” Tim greeted immediately. “Is that you, or did something steal your phone? And your skin?”

All of the tension in Jon’s body evaporated at Tim’s voice.

“It’s me, Tim. We need to talk.”

“Yes, of course, obviously. Is Martin with you?”

“Is M—why would Martin be with me?”

“Who’s that?” someone else muttered from the other side of the line.

“It’s Jon, the Archivist, he’s alive. Hang on, Jon, I’m gonna go into the kitchen.”

Jon heard the sounds of bedsheets rustling.

“Did you get laid while I was on the run from the police?” Jon asked incredulously.

“I was getting information. Apparently the Unseelie want your skin.”

“What?”

“Anyway. The Unseelie are doing a ritual but they need your skin to do it, and they need cooperation getting your skin, and Danny and Sasha are fleeing to Paris because the Court is after them. Also Martin went into the tunnels after you to save you and I haven’t seen him since so if he isn’t with you he’s probably dead or he killed the dead body in your office.”

Jon dug his fingers into the Admiral’s fur for comfort.

“Now, we don’t have time to unpack all that,” Tim continued,” so here’s the most important question: WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? I’ve been worried sick!”

Jon flinched away from the phone. “Wait, what do you mean Martin went into the tunnels after me?”

“I went to him for help because I had a feeling something was wrong. He saw whatever thing it was the Unseelie sent and went running after it. Haven’t seen him since.”

Jon remembered how the Doppelganger had looked when it had caught up with him: bloody, bitten, limping. Had Martin done that? Jon didn’t see how he could have.

“We need a plan,” Jon said. “Can you meet me at—” Someone knocked at the door. “Oh, hang on, that’ll be Georgie. I’ll call you back in a second, she’ll want help bringing in the groceries.”

Jon hung up and walked to the door after dislodging the Admiral as gently as possible. The lightbulb in the entry fizzled out, and Jon frowned in annoyance.

Before he could open the door, it flung itself open. Jon froze in horror at the person on the other side. Tall, pale, grinning, wearing a long red coat.

“Hello, Archivist!” Ringmaster Nikola greeted. “You’re invited to a very special dance!”

Chapter Text

Martin didn’t want to move.

He could move, of course. The tall woman—Caroline or Carla or something, he knew her last name was Lukas—had given him free rein to mingle with the guests. But he was tired. That was what happened to the humans in the Lukas mansion, after all. They only lived so long, because the Lukases were careless with their drinking.

“Charming party,” someone commented. “A bit too rowdy for my taste.”

Martin’s languid eyes slowly dragged up to look at who had spoken. Average height, dull brown hair shot with grey, a jaunty sailor’s hat. Sharp teeth that flashed as he spoke. No wings—none of the Lukases had wings.

He had a beard. Martin would become familiar with that beard. It burned on his skin as the man drank. Teeth buried in his skin, blood torn from him in shuddering waves.

He wanted to cry out. He wanted to run. But at least Peter was better than the Lukas manor.

He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t run away from the teeth in his neck. He could scream sometimes, Peter was not so cruel to begrudge him that. No matter how much it hurt for his blood to be torn away, all that came to save him was the salt spray of the sea.

There were teeth in his neck. Martin screamed.

There were teeth in his wrist. Martin screamed.

He was back in the chair. There were teeth in his neck and wrist and thigh, tearing away all they could. Martin screamed.

“Keep that thing quiet!”

“Shut up!” Someone slapped him.

He cried out weakly as rough hands lifted him off the ground. His head spun sickeningly—he clung to consciousness in the weakest terms possible. His whole body hurt. He was a trapped animal, left gashed by a snare. He needed blood to heal. He needed to hunt, he needed to eat, and the things he smelled around him would do. He tried to bite at one of the hands lifting him, but he was so weak and hurt that he could barely turn his head.

There were teeth in his neck. He could feel the echoes of them.

He was going to die, and he slipped back into blackness.

The sea was a lonely place. It was impossibly cold on deck, and Martin was always shivering due to blood loss. It would have been smarter to stay below deck, where it was cramped and people with blank eyes passed him in the hallway. But if he stared at the sea, he could get lost in the fierce and undulating salt spray. He could stare into the endless depths and pretend that this was just a normal ship—in the rooms, where the thralls were shambling and silent, the reality of the Tundra was impossible to ignore.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Martin would have jumped in surprise, but he was sluggish and slow now, so he just blinked as Peter joined him at the railing. He used to snap at Peter for sneaking up on him.

“No one else for hundreds of miles,” Peter said. “It’s wonderfully lonely, don’t you think?”

Martin nodded without really thinking about it. It was easier to just agree with whatever Peter said—he didn’t actually ever want an answer to the questions he asked. Martin looked back out at the endless sea and felt alone. The ship was full of people, and none of them would help him. He didn’t even know if he could be helped—what waited for him back in the world?

“Are you all right, Martin?” Peter asked. “You seem tired.”

“I am,” Martin answered him. He was all right, and he was tired.

Peter patted him on the back, and Martin flinched. Even though Peter had never hurt him when he wasn’t feeding, Martin always flinched from his touch. After all, he was a Lukas.

“Take a break,” Peter told him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

There were teeth in his neck.

Martin just shrugged.

There was stone beneath him. Every cut and gash burned with searing pain. He needed to hunt. His stomach screamed. His veins were weak and shivering.

Warmth flooded back into his body. He drank, deep and greedy. He was so hungry—there was no name, no morals, only the hunt and the kill at the end. He couldn’t have imagined that drinking would feel so good. It was his first, and it filled his stomach with warmth. He was full.

“Good job, Martin,” Peter congratulated as his prey fell dead beneath him.

The foggy thudding of his heartbeat slowly faded from Martin’s ears. There was a man, face forever terrified in death, beneath him. That’s when the horror of what he’d done set in.

Even the bars of the cage would offer no comfort, as they were not iron. What was his name? It didn’t matter. He needed blood. His fingers were raw from clawing at the lock. He couldn’t stand. He was out of blood.

He smelled the meal from a long way away. Sweet, familiar blood. Too sweet, almost sickly: the prey didn’t nourish itself enough, but Martin was long past caring. He wanted to leap to the bars of the cage, but he couldn’t move that fast. He had to conserve his energy. He was wounded and dying. He shakily pushed himself onto his hands and knees as the lock scraped open.

The prey was easy. It was gagged with its hands bound before it, and fell to the floor with a pathetic little whine. With the last of his strength, he leapt onto the hapless human.

Its eyes were wide, dark, and shocked. It tried to say something through the gag, but he didn’t care. He tried to bite its neck, but the human kneed him in the stomach, and he screamed in pain as the gash there erupted in new agony. He growled and pinned it by its bound wrists just as the human spat out the gag.

The human lashed out with another pathetic kick. He snarled and sharpened his fingers, slashing at the human’s arm. The human cried out in pain, and he immediately knew something was wrong. He felt the sudden and nonsensical urge to vomit, but his stomach was empty. The scratch barely drew blood. He had meant to slice open a vein, but he couldn’t hurt this prey like that. He had no idea why.

Its skin was dry and dotted in halos of scars that, somehow, he knew were from worms. Its eyes were bright and brimming with tears. His hands clenched in the human’s shirt. He had to keep it close, and there was more to that than hunger.

“Martin?” the human choked.

Martin.

That was his name. He knew this man.

Martin gave a helpless cry and jerked his head back, then forward. He needed to feed. He knew this man.

Jon.

Martin was a predator, and Jon was prey.

“Martin, look at me,” Jon whispered again. “Martin, please. It’s me, it’s Jon.”

Tears were running down Jon’s cheeks. Martin remembered chapped lips and the soft touch of a hand. A new hunger swelled within him, a hunger that had nothing to do with blood and flesh.

He touched Jon’s cheek with a trembling, gentle hand. Too gentle. He was a predator. Jon’s arm attested to that.

Jon leaned into the touch. Too eager. He was prey. Jon’s arm attested to that.

Martin choked out a sob and buried his face in Jon’s chest. He smelled like blood. Blood Martin knew he wasn’t going to drink. He listened to Jon’s ragged breathing and his too-fast heartbeat.

Jon cleared his throat awkwardly.

“First thing’s first, can you please untie me, Martin?” Jon asked.

Martin fumbled with the rope until Jon was free. Jon reached up and skimmed a finger over the point of Martin’s ear. Martin realized how badly he was shaking.

“Jon,” Martin choked out. “Jon, I see you. I’m sorry, Jon, I’m so sorry.”

Jon’s face was an image of grief and shock, and Martin realized how betrayed he must feel. He scrambled off of and away from Jon, dragging himself into the farthest corner of the cell.

“I’m sorry,” Martin sobbed.

He stared down at his shaking hands. They weren’t bloody, despite all his wounds. He’d probably licked them clean. His right hand had scraped wounds into Jon’s skin. He stared at it with hate.

“You’re hurt,” Jon said.

“I’m fine,” Martin whispered. “You need to get out of here. I’m not s-safe.”

“If you have suggestions regarding how to get out of here, I’m listening,” Jon snapped. “Martin, why didn’t you tell me about this?” He ran a weary hand over his face.

“I didn’t want—I—I’m sorry. I should have told you and let you kill me.”

“Kill you? I am not a monster, Martin, and I resent the implication that the Institute just kills for no good reason.”

“You’re not a monster, but I am.”

=

Jon was reeling. Martin was a vampire. A vampire had killed Gertrude.

If Martin had killed Gertrude, then would he kill Jon next? Jon looked at Martin. He was terrified, with wide and guilty eyes. His irises were red and his ears were pointed. Most striking was the wings—wide and black, like a raven. The feathers were tattered and bloody, like the rest of Martin. He was wounded—one of his hands clutched his stomach and he was covered in blood. He was hurting. When Jon was hurting, Martin had dropped everything to help him, and now Martin was hurting and all Jon had was selfish anger. Anger that Martin had lied to him, had fooled him, had broken his heart on the sidewalk.

He filed away his anger for future consideration. He wasn’t the priority.

=

Jon scooted closer. Martin flinched. He couldn’t risk hurting Jon. The scent of his blood was cloying, and a scrabbling thing inside his chest longed for it.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s start with that. I promise I will not harm you.”

“I can’t promise the same.” Martin mantled his wings around himself, blocking Jon from view. “When I have blood, I can pretend I’m human. But I don’t have blood. I’m starving, Jon, and it’s only a matter of time before I lose control. Either I die, or I kill you.”

“There has to be a third option. I am not losing you.”

Martin laughed humorlessly. “There really isn’t. I’m almost out of time.”

“Did you kill Gertrude?” Jon said abruptly.

“Wh—no!” Martin sputtered. His fingernails dug into his arms, distracting him from the hunger.

“Then who did?”

“I’m not the only person in London, Jon.”

“But you’re the only vampire in the area. Vampires don’t hunt in each other’s territory.”

“A vampire killed her?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me.” Martin’s fingers scraped against his skin. “I-I haven’t lost control since I turned.”

He clenched his teeth. He had to remain in control. More blood seeped out.

“Okay,” Jon said quietly. “I believe you.”

Martin curled into himself miserably. He felt horribly guilty about the warmth spreading through his chest.

“We just need to hold on,” Jon continued. “My friends know the Unseelie are after me. They’ll come. Can you hold on until then?”

Martin tugged at his feathers. His veins hurt.

“I don’t think so. I’ll bleed out or lose control. Hopefully the first.”

“What do you mean, hopefully the first?”

“Because if I lose control, I’ll kill you. I won’t just stop when I get enough.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath. “What if you got a-a little blood?” He had moved even closer, and Martin wanted to scold him, because that was incredibly stupid.

“What?”

“Just a bit. Enough to, ah, tide you over, as it were.”

Martin peeked through his wings. Jon was right next to him now, his body tensed like a scared rabbit.

“If I had about two pints, that would be enough to heal me and sustain me for a few days, but I don’t see where we’d get—oh. No. No. Absolutely not.”

“I have plenty of blood, Martin. Losing two pints is really not a big deal.”

“I won’t.”

“Now you’re just being unreasonable. It wouldn’t hurt me, and it would save your life!”

“Two pints can send someone into shock, Jon!”

“Well, surely one pint is better than nothing?” Jon was too close. Martin laced his fingers together to prevent them from grabbing for Jon’s wrist.

“I can’t, Jon.”

“Why the hell not?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew how strong his feelings were, but he couldn’t put them into words.

Being a vampire was what he was. Jon knowing that hurt, yes, but it wasn’t unbearably terrifying, because he couldn’t help it. But he could help drinking. Drinking was what he did, and he couldn’t bear the thought of showing that to Jon.

“Because,” he finally said ever so quietly, “I don’t want to show you what I am. If I drink from you...you’ll carry a mark of what I am in your blood. I know, it’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s not like before, when I just bit you—”

“What!?”

Martin winced. “Right, so, uh, remember when you got bitten by the worms and I gave you that sedative? That was...magic vampire juice.”

“Do not call it that, please.” Jon exhaled and put his head in his hands.

“AndIalsodiditinthehospital,” Martin blurted.

“I’m... Sorry?”

“In the hospital, I came to drop off the tea, and you were hurt, and needed to be sedated, and...yeah. S-sorry.”

“Well. That’s...I can’t exactly be mad at you for that. It’s just...this whole thing is a lot to take in.”

Martin breathed in, then out. He had a day at most before he relapsed and Jon couldn’t bring him back again.

“Right,” Jon said decisively. “Well, you’re obviously in no fit state to have any sort of discussion, so. I think it’s time you have a snack.”

“Jon.”

Jon stuck out his exposed wrist with a stubborn set to his jaw.

“Jon, please,” Martin breathed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that strip of skin. Jon’s veins were blue and tantalizing.

“Martin, I’ve had a lot of time to think about you, a-and vampires, and monsters...and our blind date, that whole thing, and even after the first date I wasn’t—I wasn’t too mad? At you. I-I thought you had a reason. I was right, I suppose. And being with you—talking to you, that is—always made me feel...safe. Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is: I trust you. You’re not going to kill me, Martin.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t come up with any words, not when Jon was so close and his stubble framed his mouth like that.

“You’re not a monster,” Jon continued, a bit of his composed veneer returning. “I understand why you couldn’t trust me with this.”

Martin cringed. He had to reassure Jon, but had forgotten how to do so. His mind was foggy.

“Here,” Jon concluded. “It’ll just be like giving blood.”

Martin reached out a trembling hand to take Jon’s. He laced their fingers together and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling Jon’s pulse between his fingers.

“Okay,” he finally whispered. He drew Jon’s wrist close.

“Wait, um, will it hurt? I’ve read that vampire bites hurt.”

“Most do. Not mine.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Martin brought Jon’s vein to his lips. His pulse was quick, but his expression was steady and sure. He pressed his closed lips to the pulse point. It was a little act of defiance, of proof: he could have the blood at his mouth without drinking it. Jon’s breath hitched.

“All right. Here we go. Tell me if it hurts or you start to feel dizzy.”

He slid his fangs into Jon’s wrist. Feeding was all about intent: whatever the vampire wanted their victim to feel, they felt. Most vampires reveled in pain, but Martin focused extra hard on not hurting Jon as he started to slowly drink, holding himself back almost painfully.

Jon gasped and leaned into Martin, bracing against his shoulder. His blood was sweet yet anemic—even a pint wouldn’t heal Martin fully. His eyes were unfocused, and he was trembling.

“Martin,” he moaned.

Martin immediately withdrew his teeth, and Jon hissed. “Are you hurt? Did that hurt? I’m sorry.”

Jon shoved his wrist at Martin’s mouth. “K-keep going.”

Martin resumed feeding and tried to make Jon feel good. Judging from the noises Jon was making, it was working. He whined and leaned his forehead into Martin’s collarbone as he grasped Martin’s shirt with his free hand. Martin felt guilty—he felt like he was tricking Jon, drugging him to mask the horror of what was being done to him.

But still, he relished the warmth that coursed through him almost as much as the warmth of Jon’s skin. His head was clear, and his wounds itched as they stitched themselves together.

It was just a feeding, and nothing more. Martin had to keep it from being anything more. He couldn’t tie Jon to him in any way. He had to make sure Jon could flee once he saw sense.

After what could have been hours but was, realistically, only a few minutes, Martin retracted his teeth and delicately licked away the remaining drops of blood. Jon shivered and collapsed against him.

“Ah,” Jon panted. “That was...certainly a unique experience.”

“N-not bad, then?”

Jon’s cheeks colored slightly, which was reassuring, because it meant Martin hadn’t taken too much.

“No, that felt...ah. That. Um. Was...nice.”

“Oh! Okay. I’m glad.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Feeling rushed painfully back into Martin’s limbs. He stretched his wings and arms out.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay.”

Jon suddenly pulled away from Martin and rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously. Martin couldn’t help the twinge of sadness he felt when Jon’s skin no longer touched his own.

“Right,” Jon said decisively. “Now we wait.”

Chapter Text

“Why didn’t you tell me the Unseelie were here?”

Tim blinked and yanked his arm out of Detective Tonner’s grasp. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Well, how did you know they were here?”

“I ask the questions. Why didn’t you tell me. What else are you hiding.” The detective secured her grip on Tim’s wrist. “I know your brother’s Unseelie. Are you covering up for him?”

“No!” Tim insisted. “I—to be honest, I didn’t know you knew that the fae were a thing.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “You really think they’d send some mundane to a case at the Magnus Institute?”

“Well, you never asked any questions about magic or anything!”

“I’m asking now. Tell me the whole version.”

Tim told her everything he knew, leaving out the exact route that Danny and Sasha were taking to throw the Unseelie off. He also left out the fact that Danny would return to London.

“Right,” Daisy said decisively. “So we need to go to the Unseelie. I’m surprised you haven’t done so yet.”

Tim snorted. “Right. Because I’m just going to waltz into the museum with no backup.”

“You have backup now. Tomorrow, we’re going to ask the Ringmaster a few questions.”

“And then?”

“And then we see if they’re harboring a murderer. If they are, we attack on the full moon.”

“Why the full moon?”

Daisy grinned mirthlessly, and Tim saw how sharp her teeth were.

“So.”

“So.”

“You’re a vampire.”

“Yes, I thought I was established,” Martin laughed nervously. “Wh-where do we go from here?”

Jon took a moment to consider. “Well, obviously, I have some questions I’d like answered, and I’ll be wanting your full statement if I get out of here with all my skin.”

Martin winced.

“Clearly we’re going to have to strike back at the Unseelie,” Jon added.

“I don’t mean about strategy,” Martin said. “I mean...you and I.”

Jon blinked. “Oh. Well...I don’t see any reason we can’t still work together. After all, the Institute has plenty of Othersider liaisons.”

Martin nodded and twisted his hands in his lap. Friends was obviously off the table, but he’d accept working together. It was the least he could do.

“As for the Unseelie,” Jon continued, “I can’t exactly expect you to help us. I know,” Jon snorted humorlessly, “that you don’t want trouble.”

Martin grimaced and held up his wrists. “Jon, I’m sorry, but these aren’t coming off until Ringmaster Nikola is dead, and until she is she can basically immobilize me whenever she wants. But I’m in all the way for whatever else I can do besides, you know, direct combat. They captured me first, after all.”

“Only because of me,” Jon muttered, looking at his hands.

“Jon. I chose to come after you.”

“It’s still my fault. I mean, I’ve had it a lot easier in here than you—”

“Stop that!” On impulse, Martin laid a hand on Jon’s. He yanked it away almost immediately, an apology bubbling behind his lips.

“Why did you come after me? Did you not know the Unseelie were involved?”

“I came after you because you’re my friend, Jon. I didn’t know there was a Doppelganger, but if I had, I’d have run over even faster.”

“Why?” Jon pressed, his knuckles white and face anguished. He hadn’t denied Martin’s use of the word “friend.”

“What, you think I had some sort of, of, ulterior motive?” Martin bristled.

Jon chewed on his bottom lip. “Martin, there was a table.”

“What?”

“A-a table. It was a ward keeping the Doppelganger away, and I thought it was the thing keeping it alive, and I destroyed it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m a rubbish Archivist,” Jon groaned. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in all of this.”

“I was mixed up in all this five years ago, Jon. It’s really not your fault. And I don’t really know how good of an Archivist you are.” He attempted a smile. “But I think you’re an excellent Jon.”

Spots of color rose on Jon’s cheeks.

“Martin, I—”

“Done with your meal?” Nikola asked cheerfully as she pranced up to the cell door. She frowned when she saw Jon alive. “Martin, really! Didn’t your mother teach you to clean your plate? How are we supposed to do our ritual if we don’t have help with the centerpiece.”

“I’m not helping you,” Martin growled.

“You’re awfully lucid. Why, last I saw you, you snarled at me! Couldn’t make conversation if you tried.” Nikola clapped her hands together. “Oh, you must have eaten! Very good, very good! We simply must wait for you to drain him!”

“Fuck off,” Martin said tiredly. “I’m not doing it again.”

Jon gave him an alarmed glance.

“Oh, you will!” Nikola said cheerily. “No one can resist their nature. Especially when it’s so hungry.”

“Why are you here?” Jon snapped. “To gloat?”

“I was hoping you’d be dead,” Nikola sighed. “I can’t skin you until I have cooperation, after all. But! Silver lining! Now I can moisturize you!”

Jon scooted away from the cell door. “I will pass, thank you.”

“Take pride in your skin, Archivist! It will serve a more important purpose than any skin before!”

Jon kept crawling back until his back was against the wall. Martin positioned himself in between the two as Nikola produced a tub of lotion, but it was no use as Nikola activated the silver bands and Martin fell to the floor.

Two large, identical fae appeared behind Nikola, flanking her as she produced the key to the cell.

“Wait!” Jon panted. “Is this really necessary? Can’t I just, you know, do that myself?”

Nikola tilted her head, considering. Martin realized with a jolt that Nikola was afraid. Of Jon.

Which meant that Jon was a lot more powerful than he was letting on. Maybe even more powerful than he knew.

“Very well!” She threw the lotion unceremoniously into the cell. “Make sure to get it all over. Make a mistake, and we’ll have to do it! We can’t have substandard skin. I’ll be back in an hour.”

And with that, her and her bodyguards left. Martin could move again.

Jon stared at the tub of lotion like it would bite him. Martin cautiously picked it up.

“I really would rather not do this,” he said.

“God,” Martin groaned. “This is really creepy.”

“That’s a dumb word to use for the situation.”

Martin shot Jon an annoyed look but held his tongue. He couldn’t help the little fond smile that spread across his face, though. He shook himself. He really needed to be more objective.

“Well,” Jon sighed, taking the lotion from Martin’s hands, “I may as well get this over with. I’m going to have to remove some of my clothing, so I would appreciate it if you looked away.”

“Right. Right, of course. Just let me know if you need anything.” Martin decided to sit facing the door, so that anyone who came down the hall wouldn’t immediately see Jon.

“So,” Martin said, “what questions did you want to ask me?”

“I don’t know where to start,” Jon laughed a little. “First: Peter Lukas.”

“Is the vampire who turned me. The whole Lukas family is made of vampires, and their bloodline is the biggest one in England.”

“I knew it,” Jon muttered triumphantly. “I knew it! And he kills people, right?”

“Peter’s actually the best of them,” Martin laughed drily. “Sure, he kills people, but not as many and as gleefully as the rest of that damn family.”

“You don’t seem to like them much,” Jon said wryly.

“I hate them,” Martin said fervently, even though it wasn’t quite true, because that was the easiest name to put to his sick fear and guilt. “They…”

“They what?”

Martin didn’t want to answer Jon’s questions, and he didn’t feel like he owed his past to Jon. Yet the words built behind his lips, and he knew he would say them—until he caught the tingle in his lips and whirled around to look at Jon, who froze in shock, his hand rubbing lotion into his stomach. Martin definitely wasn’t distracted by the oak of his skin, the delicate circles tracing up his side, his slender wrists.

“I told you not to look—”

“Don’t,” Martin ordered, baring his teeth in warning. “Don’t enchant me. My words are my own.”

Jon’s eyes were wide and confused, as if he didn’t know what Martin was talking about, but Martin knew all too well what enchantment felt like. He knew what Jon had done, and it probably would have worked if Martin hadn’t built up a tolerance in the worst way possible.

“Martin, I—what are you talking about?”

“Your questions,” Martin spat. “How long have you been doing this?”

He stood up, wings at the ready.

“Doing what?” Now Jon was angry. His anger was cold and impersonal, and implied that Martin was being unreasonable.

“Magic!”

“I’m not doing any magic! My magic deals with knowledge, it has nothing to do with talking!” Jon’s voice trembled traitorously.

Martin took a deep, purposeful breath. Then another, too soon after the first.

”Tell me how that feels,” Peter murmured into Martin’s mind, and Martin didn’t want to tell him because it would do no good, but his lips tingled and the words spilled out anyway.

“It hurts,” he whined breathlessly, the little bobs of his sobbing throat scraping against Peter’s teeth. His face burned—he had nothing left, no secret that the vampires could not extract.

Martin sank to his knees and mantled his wings around himself.

“Don’t,” he choked out.

“Don’t what? Ask you any more questions?”

“Just don’t.”

No one did their magic without realizing. Without controlling it, maybe, but they always knew. They always felt something and knew a force was springing forth.

Which left two equally horrifying possibilities, Martin knew as he turned back around and tried to pretend Jon wasn’t there.

One: Jon had betrayed him. Jon thought little enough of him that he considered Martin’s secrets and knowledge and trauma ripe for the picking. Jon was just like Peter Lukas.

And two: whatever had come from Jon’s mouth wasn’t his magic.

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t normally feel awkward in coffee shops, but this was not a normal situation.

He’d met Nikola, of course. Danny didn’t rank very high in the London court, but Nikola seemed to have a soft spot for changelings, so her and Danny were close enough. Tim had even eaten dinner two seats down from her—an unusual honor for a human. She was grinning and unpredictable. Fun, even.

That fun still lingered on her face as she sat across from Tim, hands cupped around her coffee in a way that seemed deliberately unnatural.

“Timothy Stoker!” she said, turning each syllable of his name over in her mouth. Tim gritted his teeth—he’d never actually given her his name, but it still took a bit of his magic to resist her attempt at enchantment. “To what do I owe this meeting?”

“The Institute,” Timothy said sharply. “You kidnapped my friend just as something Unseelie attacked the Institute. I know you’ve declared war. Now tell me: Where. Are. My. Friends.”

Nikola blinked and hissed, “we have them in the basement of the wax museum.” She scowled. “You know it’s the greatest breach of etiquette to ask a fae a direct question.”

“Don’t care,” Tim said blithely. “Should have thought of that before you kidnapped three of my friends. Three! That’s excessive, even for you. Counts as a breach of etiquette, I’d say.” He leaned over the table. “And I have another breach of etiquette for you.”

“I will get up and leave,” Nikola snapped.

“No, you won’t. I know you won’t because you must have a reason to be here in the first place. To meet your enemy on neutral ground. Who was the man you killed in Jon’s office.”

Nikola blinked. “I killed no man.”

“Your Doppelganger, then.”

Nikola gazed back at him, eyes wide. “Tim, you know I am not lying when I say we killed no one at the Institute.”

“Then why was there a mauled corpse slumped against the desk?”

Nikola grinned. Her teeth were far too straight and even, and Tim got the distinct impression they were stolen. “I’m not the only monster at the Institute, Timothy.”

“Fine,” Timothy said, trying not to show how deeply alarmed he was. “I’d like to make a deal, because we’re such friends.”

Nikola smiled, interested. “Ah, I was correct! I thought you might want a bargain!”

“You give Jon and Martin back, and we call it a truce.”

Nikola laughed, a bright peal that drew nervous glances from the other customers.

“Really, Tim! I need them both. Surely you can wait until I’m done with them.”

“Either you give them back, or I’m taking them back and I don’t care which of your Court dies.”

“Does your brother know that?” Nikola giggled. “I’m sure he’d caution you against threatening me and all his friends.”

Tim’s fingers curled into fists under the wooden table, which was beginning to char at the edges. “He’s not here, is he?”

“No, he’s not.” Nikola made an exaggerated show of looking around the cafe. “In fact, it looks like no one is! We’ve respected your little Institute’s desire to keep everything under wraps so it can have all the secrets to itself, but…” One of her hands darted across the table and grabbed Tim’s wrist. It felt distinctly inhuman in a way Tim had gotten used to. Still, years of acclimation to Danny’s high-fives and hugs didn’t change how threatening Nikola’s grip was, especially since she was unhinged enough to break hundreds of years of London’s unspoken rules. “Now that we’re at war, I may as well just kill you here and now.”

“Or,” Daisy said calmly, walking over from the next table and making a show of clapping Nikola on the back so the Ringmaster could feel the cold cylinder of steel beneath the sleeve, “you could leave, as we discussed.”

“You can’t kill me,” Nikola said.

“A silver bullet tends to do the trick for fae.”

Nikola bared her teeth. “You wouldn’t dare to keep something so dangerous to you on your person. One misfire and you’re dead.”

“That’s true for all guns held by anyone,” Tim pointed out, “and people still use them. Have you ever been to America?”

Nikola slowly stood. “Very well. I suppose I will be seeing you two soon enough.”

“Next time will be the last,” Daisy growled.

Martin was not looking at Jon. He wasn’t listening to Jon, either, which was easy because Jon wasn’t talking to him. Jon had a feeling Martin was trying his best not to think about him, either.

He replayed the conversation over and over in his mind as he rubbed lotion on his legs. One minute they’d been talking. And the next Martin was accusing him of using enchantment magic, in a tone that suggested Martin had had some very bad experiences with it.

The worst part was, as soon as he’d exploded like that, Jon’s first instinct had been to ask Martin about the roots of that reaction. The question had leapt to his tongue almost against his will, and Jon had to wrestle it back every second.

That was what Jon did. He asked questions. He’d never considered there was more to it. He certainly hadn’t done magic. Sometimes children did magic without realizing what the feeling of magic meant, but Jon had been a diviner for years. He’d know. He couldn’t do magic without knowing it. No one could cast their magic unwittingly.

He sighed and pulled his trousers back on. He’d saved his back for last, knowing he couldn’t do it by himself. He’d hoped Martin could help him, but that seemed out of the question now.

Maybe it was the influence of the Unseelie, forcing truth onto those it had imprisoned. But no—Jon’s anti-enchantment tattoo hadn’t so much as hummed. It had been entirely Jon’s fault.

Jon grunted as his fingers scrabbled to reach the area in between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t reach it. Whatever dehumanizing moist horrors Nikola visited upon him would be his fault, just like it was his fault his fragile friendship with Martin was now in great peril.

His eyes began to prick with tears. He didn’t like people seeing him shirtless—it was far too vulnerable, and they would inevitably be judgemental. If he didn’t adequately moisturize himself, the Unseelie would do it, and he didn’t want to know what that would involve.

“Jon,” Martin sighed, sounding exasperated. “You sound like you’re having trouble.” He didn’t look at Jon.

“I’m fine,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“You need to tell me the truth,” Martin snapped. “It’s the least you can do.”

Jon shrank away from him, but at the same time felt a little glimmer of hope. There was something to do. He had an action item. If he told Martin the truth, maybe he could convince Martin he hadn’t been lying about the compulsion. And maybe, just maybe, he could patch together part of the fallout of his long road of mistakes.

It was a pretty inconsequential thing to be honest about, anyway.

“I can’t reach my back,” he told Martin. “I’m sure I’ll get it eventually.”

“Do you need help?”

“Y-you really don’t have to, I’m sure it’ll be fine, really—”

“Jon.”

“I need help,” Jon huffed. “Although I can hardly ask you to help, after—after what happened.”

“Of course I’m going to help you,” Martin said, exasperated. “Can I turn around?”

“Y-yes.”

Martin walked over, grabbed the lotion from Jon, and sat down behind him. Jon resisted the urge to twist around, to catalog Martin’s every movement. Instead, he looked down at his hands as Martin started to press cool, gentle fingers into his back. Jon had lathered the lotion on with little regard for actually getting moisturized, just trying to cover his whole body. Martin, though, worked the lotion into his skin with something Jon might have mistaken for tenderness if he didn’t know how angry Martin was. The lotion was cool and smooth, and Jon shivered. He could pretend it was from the cold. Plausible deniability and all that.

He hadn’t let anyone else touch him like this in a long time. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, but he didn’t mind. Martin Blackwood felt safe. His hands were not hands that would hurt. Or they were just very good at hiding their intentions.

It took too long for Martin to cover Jon’s back. Longer than Jon would have taken. And yet Jon missed his cold fingers as soon as they were gone.

“You-ah. It’s, it’s all good. Covered, I mean. In lotion. Your back, that is.” Martin awkwardly shoved Jon’s shirt into his hands.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon mumbled as he pulled the button-up back over his head.

“You’re,” Martin swallowed, “you’re wearing the. Um.”

Jon looked down at his chest, where the undone buttons revealed the star agate on a leather cord. “Yes, always good to have a protection charm.”

Martin snorted. “Lot of good it’s done you. Seems like you’re life’s gone down the drain since I gave it back.”

Jon rolled the pendant under his fingers. “Could have been worse.”

“You’re unbelievable!” Martin threw up his hands. “Do you have any idea how much you insist on throwing yourself into danger?”

“Why do you—” Jon bit back his tongue before he could complete the question. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“So, what, you think I was taking you out to dinner and chasing after Doppelgangers for you because I see you as some sort of Capri-Sun?”

Jon winced. “That’s—that’s not what I meant. I just mean, well...we haven’t known each other very long, so considering what you’ve done for me, it’s a bit hypocritical for you to lecture me on my recklessness.”

“I can handle it,” Martin replied, unable to sharpen his words. “I’m strong, Jon. Almost unkillable.”

“You did almost die.”

“It’s not the point! W-what were we talking about?”

Jon grimaced. “Our arguments never seem to go anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighed, slumping back into the wall.

“Martin,” Jon said tentatively. It wasn’t the right time to bring this up, but he’d never been able to let go of a confrontational bone once he had his teeth in it. “About the—my questions.”

“What about them.”

“I—I swear I wasn’t trying to use magic. I need you to know that.”

“Are you a warlock?” Martin asked. “Have you signed over your soul?”

“No!” Jon said.

“Ever signed a contract with a fae or a vampire?”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure I’d know.”

Martin shrugged. “Well, either you’re lying or someone else’s magic is hijacking your lips.”

“I know it’s not the first one.” Jon tucked his knees against his chest. He knew a lot of things, but that was on the top of the list. “But the other option...isn’t exactly ideal.”

Martin gave him a long look. Though his irises were now red, his eyes were just as beautiful. Finally, something in them softened.

“We need to find out who’s doing this,” Martin said decisively. “If someone’s in your head, we need to get them out.”

Jon scrutinized Martin’s face, trying to read him. Martin probably wanted to protect himself, so it seemed their motivations were aligned in getting to the bottom of this mystery.

“What do you suggest?” Jon asked.

“You have a ton of resources for divination back at your Institute, right? We should start there.”

“What about you?” Jon said. “I know that many vampires have powers of influence, or control…”

“You think I’m doing this?”

“No! But maybe you can find out who did.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, crash course in vampire bloodlines. I’m a Lukas. I can vanish into a crowd. Canes are the ones with powers of control, but they don’t have the kind of magic you’ve been channelling. Rayners can disappear into the shadows. And...that’s it. I can’t magically know something. I don’t know of any vampire bloodline with both enchantment and divination magic.”

“So there are no vampire bloodlines with powers of...compulsion?”

“There are stories of a vampire way back in the 1800s, who had a distinct bloodline and powers of knowledge and truth, which I guess is related, but there’s no evidence he ever bit anyone. So if the bloodline does exist, it’s way underground.”

“Hm,” Jon muttered. Of course there was no clear-cut, easy answer for why he’d been casting truth spells without realizing. “So it’s something else.” Something powerful, too: truth spells were insanely complicated and easy to mess up.

“And,” Martin continued, “vampires can’t actually control you unless they’ve got their teeth in you, or they have you enthralled.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

“About what.”

“Thralldom.”

Jon realized with a start that he’d memorized the ins and outs of Martin as he noticed the way Martin’s fingertips dug into his thighs, the way his wings shifted minutely into a shield. Jon’s eyes scanned Martin’s wings, and for the first time, he considered what their presence meant. He was turned unwillingly.

“What about thralldom?” Martin said, his voice deliberately calculated.

“Well, I’ve been studying it, and from what I understand, the magic involved isn’t necessarily bad. I was wondering if you could shed any light on my readings, which indicate a possibility for a mutually beneficial relationship—”

“That’s bullshit,” Martin snapped, his wings drawn closer around him. “Probably vampire propaganda. Thralldom is a horrible thing to do someone and it always ends in either turning or death. It’s not...I saw thralls in the manor. It’s not a good situation, and I’m not gonna...the books are bullshit.”

“Okay, but—”

“It’s not important,” Martin growled.

Jon gazed at him, full of an itching hunger to know. To plumb the depths of Martin’s mind, to reach in with his probing tongue and just grab what Martin wouldn’t tell him—

Jon shook himself, unnerved. That wasn’t him.

He opened his mouth to say something when the wall of the empty cell across the hall suddenly and theatrically decided it wasn’t going to be a wall anymore. Martin sprung to his feet, then stumbled back down to his knees. Jon stood and dragged Martin back up, and Martin immediately positioned himself between Jon and the door. Jon quickly dissolved into coughing from the dust of the collapsed wall, but Martin did not. He wasn’t breathing. His fingers were sharp and his wings were spread, ready to attack.

Jon peeked under Martin’s wing and looked into the cloud of dust, trying to See, but the sound still rang in his ears as a dark shape manifested in the dust.

“Hello, boss!” Tim said cheerily, striding over the rubble. “Sorry I’m late—had to get that cop off my tail, she really wanted to wait until…” Tim trailed off as his eyes landed on Martin, tracing his eyes, his ears, his teeth, his wings.

“Um,” Martin squeaked, “hi, Tim.”

Tim’s eyes went from Martin, then back to Jon, then back to Martin.

“Jon,” Tim said, measured, a fire building between his fingers, “did he hurt you?”

“N-no,” Jon insisted. “Not at all.”

“He didn’t...feed on you?”

“Not-not like—okay, I mean, he did, but I kind of insisted. It was...consensual.”

Tim’s eyebrows raised, and Jon stepped in front of Martin. He didn’t know what Tim would do, but he saw the stark, animal fear in Martin’s eyes.

“So,” Tim said after a long pause, “your good suck was consensual, then? That’s good.”

“Tim!” Jon groaned. “It wasn’t—that’s not—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Tim waltzed up to the lock and waggled his fingers at it, and when that didn’t work, he pulled the axe off his back and just whacked at the lock until the door swung open with a protest. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That was...really easy,” Jon commented as they crawled through the hole in the wall and into the tunnels. “You’d think the Unseelie would have better security.”

“Danny told me all the loopholes,” Tim said. “Guess they didn’t think he’d defect.” His voice had an unpleasant edge to it.

“Jon!” A cheery, singsong voice echoed from the hallway of cells. “You’re not walking out on our hospitality, are you?”

“Run,” Martin muttered. “Run, run, run.”

They hustled through the tunnels, breaking into a full run once they had room. Their only light was the flickering flame Tim held up.

“The Institute,” Jon panted. “They’ll be coming back to the Institute. We can’t go back there.”

“Elias has a plan,” Tim replied. “We just have to get back to the Institute.”

Chapter Text

“How are we supposed to get back to the Institute,” Jon asked, panting, as they ran through the tunnels under London, “with the Unseelie on our tails?”

“Elias set up some sigils. The Unseelie can’t get into the Institute—at least, most of them can’t.”

“The Institute isn’t the problem,” Jon pointed out. “They’ll catch us before we get there.”

“No, they won’t,” Martin said. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.” He held out a hand to Jon and a hand to Tim. “Grab on.”

The two each grasped a hand, and Martin focused on drawing Lukas magic around him like a misty cloak, but as they began to disappear a horrible pain stabbed Martin in the wrists and neck. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground if Tim and Jon hadn’t caught him

“Sorry,” he panted. “I, ah. Haven’t eaten.”

“They’re coming.” Jon peered nervously behind them, where Nikola’s voice quickly approached. “Martin, you could take some more of—”

“No,” Martin growled. “You’ve lost enough already.”

“For God’s sake,” Jon snapped. “I’m fine.”

“You’re swaying on your feet, Jon,” Tim pointed out. “And there’s no need to throw yourself on the bomb when bomb squad’s on the scene.” He stuck his free wrist out to Martin. “Here. We don’t have much time.

Martin just stared up at him.

“Archivist!” Nikola came into view. “Ah, Timothy! I was hoping to see you. I was promised you, after all.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to—ah,” Tim’s eyes fluttered as Martin’s teeth pierced his vein.

His blood was a wave of fire that burned on Martin’s tongue like the hottest pepper, smoky and laced with unbearable magical heat. He drank the blood quickly, downing it like a shot as he squeezed Tim’s hand in silent apology.

“Okay,” Martin gasped as he withdrew his teeth.

The Unseelie guards crashed and stomped around the corner, giving Martin no time to sort through the burning, choking smoke in his lungs. No time to even rise to his feet. He grabbed Jon and Tim and pulled them close to his chest as that fire burst forth in a rush of magic Martin was unprepared to channel, blasting them like a gun into intangibility, and the Unseelie ran right through them. They looked around in confusion, then kept running down the tunnels, spears at the ready.

Martin shuddered as Jon’s hands tightened into his shirt.

“How the hell did you do that?” Tim demanded once the Unseelie had passed and Martin let his magic fade.

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t like anything he’d done before: he could go unnoticed, but not intangible like that.

“Cooperation,” Jon breathed.

The three of them rose to their feet, leaning on each other, helping each other up.

“Let’s get to the Institute,” Martin muttered.

He was actually thinking of the Institute as a safe haven. How times had changed. He took a deep breath as he drew his mask from the well of energy Tim’s blood had given him.

“Yes. Right. Institute,” Jon said, rattled.

They still leaned on each other as they stumbled over the threshold of the Institute. It was a cold, austere place that shut out all the noises of London as soon as the oak door thudded shut behind them. Martin had only been to the Institute once, and the place hadn’t changed in the interceding five years by the look of it.

Tim’s phone dinged and he checked his texts. “Elias says we’ll meet about the plan tomorrow. We’re staying in the Archives—our places are probably being watched. Sasha already called dibs on the cot, but you guys can have my air mattress. Danny and I can share. If you guys are okay with sharing.”

“Y-yes, um, well, I don’t actually need to sleep,” Martin stuttered. “So. Jon. You get the mattress.”

“Are you sure?” Jon asked.

Martin shrugged. “I mean, sleep makes me feel better, but I don’t need it.” He winced. “Um. Is there a shower here? I’ve sort of been in a cell for a few weeks.”

“There’s one near Artefact Storage,” Jon began.

“Actually,” Martin cut him off, “I’ll go back to my flat and shower there, I have a few things to take care of.”

“It’s not safe,” Jon said.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You got kidnapped, Martin!”

“Yeah. I got kidnapped from the Institute,” Martin pointed out. “My flat’s five blocks away, and I’m a spooky vampire.”

Jon sighed, but didn’t push.

Martin was acutely aware he wasn’t necessarily safe. Elias may not be as forgiving as Jon or Tim, after all. Martin had to get back to his flat, where he’d left his phone: Daisy and Melanie might be worried.

As they started down the stairs into the Archives, Martin realized with a start that he hadn’t felt any discomfort crossing the threshold into the Institute. Elias ran the Institute. So Elias was welcoming him.

“I need a nap,” Martin mumbled so only he could hear.

“I need to call Georgie,” Jon said.

“I’ve been in contact with Georgie. And Daisy,” Tim said. “Even asked Melanie King a few questions trying to find you two. I’m gonna talk to Elias about bringing them in on this. Daisy’s probably mad at me, though.”

“Thank you for taking charge, Tim,” Jon muttered.

Martin clapped a hand to his forehead. “Daisy! I have to give her the, ah.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “The what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Martin,” Tim insisted.

“Her weed,” Martin blurted. “I’m her dealer.”

Jon and Tim just stared at him, resulting in Jon tripping over the bottom step, forcing Martin to catch him. Jon, exhausted and scrawny, just ragdolled in Martin’s grasp, where he fit perfectly.

“Um.” Martin set Jon upright on his feet. “It’s medicinal.”

“We’ll talk later,” Tim said as they entered the Archives. “Because I’ve been very stressed lately.”

The shelves and desks of the Archives had been pushed back to create a little clearing containing two air mattresses and a table. There was a man sitting at the table, who immediately jumped to his feet and ran towards them, and the man was Tim. At least, Martin thought it was Tim at first glance. At second glance, though, it was clearly not Tim. He lacked any even coin-shaped worm scars, his hair was parted differently, and he was an inch shorter. And there was something undeniably sharp about him—his eyes were a bit too bright yet dark, his cheekbones cutting, his smile bubbling with the signature mania of the Unseelie.

Martin shoved Jon and Tim behind him and bared his teeth. His wings burst free in a shield, tearing his ruined shirt, and he prepared to attack.

“What the hell?” the not-Tim barked, his smile draining. “Why is there a vampire in the Institute?”

“Why is there a fae in the Institute?” Martin growled. His fingers turned into claws. “You should know better than to be here now.”

“Guys, guys!” Tim ducked under Martin’s wing and positioned himself between them. “Calm down.”

“He’s Unseelie!” Martin said.

“He’s my brother,” Tim snapped back, “and the reason I knew to come after you. And the reason Sasha’s alive. Stand down, Martin.”

Martin slipped back into his human mask. The not-Tim’s smile bounced back.

“This is Martin, my friend who’s a vampire. This is Danny, my brother who’s a changeling. We good?”

“We good.” Danny fist-bumped Tim and offered a hand for Martin to shake. He took it with suspicion.

“Is Sasha back yet?” Jon asked.

“I’m in here!” A door labelled “Document Storage” slammed open, and Sasha emerged. “Just setting up my bed.” Her eyes landed on Jon and Martin, and she grinned. “You guys are okay! I was worried!”

“I don’t know about you,” Tim announced, “but I’m hungry. Delivery?”

“Please,” Jon said gratefully.

“You guys take care of that, I’m gonna go back to my flat and get some stuff,” Martin said. “Jon, do you want me to bring you back some pajamas? They’ll be too big, but, well.” He gestured to Jon’s bloodstained button-up and rumpled jeans.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Jon said, his voice soft and stiff.

Martin had a list of things to do. First, he locked up the shop. Then, he found his phone in his flat. Next order of business: send a text to Joshua letting him know of the situation. Then: call Daisy.

“Martin?” Daisy growled as soon as she picked up.”You’re okay!”

“Hey,” Martin greeted wearily. “Yeah, Tim broke me out. Listen, I’m staying at the Institute—apparently Elias has a plan to beat the Unseelie, and we could probably use your help, so can you swing by at some point? I’ll have your juice.”

“You were kidnapped, Martin, can we talk—”

“No. I do not have the energy for this.”

A long pause from the other end of the line.

“Okay. Fine, I’ll help. Even if it’s with that disgusting little man. Will they be suspicious about the, you know, handoff?”

“I might have told them I’m your weed dealer.”

“Jesus, Martin, I’m a cop!”

“Goodbye, Daisy. See you soon.”

He hung up mechanically without waiting for a response. He should have been happy to hear Daisy’s voice, but he didn’t have much room for feeling besides the cold numbness of shock and the hot numbness of Tim’s magic blood. One thing at a time. He shot a quick text to Melanie:

Sorry for going off the grid. Am fine. Am staying at magnus institute. Don’t worry about me.

He put his phone on silent and slid it into his pocket. Time to pack. He mechanically grabbed pajamas, clothes, a jumper and sweatpants for Jon. Food. Herbs. Amulets. His last bottle of wolf’s brew—the Institute had to have potioneering resources, right? A bag of blood meal. Stuff a notebook into the suitcase. Roll up the socks. Throw his tattered clothes into the trash—they’d been ruined by Unseelie claws and his own wings.

As soon as he was under the warm spray of the shower, he fell to his knees and started sobbing.

His body trembled with released tension. Claws tearing into him. His claws tearing. He choked helplessly on his tears as he shook, unable to grasp onto the next action item. He hadn’t even had the energy to be scared before his body thrummed hot with Tim’s blood, and now all of him shivered with heat and fear, even though there was nothing here to be scared of.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before he could finally wipe away his tears, stand up, and finish his shower so he could check that item off the list. His movements were mechanical as he scrubbed away dirt and blood, wincing as he touched his healing scabs. He hadn’t realized how many there were, but now that he was no longer in survival mode, his whole body ached for the embrace of sleep to escape that pain.

He didn’t put on any lotion after toweling off.

It was late when he returned to the Institute. Jon was leaning on the reception desk, and perked up when he saw Martin.

“You’re back safe,” he remarked, trying to be casual, but Martin saw the tension leave his body as soon as they locked eyes. “That’s good.”

Jon had apparently showered, because he looked endearingly like a drowned rat. They walked back down to the Archives together.

Danny, Tim, and Sasha were already sitting around the round table with a tower of takeout, and Jon and Martin joined them. They both tore ravenously into a pepperoni pizza.

“You two must have been hungry,” Sasha remarked.

“We were prisoners,” Jon muttered through a mouthful of crust. “We’ve earned this.”

“Ah, Martin,” Danny said. “Is this going to be enough?”

Martin gave him an askance look. “There’s a mountain of food.”

“I meant,” Danny said, “do you need...something to drink?”

Martin’s veins throbbed with hunger at the thought of blood. “I’m fine. I’ll make some blood milk.”

“Some what?” Tim asked.

“I, ah, put blood meal in milk. That’s how I usually feed.”

Sasha cocked her head, looking at Martin. “Does it hurt? When you feed from people.”

“No,” Tim and Jon said in unison.

Sasha’s eyes lit up. “He fed from you two?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Martin said quickly. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t hurt them, they kind of insisted on it anyway—”

Sasha produced a notebook from seemingly nowhere that had “Research Notes” written on the cover. “Okay, I’m going to need you two to describe how it felt. We only have anecdotal data on painful bites—this could be a valuable addition to the Archives! You first, Jon.”

Danny snickered as Jon glanced uncomfortably at Martin.

“Well,” Jon said, “it was...relaxing. Like all the tension was leaving my muscles. It was nice.”

Sasha just stared at him expectantly, but it soon became clear that Jon wasn’t saying anything else. Color pooled in his cheeks. Martin moved on to wolfing down some noodles so he didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Hm.” Sasha’s pencil scribbled furiously. “Not much, but I suppose it’s adequate. Tim? How does it feel to get bitten by a vampire who isn’t trying to hurt you?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” Tim asked. “He needs blood anyway.”

“Oh, I plan to. First I need your statement.”

“Hang on,” Martin spluttered.

“So,” Tim said, placing his heels up on the table, “he fed pretty quick, so I didn’t get much of a sense. It wasn’t...it wasn’t sexual, per se, but the intensity of it, the quickness of it, was, well. Let’s just say it’s like a long shower on the first of December, if you know what I mean.”

Martin choked on his noodles. “Tim! Oh God, I didn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t sexual!” Tim insisted. “It’s just an analogy.”

“You two,” Sasha scolded Tim and Jon, “are bad at being precise. I’ll have to make my own observations.” She stuck out a wrist to Martin. “Here. You need blood and I need data.”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t need blood. I can make do with blood meal.”

“Martin,” Sasha wheedled.

“It’s not a party trick!” Martin snapped. “I’m a monster, Sasha, and I don’t want to feed off my friends.”

The f-word—friends, he had called them—was out of his mouth before he could think about it, but he wouldn’t take it back. It had been so long since he’d had friends.

“You’re not a monster, Martin,” Jon said softly. “You’re not going to hurt us. Let us help you. That’s what friends are for.”

Martin ran a tentative tongue over his teeth. Peter had taught him that feeding was something that hurt. Something meant to subjugate, to extract. Something where only the vampire came out on top.

Peter had taught him a lot of things that weren’t true.

“What the hell,” he said, feeling daring as he gently took Sasha’s wrist. “Just tap the table twice if you want me to stop, okay? I’ll just take a bit.”

He slid his teeth through her skin, avoiding any of the ink traced into her arm. He could still taste the bitter flavor of ink and silver in her blood. She gripped the table and took deep breaths as he drank. He didn’t take much, but he took it slowly, feeling Sasha’s muscles loosen as she melted into the chair.

“Wow,” she breathed as Martin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” Martin said unnecessarily.

Sasha blinked hazily. “I’m gonna have to wait to write that down.”

“Pretty nice, huh?” Tim grinned.

“Me next!” Danny insisted. “Can you make it feel like skydiving?”

Martin glared at him. “This isn’t some, some sport. This is dangerous.”

“You’re not dangerous,” Jon said.

“C’mon,” Danny cajoled. “Take it from a fae, Martin: pretending that you’re a horrible monster and that everything cool you can do is evil? Not helpful.”

Martin sighed and took Danny’s hand. “Okay, okay. But I can’t guarantee it’ll feel like...skydiving.”

Danny shrugged. “I’ll settle for it feeling like heroin.”

Martin chuckled and tentatively pierced Danny’s bloodstream. It was about the intent, he reminded himself, trying to channel adrenaline. It was apparently working, because Danny’s spine snapped straight upright and he let out an exhilarated laugh. His blood tasted like Tim’s, even though it had none of that fire and smoke, and even though it had the honeyed undertone of fae blood.

“Whew!” Danny exhaled as he collapsed back into his chair. “Now that’s skydiving.”

Martin was feeling a lot better. His scabs itched, and he could feel the skin knitting together beneath. Tim patted him on the back with a grin.

“Monsters,” he said, “don’t make people smile like that.”

Peter had never made anyone smile like Danny did as he bit into some noodles, like Sasha did as she scribbled in her notebook.

“I think it’s time for bed,” Martin said decisively. “It’s been a long day.”

Danny and Tim were soundly asleep as soon as they collapsed onto the mattress, Danny using his brother’s chest as a pillow. It made something in Martin’s chest tighten a little: here was a family that managed to care about each other even through a war between their people. Tim cared about Danny despite the associations his face bore.

Martin sat on the edge of the air mattress in his pajamas, drafting some poetry. Jon opened the door to the office, and Martin couldn’t help his incredulous giggle as the notebook lay forgotten in his lap. The jumper went down to Jon’s mid-thigh and the sleeves almost hid his fingers. He’d had to roll up the cuffs of the sweatpants. He was so small—Martin could probably pin both his wrists with one hand, could lift him with no problem. His stomach did little flips.

“Thank you for the clothes,” Jon mumbled. “Which, ah, do you have a preference for which side? Of the mattress, that is?”

“Oh—you can have the bed.”

Jon frowned. “Where will you sleep?”

“I told you, Jon, I don’t have to sleep. It just makes me feel better.”

“Well, then, it seems you need it tonight of all nights.” Jon walked over and snuggled under the covers Martin had provided. “Come on, there’s room for both of us. If it’s okay with you, that is.”

Martin winced. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I’m not exactly the smallest, and I can’t keep my mask up while I sleep.”

To his surprise, Jon snorted at that. “I’ve seen you without the mask already, Martin. Really, it’s fine. And, ah.” He looked away awkwardly. “To be honest, I...I don’t think I’d feel safe without you here.”

“Oh,” Martin said softly.

“I’m sorry if that’s over the line,” Jon quickly said. “But, well, you wanted me to be honest.”

Martin slid under the sheets next to Jon. He let his mask drop and tucked his wings neatly to his back. Jon didn’t even flinch, didn’t grimace, didn’t look away, but Martin still trembled.

“Back to back?” Jon suggested.

They each turned around, and the mattress was too small for Martin to keep his feathers from brushing Jon’s back.

“Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Chapter Text

Martin wasn’t breathing. He didn’t really need to at the moment, as he was lost in thought. The day had been a rollercoaster, and he had to figure out where he stood emotionally, because he always seemed to get manipulated when he didn’t know exactly how he felt about things. It was another action item to keep him from losing his grip. Not to mention that unsorted emotions came with the risk of nightmares. Nightmares were dangerous. Very dangerous. Usually, the wards drawn under Martin’s bed kept them at bay, but he wasn’t in his bed. He was in a house of enemies. No, not a house of enemies: an enemy house. Safer now that Gertrude was gone, but still. He felt uneasy here—probably would have fled by now, if it weren’t for Jon. He had to prove to Jon that he wasn’t a monster.

He shuddered at the animal he had become for days? Weeks? Two weeks. It was two weeks, and for most of it, he was feral and subhuman. That was to say, his deepest self. And Jon had been there to see it. Jon had seen him at his lowest, and just the thought made Martin cringe away from Jon’s warmth. Why was Jon still here? Surely he knew exactly how dangerous vampires were.

And yet he had crawled under the same sheets as Martin, on the same mattress. “Good night,” he’d said with no hint of malice or fear. He’d turned his back on Martin—his desire to not cross boundaries had superceded the very sensible instinct to keep an eye on a freaking vampire. And now Jon’s breaths were slow and even. Martin was tempted to extrapolate that they were trusting breaths, but the idea of “trusting breaths” was a ridiculous one. Martin was also tempted to turn back around and steal another glance at Jon, but he restrained himself, no matter how endearing Jon looked shrouded in his jumper.

Then there was the matter of the blood. That was the most confusing part. Four people had let Martin drink from them, and somehow he didn’t feel any curdling guilt.

They hadn’t made grand speeches about how Martin’s vampirism was some ability that elevated him above others, like Peter had. They’d just treated it like it was normal. Like Martin was a friend, and it wasn’t in spite of his monstrous nature. They hadn’t overcome his vampirism—they just didn’t feel it was a barrier in the first place.

Martin started breathing again. Jon would probably find it unnerving if he woke up to Martin’s unmoving chest.

Despite everything, Martin had the feeling he was going to be okay. He found himself feeling less and less fear—not because of the Lukas numbness, but because he knew he had allies, and he knew he was capable. There was ruin on the horizon, and Martin could weather it.

He turned around to face Jon’s back, watching it. He’d taken Jon’s blood, and in return, he would pledge protection. He wished that vampires had some ritual like a fae benediction that he could use to seal himself to that promise.

He had to admit, it sent a little thrill down his spine to be so close. Martin was perched on the precipice of falling for Jon, and it was his choice whether to step over the edge. He already knew what choice he would make.

Martin was a monster, but he tried so hard not to be, and maybe that could be enough.

Even if you don’t want me, Martin vowed silently, I will keep you safe. I will not take from you without giving back.

It wasn’t creepy, Jon told himself. He wasn’t being creepy. He just couldn’t sleep, and it was comforting to look at Martin. His face was so peaceful in sleep, relaxed and soft. His mouth was open just enough to let out a trickle of drool and reveal his glinting white fangs. They were terrifyingly adorable, like the new sharp teeth of a kitten. Jon remembered what those fangs had felt like—he’d barely scratched the surface while describing the feeling to Sasha. The memory of the bite still thrummed pleasantly through his veins. It had felt like honey and starlight to give up his blood and melt into a touch more tender than he’d experienced in far too long. He’d felt safe in a den of lions. He wondered what it would be like to be bitten in a more pleasant context. Probably best not to dwell on that.

In the dim light of the Archives, he could count all of Martin’s freckles. Some bled into each other as if painted in watercolor, and it made Jon wish he was a painter so he could show Martin how Jon saw him. Those freckles could only be done justice in art. Jon wanted very badly to touch them, to trace his soft jaw and pointed ears with his lips, to run a smoothing hand over those ruffled feathers—okay, no, that was definitely creepy. The collar of his loose pajama shirt revealed a hint of collarbone that Jon longed to touch. He settled for snuggling further into the jumper Martin had given him. It was unbelievably soft, and the knowledge that Martin had worn it sent something up Jon’s spine—not shivers, no, shivers were cold, and this feeling was undeniably warm. It smelled like Martin, anise and lavender and iron. A smell Jon had come to associate with longing.

As Jon watched, Martin began to stir. Jon tensed, prepared to feign sleep, but Martin didn’t wake. His peaceful face scrunched in sleeping fear and his breath started up again, ragged like a protesting lawnmower. Jon’s brow furrowed in concern.

“No,” Martin whimpered. “No, no, no, how did you find me.”

Jon could taste the terror in his voice. It was bitter.

“Martin,” Jon whispered. “Martin, you’re all right, it’s okay.”

He reached out a hand, then withdrew it. Jon knew Martin was still mad after Jon crossed a boundary with his questions. He had to maintain those boundaries, no matter how he longed to embrace Martin and never let him go, to hold him close until the fear passed.

Martin’s wings mantled around himself as he whimpered and curled into a ball.

“Please,” he begged in a hoarse whisper to an unseen tormentor. “Please don’t take me back there, don’t give me back, I won’t run again, I promise. Just keep me out of the manor, I’ll do anything.”

Tears started to leak from Martin’s eyes as they fluttered wildly beneath his eyelids. Jon’s heart ached and tugged. He couldn’t just let Martin be alone.

“I’m here,” Jon told him. “I’m here, Martin.” Maybe he could...Jon reached out his trembling hand again and brushed Martin’s face with his fingertips. His skin was cold. That fact always surprised Jon. Always sent a shiver down his arm. “Martin, wake up.”

Martin sobbed and his breaths were gasping and irregular. Jon hovered a hand over the bend of his wing, but didn’t touch. His touch probably wouldn’t help.

“No,” Martin heaved, and Jon yanked his hand back. “No, not that, please, I don’t want to be like you.”

“Martin!” Jon hissed. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed Martin’s shoulder and shook it, to no avail.

Vampires and sleep had a tenuous and dangerous relationship, Jon knew. It was why the powerful ones didn’t sleep, and even the new ones tended only to risk four or so hours. If Martin was in a nightmare, he might get trapped, unable to get out. He’d wake up ten hours later, shaking and sobbing as he emerged from a hellscape of his own making. It wouldn’t help that dreams were always more intense in the Institute. Martin needed rest, but the night only promised torture for him.

Jon wouldn’t let that happen. Martin had rushed to save him, had saved his life from Prentiss’s worms without a second thought. He couldn’t stand by and watch while Martin drowned in the depths of his own subconscious. He’d seen it before, in the cell, when Martin was submerged in his own vampirism. He remembered the broken horror on that face that Jon longed to make smile. His brow, now furrowed, would be creased by morning. Jon wouldn’t let that happen.

Jon couldn’t fight, couldn’t cast combat spells. But he did have a trick up his sleeve for this particular situation. He had to get Martin out of this nightmare.

Jon pressed his lips to Martin’s forehead and murmured an old spell against his skin, a spell that Jon knew was no legacy from an unknown patron, because it was the first incantation he’d learned by heart when he started studying magic. He was no warrior in the real world, but he could rescue someone from the depths of their dreams.

The spell was intentional and slow, like he was scrying in Martin’s tears or the soft waves of his hair. He slipped comfortably from the bed to the streets of Martin’s dreamed London. The sky was grey and toneless. It was nighttime, cold and raining. He could feel the rough cobblestone through his socks, and every detail was fogged. Jon recognized the emotional texture of a memory.

The rain did not touch Jon, because he did not want it to. Here, in aimless dreams, he was a god as long as he remembered his surroundings weren’t real.

“This is what you’ve been preparing for,” a voice said, soft and sickly. Jon hated it instantly. “You knew this was coming, Martin. Why fight it?”

Jon looked down an alleyway and saw Martin, crowded against a wall by a man in a long blue coat and sailor’s hat. Martin was cringing away from him, the tears running down his cheeks almost indistinguishable from the rain. Jon had never seen Martin so afraid. What had the man done to make Martin wither before him like that?

“Please,” Martin begged, staring at the ground. “Please, Peter, just let me die. You said you cared about me, just let me die.”

Jon realized with a start that this must be Peter Lukas, the vampire who turned Martin. What had happened? How could he keep Peter from ever seeing Martin again? What was Peter’s game? Jon shoved these questions aside and began to stride forward. Martin was the priority.

“I will,” Peter responded, his voice gentle and mild, as he grabbed Martin’s chin and forced him to meet his eyes. Jon’s arms screamed to lash out, to punch, to claw, to pull Martin close. “That’s what this is, Martin. Rebirth into who you were meant to be. Don’t you want to become more than your miserable self? To rule above others?”

“Stop,” Jon demanded, and his voice thundered over the rain. He wanted his eyes to flash like lightning, and so they did.

Peter turned to look at Jon, his face gentle but with an overtone of fierce possessiveness. The expression Martin remembered him making, Jon realized.

“Martin,” Jon said, filling his voice with the weight of truth. “I’m here, and he isn’t. You’re dreaming.”

But Martin wasn’t listening: as soon as Peter had turned away from him, he’d collapsed to the ground, crying and shaking. His skin was too pale and his eyes were hollow. Like he’d lost a lot of blood. And his mask hadn’t slipped despite his breakdown. Jon suspected he was human in this memory. The implications of that were...Jon felt his fists clench, and his breathing came fast and ready. Jon’s anger was often cold, and right now his chest was filled with an iceberg. And Peter Lukas was the Titanic.

Peter Lukas had hurt Martin. This wasn’t the real Peter Lukas. But that didn’t mean Jon wouldn’t enjoy hurting him. He’d been dreamwalking for years: killing a cardboard memory would be child’s play.

“Fine,” Jon hissed. “We’ll do this the old-fashioned way.”

Peter hissed and bared his sharp teeth, but he was no match for a dreamer who knew he was dreaming. And Jon was a very good dreamer. His fist rocketed out and drove into Peter’s chest. He grabbed the man’s heart, which felt rubbery and cartoonish, because Jon was squeamish and decided dream-Peter was made of rubber.

Peter choked up blood and fell down dead. Jon vowed that, when he met the real Peter, he’d make him suffer.

The rain poured to the rhythm of a rapid heartbeat. Martin’s head was in his hands, and his body was wracked with terrified sobs. Jon approached, slowly to avoid startling Martin, then sat beside him.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Martin, I’m here.”

Martin looked up at him, but didn’t quite see him yet. His gaze quickly dropped back down.

“Jon?” he said, baffled, his voice thick with tears. “Jon, what…what are you doing here? You...weren’t here.”

“You were having a nightmare,” Jon murmured. He placed a hand in the space between them. “And I came for you. I thought you might be lost.”

Martin reached out, slowly, as if he was afraid Jon would vanish. Martin’s hand, trembling and soft and gentle, rested on top of Jon’s. At first, the touch was feather-light, but then his soft fingers clung to Jon like an anchor. The rain was gone, and the darkness was softer. It promised a sunrise waiting just beyond reach.

“I’m dreaming,” Martin breathed.

The tension started to leave Martin’s shoulders, and he slumped into Jon. Jon’s heart skipped a beat. He felt an awful lot like he’d befriended a skittish cat.

“This world is what you make of it,” Jon told him. “Just think of what you need.”

Martin looked up at him, and this time he met Jon’s eyes. Martin’s eyes were blood red. His chest heaved with each intentional breath, and his fingers curled around Jon’s hand, and his wing brushed Jon’s shoulder.

“All I need is right here,” he said softly.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat. He had never been needed before, no matter how hard he tried. He wracked his brain, but couldn’t remember what he had done to make Martin need him. Martin must have been referring to Jon’s ability to pull him away from nightmares. Still, being needed for a spell he was quite proud of was quite nice. Especially coming from Martin.

“I can wake you up,” Jon told Martin, “if you like.”

“Will you be there?” Martin asked. “When we wake up?”

“Only if you want me there.”

“I—I would like you there. If that’s all right.”

Jon closed his eyes and started to pull them out of the dream. “I’ll be there for you. As long as you’ll have me.”

Jon’s awakening was slow, languid, and incomplete. He wasn’t quite aware of the world, just that it was dark without the promise of sunrise. But he didn’t need sunrise, because he knew that Martin was there. Their faces were close—Jon’s mouth was still centimetres from Martin’s forehead, and he watched fondly as Martin’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Jon?” Martin choked out.

“I’m here,” Jon murmured. “Just like I said I’d be.”

He slid his hand away from Martin’s shoulder. He didn’t want to impose. But he awkwardly put the hand back as Martin began to sniffle, then cry in earnest.

“You c-came for me,” he whimpered. “T-thank you.”

“You came for me first,” Jon chuckled dryly.

“I d-don’t want, I, Jon, I can’t be on my own again.”

Martin began to sob in earnest, shaking from the fallout of the nightmare and the Doppelganger and the kidnapping and the worms and god knows what he’d gone through that Jon didn’t even know about. Just thinking about what else Martin had to endure in the past made Jon want to pull Martin close and never let him anywhere near so much as a thumbtack.

“Hey,” Tim’s voice came sleepily from the other mattress. “You okay?”

Martin quickly covered his mouth and choked back his hiccuping tears.

“F-fine,” he whispered. “Everything’s fine.”

Fabric rustled as Tim slid off of his mattress, padding over to Jon and Martin.

“Nightmare?” he asked sympathetically, in the same tone he used for waking up Jon when he fell asleep at his desk.

“It’s nothing,” Martin insisted. Jon gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“Eh, I was barely sleeping anyway. You got kidnapped,” Tim replied in the same tone he used for picking Jon up from his desk and carrying him to the cot. “It’s understandable to have nightmares.” He paused. “Do you want to be left alone?”

Martin immediately shook his head violently. “N-no. Alone is bad.”

The fear in his voice stung. Jon vowed again that he’d kill Peter Lukas if he ever got the chance.

“Whuz goin’ on?” Danny slurred from the other mattress.

Jon peered over Martin’s shoulder to see Danny propped up on an elbow, his eyes reflecting the light like those of a cat. He looked back at Martin’s eyes and realized they did the same. Jon quite liked cats.

“It’s fine,” Martin whispered. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, now I’m up,” Danny grumbled, stretching out like a cat. “Thanks for that.”

Martin cringed and tucked his head under the blankets.

“Danny!” TIm scolded. “Martin has just offered us a wonderful opportunity.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Well,” Tim said, “I know for a fact that none of us were sleeping particularly well. And now we’re all awake, and I know Sasha is too. Sasha!”

The door to Document Storage opened, spilling out lamplight. Sasha peered out, book in hand. Of course. Sasha could never sleep when she was stressed.

“You guys couldn’t sleep either?” she said.

“I have just the solution,” Tim proclaimed, “for all our sleep problems.”

“Oh?” Martin said. He wasn’t crying anymore, but tear tracks still lingered on his cheeks.

Jon groaned, pretending to be more annoyed than he was, as Tim threw his arms wide, grinned, and declared, “Cuddle pile!”

“Cuddle pile!” Sasha and Danny cheered in unison.

Sasha dropped her book and ran back into Document Storage, presumably to grab her bedding. Danny sprung to his feet and dragged his mattress until the two mattresses were squished together side by side.

“Does this happen a lot?” Martin muttered.

“Too much,” Jon grumbled. Not enough, Jon thought, but he’d always felt awkward asking for touch.

“Okay,” Tim lectured. “Jon, you stay there. I call dibs on the other side of Martin, because he’s very cuddleable.”

“Tim, really.” Martin was starting to show a shadowy smile.

“Dibs on spooning Jon!” Sasha yelled through the pile of blankets ensconced in her arms. “Martin, thank you for grabbing Tim. Usually he always spoons Jon and I never get to.”

Martin started chuckling in earnest and rolled onto his back, laying on his folded wings. He tugged Jon close, and Jon gladly pressed himself against Martin’s side. He smelled very nice. This was a totally normal thing to notice about someone. It was totally normal to want to sprawl across Martin like an octopus and relax until he knew nothing but the smell of herbs.

Sasha began arranging the blankets around herself and Jon—she was very particular about blanket arrangement, and the results were always spectacularly comfortable—then turned on her side and draped a muscular arm over Jon’s midriff. She snuggled close to his back, and Jon felt safe sandwiched between her and Martin. Both were bigger than him, and both would fight like hell to protect him. Jon felt a stab of guilt—he was by far the most useless of everyone on the combined mattresses. He couldn’t protect his friends like they could protect him. His guilt didn’t stop him, though, from making a little noise of pleasure at the pressure on all sides of him. He felt like a flower pressed in a very heavy book.

“You’re warm,” Martin hummed to Tim as he curled into Martin’s other side. Jon wrangled another blanket over himself—he was used to being the one to soak up Tim’s unnatural heat.

Sasha yawned. “Hopefully this is better. And if not, better to be sleepless in a cuddle pile.”

“I think I can go back to sleep now,” Martin said.

He idly twisted a strand of Jon’s hair around a finger, then quickly stopped, blushing. Jon held back the urge to beg him to keep going. That little tug at his scalp alone was almost enough to send him back to sleep.

“Be careful,” Jon told him. “If you’re scared…”

“I’m not,” Martin replied blearily. “I feel safe with you all here. And, ah,” he wrapped his arm a little tighter around Jon, “you’ll come for me again if I need you, right?”

“Always,” Jon promised.

Martin closed his eyes, and soon was snoring softly.

As he gazed tenderly on Martin’s ginger eyelashes, the warmth of Martin’s happiness purring in his heart, Jon felt the ridiculous yet overpowering urge to blurt out a “what are we?” He sighed and leaned his head into Martin’s collarbone—he smelled of lavender and anise, just like the jumper he’d loaned Jon. Who was he kidding? Martin was just happy to have friends, nothing more. He probably would sleep better with just Tim, Danny, and Sasha there. Yes, Jon was catching feelings, much as he’d tried to shoot them out of the sky. He’d opened his doors for a man who obviously didn’t like what he saw beyond them—and for good reason. Jon was a man of sharp angles and biting words. His love was a choked and complicated thing.

Ah, damn. The L word had drifted into his thoughts.

Jon decided to go back to sleep before he could think about the implications of that. It was easy to slip back into unconsciousness surrounded by friends, listening to Martin’s too-slow heartbeat, pretending they were embracing outside of the context of a cuddle pile.

Chapter Text

Elias Bouchard had the name of some sort of flamboyant villain. It was a name that invoked images of long white gloves and sweeping capes. It was an alias befitting a gentleman thief or an operatic phantom. The man himself, however, was so banal and whitebread that he soundly beat the mystique of his name into submission. His voice was just on the wrong side of buttery and left listeners tasting an echo of off-brand margarine. His eyes were bright green like the logo of Microsoft Excel, and he wore a suit pulled straight from a catalog—not any particular catalog, though, it was a suit so generic that it could not be traced back to any store.

He was totally mundane, and that made Martin very uneasy. He was not the kind of man one would think led an Institute of magic, and that made him very dangerous.

“Thank you all for coming,” Elias said.

Everyone shifted in their chairs. Martin was sure that Elias would find a way to make this high-stakes briefing sound boring.

“First,” Elias began, “let us make sure everyone is acquainted. You have all met Mr. Blackwood, yes?”

Everyone nodded.

“Right. And I do know that you all know about Mr. Blackwood’s...how do I put this? Condition.”

“Wait,” Martin spluttered. “You know?”

“Of course,” Elias said. He chuckled. “I wouldn’t be a very good Institute head if I didn’t keep tabs on the area’s vampires.”

“And...you were just okay with me setting up shop near the Institute?”

“At first I wasn’t,” Elias said. “I didn’t much like the idea of a Lukas vampire being nearby. But you’ve proven yourself well enough. Certainly made my life much easier.”

Martin blinked and leaned back in his chair. “Well. Okay then. I guess I was worried for nothing.”

“And what are you willing to contribute to our efforts?” Elias asked casually, as if he hadn’t just shaken down Martin’s worldview for loose change.

“I’ll help however I can,” Martin told him. Elias seemed a very nice and capable leader. “But, well.” He held up his wrists. “Nikola can disable me with a word. So unfortunately direct combat is out.”

Elias nodded pensively.

“It’s very nice to have you, Mr. Blackwood. And now our other guest,” Elias continued. “Care to introduce yourself?”

“Daisy Tonner,” Daisy told the room at large. “London police. I’m just here to make sure no one innocent gets hurt.”

“A noble goal, I’m sure we can all agree,” Elias said.

“So are we telling her everything?” Tim asked.

Martin shrugged. “She already knows most of it.”

“Indeed she does,” Elias said. “Which, I believe, is a good segway into our actual briefing. You are all here because the Unseelie have declared war on the Institute.”

“All of them,” Danny added. “We thought that Nikola was a loose cannon, but the Paris Court is behind them. So are all the others.”

“So are they all going to attack us?” Jon asked anxiously.

Danny shook his head. His voice was clipped and bitter. “Powerful Courts can’t go to war beyond their homeland. But the High Winter Court won’t interfere. And you know what the kicker is? Neither will any of the Summer Courts.”

“But why?” Martin demanded. “This doesn’t make any sense. The fae are reasonable, and they certainly don’t reach consensus like that.”

Danny threw up his hands. “Fuck if I know! I don’t pay any attention to politics! And no one tells changelings anything important anyway!”

“Their motive isn’t important,” Elias said smoothly. “For the first time in 400 years, the Unseelie have the opportunity to perform a ritual to bring the ley lines of London under their control. Even without the support they have, we couldn’t beat them in an all-out war. Nikola has proven unreceptive to any attempt at diplomacy. Letting her skin Jon and become the most powerful being in the city, maybe the country, is obviously not an option.”

“So what are our options?” Daisy asked.

She was glaring at Elias, who stared blandly back. Martin’s knee bounced nervously. There was going to be a confrontation after this discussion. Knowing this didn’t make Martin less nervous.

“Why don’t we wait it out?” Martin suggested. “Once the window is closed, we don’t have to worry about it for another 400 years.”

“The window will be open for ten years,” said Elias, his tone better suited to stock options than arcane rituals. “So unless you want to guard Jon from fae with skinning knives for a decade, our only option is the Blood Minuet.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna work,” Danny scoffed. “Elias, need I remind you we’d need an Unseelie champion for that. I told you, all the Courts are backing Nikola. There isn’t a single Unseelie in London who’d be willing to...Oh. Oh. No. The answer is no.”

“You are our last option, Daniel,” Elias said. “If we can install someone who wants peace as the head of the Court—”

Danny shook his head violently. “No! No, I won’t do it! Okay, yes, what Nikola is doing is wrong, and it sucks, but—Jesus, Elias, she’s like family! I’m sure if I just talk to her—”

“Daniel, we have tried diplomacy.”

“Yeah, but not from me! Maybe she’ll listen—she likes me, she cares about me—”

“Daniel,” Elias said firmly. “She has a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here, and that’s saying something for a fae noble. There’s nothing anyone can offer to make her abandon that.”

“Okay, so what if we don’t try?” Danny suggested. “Jon doesn’t have to die. You guys have other Archivists. Dead ones that can spare some skin.”

“Danny,” Tim said softly. “We can’t let this ritual happen. The consequences of Nikola controlling all the magic of London…”

“How do you know?” Danny demanded. “I mean, no one’s ever done this ritual before, and she’s been pretty vague on it. Hell, maybe there’s been a-a-a mistranslation!”

“I assure you, Danny,” Elias intoned, “that I have done my research.”

Danny slumped back in his seat, and his eyes darted from side to side like those of a trapped animal. Sasha squeezed his hand.

“Even if I was willing to do this,” Danny said in a voice low and defeated, “there’s no way I’d actually be able to win. Even in a magic-free bout, she’s been fighting with that whip for two centuries. I’m only 28, a fraction of her age, and I’ve never even lifted a sword.”

“I have this,” Daisy said, holding aloft her gun.

Danny snorted. “I’m still Unseelie, officer. Even changelings can’t handle modern weapons. That thing would burn my palm clean off by the time I killed her. Which I’m not willing to do. I’ll protect you guys the best I can, but I’m not fighting the Court. I-I can’t.”

Elias sighed and leaned back in his chair like a robot programmed to simulate relaxation. “Well, we’re not getting any further with this tonight. I suggest you all think on the matter. I would love to hear any ideas. I know that Gertrude was researching this Ritual—she called it the Unspooling—before she died, but I have unfortunately been unable to find any of her notes.”

“I’ll get started on looking for those. In the meantime,” Jon said, “we have a few more matters to address. First of all, Leitner.”

“Leitner?” Martin repeated blankly. “As in the spellbinder?”

“The spellbinder that I found torn to shreds in my office, yes,” Jon confirmed.

“That was Leitner?” Martin squeaked.

“It must have been the Doppelganger,” Danny said. “It was pretty feral.”

Jon shook his head. “Leitner killed the Doppelganger in the tunnels. Martin weakened it enough that he could finish it off with one of his spells.”

“That is very concerning,” Elias said. “If it wasn’t the Doppelganger, well...there are few beings that could attack with such savagery and yet go unnoticed long enough to slip in and out of your office.”

“They must have come up from the tunnels,” Daisy suggested. “There were a lot of things down there at the time.”

“Could it have been a vampire?” Sasha asked. “The marks were consistent with a combat mask.”

“Vampires don’t kill like that,” Tim pointed out. “Not unless they’re starving.”

“This is ridiculous,” Martin snorted. “Vampires don’t hunt around the Institute, so the likelihood of there being a starving vampire wearing a combat mask in the tunnels at the time of Leitner’s death…” He trailed off. His fingers curled into his thighs.

“You’re right,” Elias concluded. “That scenario is highly unlikely. In any case, I think that’s about all. Jon, please see if you can find anything more about Gertrude’s notes on the matter.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Martin squeaked. “Be right back.”

He couldn’t see a bathroom as he ran out of Elias’s office, so he just barricaded himself in the first closet he saw and slid to the floor. Martin bit back his horrified, shuddering sobs. His fists tangled in his hair and tugged. The pain grounded him. Kept him from losing control.

Losing control. Like he’d lost control when he’d killed Leitner.

He’d killed Leitner. He must have killed Leitner during that lost time. He’d torn a man apart in literal cold blood. He’d put the man he cared about on the run, had left his office soaked in blood. And he didn’t even remember it.

Martin whimpered and dug his fingernails into his scalp.

He was getting worse. He must be getting worse, somehow. When he’d lost control after first being turned, he’d killed someone, but not in such a gruesome manner. He couldn’t even pretend he was human anymore by saying that murder was behind him. He’d killed again. He would kill again.

Martin gave a helpless cry as he thought of Tim, Danny, and Sasha. His new friends who had trusted him without hesitation, who had let their veins be pierced by teeth still encrusted with Leitner’s blood.

And Jon. Dear God, Jon.

Martin remembered the trust in Jon’s face as he’d leaned back and let Martin drink from him. His eyes had fluttered closed, unaware that they were blinding themselves to a bloodthirsty beast. His blood had tasted so sweet and good—of course it had. Martin was literally bloodthirsty.

How much of his feelings for Jon were desire for his blood? The thought of loving Jon monstrously made him sick. And he’d just thought about it using the L word. Great.

Until he could sort out the man Martin from the monster Martin, he had to keep Jon away.

A gentle knock sounded on the closet door, and Martin yelped in surprise.

“Martin?” Daisy’s voice said. “Are you in there?”

He took a deep, composing breath. It wasn’t fair to burden them with his own angst over his monstrous actions.

“I’ll be out in a second,” Martin replied, his voice calm and measured. “I’m fine.”

“If that were true,” Daisy retorted, “you wouldn’t be hiding in a closet. Can I come in?”

“No,” Martin responded. “You may not.”

“Okay,” Daisy said. “Would you like some tea?”

“What?”

“Tea. It’s made with hot water and leaves. I usually put milk and honey in it? That seems like the sort of thing you’d like.”

Martin snorted humorlessly. He’d made so much tea for Daisy.

“I do not want tea.” He did want tea. He did not deserve tea.

Daisy must not have connected the dots yet. Martin wanted to keep them all in the dark, but he’d gotten lucky once with them accepting his lies and he didn’t think he’d get that forgiveness again. Maybe it would be easier to tell the others if he told Daisy first.

“We need to talk,” he continued. “Not right now, but...we need to talk. About Leitner.”

“Because you think you killed him?”

Martin gave a pained intake of breath that came out as a squeak.

“Martin,” Daisy continued. “Jon’s talking with Elias about something, and I was thinking we could get breakfast.”

Daisy never wanted to get breakfast.

“You never want to get breakfast,” Martin said. He was starting to have trouble holding back his tears.

“Brunch, then. C’mon,” Daisy cajoled. “Out you get. Moping won’t do you any good.”

“I-I can’t,” Martin stuttered.

“Martin.” Daisy’s voice was stern. “I’m not letting you do this. Your whole ‘no one loves me so I have to isolate myself’ thing.”

“I’m a monster, Daisy.”

“So am I. Do you want crepes or not? If you don’t, then at least take a nap or something, because I will pick the lock if I have to. I am not letting you have a breakdown in a broom closet, because I am your friend.”

Despite his sorry state, Daisy’s words sent a trickle of warmth through Martin’s stomach.

He stood up on shaky legs and opened the door. Daisy was standing there with a scowl on her face that Martin had come to recognize as her scowl of utmost tenderness.

“Time for crepes,” she said.

“That sounds nice,” Martin whispered.

“What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Jon?” Elias asked in a tone that somehow conveyed twin sentiments: “happy to hear your concerns” and “I don’t have time for this.”

Jon bit on his lip and mulled his words over. The more he rolled the question around in his head, the stupider it sounded.

“Am I a warlock?” he finally blurted.

Elias blinked. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I mean,” Jon said, “that I accidentally cast a truth spell on someone.”

“Are you sure they didn’t just trust you?” Elias inquired.

Jon shook his head. “No. They recognized the magic and got really mad at me. Anyway, I haven’t been studying truth spells at all. So it must not have been my magic.”

Elias smiled. It would have been a smirk if his eyes didn’t remain expressionless.

“You are an Archivist, Jon,” Elias said. “That position holds a certain...weight.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jon demanded.

“It means,” Elias continued, “that you may find yourself finding access to a store of magic beyond what you can normally exercise. I’m not quite sure how it works. But the Archivist has been very dear to the Institute since its inception, and this place has 200 years of magical history. You can imagine that things can get...odd.”

“So, what,” Jon said, “I’m getting magic from this building.”

“Something like that. Do keep me updated on any developments. And don’t worry: with a bit of experience, you’ll be able to manage any new abilities.”

“How do you know that?”

Elias tapped the little sign on his desk reading “Elias Bouchard: Head of the Magnus Institute.”

“The Archivist isn’t the only position this place holds dear,” he says.

Jon blinked. “Oh. So you’re...magic.”

Elias shrugged. “Not much more than is usual for a mage of my experience. I came into this position with all my knowledge of sigils and scheduling.”

“So what powers does the Institute give you.”

“Sometimes when the place or its people are in danger, I get a feeling.”

“A feeling,” Jon repeated flatly.

“It’s...tingly.”

“Right.”

“Apologies for not telling you sooner,” Elias continued. “I honestly didn’t think you would notice any...effects...this early. It took Gertrude two years before she could properly compel someone.” He smiled, and this smile was not a smirk. It looked almost...paternal? It put Jon on edge. “I’m very proud of your progress, Jon. Now if that’s all, I do have some calls to make.”

“Right,” Jon said again, his head reeling.

As he exited Elias’s office, relief rushed through his chest. There was a straightforward—well, not super straightforward, but at least it made sense—explanation for the enchantment he’d accidentally cast on Martin. It wasn’t his fault. Or at least it was mostly not his fault. Or at least it wasn’t all his fault. Maybe Martin would be understanding. Everything could be out in the open. Maybe they could take away some of the layers of resentment between them.

Maybe, someday, Jon could kiss Martin again. Just the thought threatened to spear his face with a giddy smile. Jon silently reprimanded the corners of his mouth as they threatened to turn upwards. They wilted, but not entirely.

Martin had left the meeting rather quickly. Hopefully he hadn’t been upset by something.

“So,” Daisy said through a mouthful of lox crepe, “let’s talk about Leitner.”

“I killed him,” Martin groaned.

Daisy leaned back into the park bench and shrugged. “Probably. I mean, it makes sense. I wouldn’t feel too bad about it. He was not a very good person. Shitty, even. Caused a lot of problems and didn’t even have the decency to do it on purpose.

“Of course you wouldn’t feel too bad about it,” Martin muttered. “But I do.”

Daisy threw her crumpled-up straw wrapper at him. “Relax, Martin. I probably would have killed the guy if you hadn’t. He deserved it.”

“It’s not about if he deserved it,” Martin snapped.

“Then what is it about?”

Martin took another bite of his strawberry crepe to avoid having to answer.

“I don’t remember it,” he finally said. “Daisy, I tore someone to shreds, and I don’t even remember it.” He swallowed thickly. God, he did not have time to start crying again. “And…”

“And?” Daisy prompted.

“What if Jon hadn’t gone out for a smoke break?” Martin choked out.

“Oh,” Daisy said softly.

Martin swallowed thickly. “I could have killed him, Daisy. I almost did, in Nikola’s cell, and that was when I had already fed from Leitner. I...I wouldn’t even have known.” He sniffled, unable to hold back tears. “I care about him so much, and I came so close to killing him. He’s not safe around me.”

Daisy leaned back in the booth seat, hands laced behind her head.

“I don’t think Jon’s safe anywhere,” she said. “He would have gotten kidnapped without you, anyway, and from what I’ve seen, the people around him suffer.”

“What are you saying?” Martin asked.

“I’m saying,” Daisy replied, “that you’re my friend, and I’m...nervous about you being friends with an Archivist. You’re dangerous, yes, but you have to remember that you’re not the only one who is. I’m dangerous.”

“Dangerous in a way I can handle,” Martin replied. “You won’t hurt me.”

“But he might,” Daisy said. “I’m just saying. You shouldn’t feel bad about what you are. You can’t help it. He chose to be an Archivist.”

Martin shook his head.

“Jon wouldn’t hurt me,” he said, but he didn’t believe it all the way. Most of the way, but not all the way: he still remembered his lips tingling as Jon tore secrets from them.

Daisy shrugged. “Hope he doesn’t. I’ll have to let him know that, if he does, I’ll tear his throat out.”

“Daisy!” Martin reprimanded her.

Daisy speared her crepe. “I’m serious. I got your back, Martin.”

“Please don’t hurt Jon.”

“I hope I won’t have to.”

Martin crossed his arms. Jon wouldn’t hurt him. Not intentionally. But he might hurt Jon. Jon and all his friends.

“Daisy,” he asked softly.

“Hm?”

“If I lose control...will you take care of me?”

“Kill you, you mean?” Daisy replied through a mouthful of fish. “It won’t come to that.”

“Daisy,” Martin begged. “Promise me that if I go full Lukas, you’ll put me down.”

Daisy gave him a long, hard look.

“I will,” she said softly. “Because I’ve always trusted you’d do the same for me.”

Chapter Text

Nikola closed her eyes and relaxed into the shallow hot water. She focused on feeling each finger, then her arms, then her chest. It took her at least an hour to feel like herself again.

She hated the ergot and thornapple. She longed to live in a world where she wasn’t waging war against an Institute of cutting questions. A world where she didn’t have to find roundabout ways to achieve deception. A world where she didn’t have to choose between the individual and the collective.

A world where her ritual succeeded. Or, even better, where Jonah Magnus’s ritual had never happened. Where her father hadn’t failed on that horrible day in 1818.

She breathed in and out. Her mind finally felt like her own. She knew what she would do next—and so would anyone else, if they asked directly, so she couldn’t encounter the humans again until she took more ergot and thornapple.

Now that she was composed, Nikola reflected on the negatives. She didn’t regret what had happened, per se: threats and bad outcomes were a built-in hazard of the ergot and thornapple system, the E&T as Hope called it, and without this system, the Court would have fallen to the Institute long ago. Still, she winced at the fear in Sasha’s eyes. The way she’d nearly lost her marbles in the cafe.

Danny was the worst part. Her one regret was not telling Danny about the system and the plan. Fae took a long time to form bonds, and many such bonds were forbidden for Court nobles, but she was unusually fond of the boy. Even more so now that she knew how compassionate he was. She could have used an ally like Danny, an ally brave enough to defy a whole Court to save a woman he knew didn’t deserve to die.

Danny had no way of knowing that Sasha and Tim were never in any real danger of death—Breekon and Hope’s orders had been very clear. Nikola sighed and started scrubbing her arms with salt to banish the lingering effects of the mind-altering substance. She vowed that, if she ever got an opportunity to make things right with Danny, she would seize it with both hands. Wars offered little opportunity for forgiveness, but perhaps at the very least she could aim for understanding.

There were two options: Danny would kill Nikola, or Nikola would kill Jon.

The job of an Archivist was to find a third option.

They’d settled into a rhythm over the previous two days—not a comfortable rhythm, but a rhythm nonetheless. Tim and Sasha searched for any files on the Unspooling and the Unseelie. Danny and Daisy were on surveillance, trying to keep track of the Unseelie so no one got kidnapped again. Elias hadn’t been sleeping well, thanks to his constant pacing of the Institute halls to touch up whatever wards needed reinforcing—they weren’t very strong, since they had to have the wiggle room to let Danny stay at the Institute. Jon was desperately trying to find Gertrude’s notes. So far he was unsuccessful—the most he’d found were some extremely baffling contradictions in the historical books Gertrude had checked out from the Institute library in the days before her death.

And Martin.

Martin obviously didn’t feel comfortable running security, he couldn’t interact with the Unseelie safely thanks to the bands on his wrists, and he obviously didn’t have the first idea how to work at an archive. He had wanted to go back to his shop, but Danny had spotted the enforcers named Breekon and Hope hanging around the locked-up storefront. So he helped where he could—doing busywork for the Institute staff, reading reference material, making sure no desk went without a mug of tea. Jon could tell that Martin was insecure about his uselessness. Jon didn’t know how to tell him that he was the only thing keeping everyone sane without sounding facetious.

When they slept, they slept atop shoved-together mattresses in a nest of blankets. Since the first night, none of them had actually all been sleeping at the same time. Jon probably wouldn’t have slept if Martin hadn’t cajoled him.

There was something else about Martin. Jon didn’t know what it was. He just knew that Martin was hiding something, and he didn’t know if that knowledge was intuition, paranoia, or an Institute legacy. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the magic he gained from the Institute. He didn’t know how to control it and it felt...alien. But if he could be more powerful...if he could channel spells of knowledge beyond what he could learn alone...that might be the key to victory over the Unseelie.

He didn’t want to ask Martin about it, though. So instead, he sat in his office, reviewing old medical history books and charts, wondering why there was a spike in surgery deaths between 1818 and the advent of anaesthetic in 1846. Perhaps some lost innovation in alternative sedative? He’d have to ask Martin about it. Vampires were old, right? Maybe Martin was a contemporary. Jon couldn’t remember him mentioning when he was turned. Jon suddenly felt a bit weird about the possibility that he’d gone on a date with someone several centuries old.

“Um, Jon?”

Jon looked up from his book to see Martin standing in the doorway, biting his lip. He’d started to let his mask down a little in the Archives, leaving his eyes red and his ears pointed. Jon’s stomach did something funny, and he realized he’d probably forgotten to eat.

“Ah, Martin,” he greeted. “Come in. I was just thinking I could use your advice.”

“R-right. Well. First, I need to talk to you about something.” Jon caught a flash of sharp teeth as Martin spoke.

Jon scrutinized Martin, cocking his head. Martin looked terribly nervous, but even more, he looked...sad. Resigned.

“Close the door and sit down,” he said.

Martin did so. His hands were shaking.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked.

Martin took a deep breath.

“I think I killed Leitner,” he confessed.

Jon blinked as his breath caught in his throat. He remembered the shocking spray of blood across his desk.

“You think?” he demanded incredulously.

Martin wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Well,” he mumbled, “he was killed by a feral vampire, right? And I was a feral vampire loose in the Institute, and I don’t remember anything between fighting the Doppelganger and almost killing you in the Unseelie cell, and, you know Ockham's Razor?” Martin chuckled bitterly. “Makes sense. And it...it explains why I didn’t kill you.” He stared at his hands. “I thought...it’s stupid, but I thought I’d overcome my nature for you. Turns out I was just...sated, I suppose. I’m sorry.”

Jon just stared at him. He hated to admit it, but what Martin was saying made a lot of sense. There was no need to invent an extra vampiric suspect. Ockham's Razor, and all that.

Martin killing Leitner was the most plausible theory, but Jon was a skeptic, and so far it was just that: a theory that he was by no means taking as gospel.

“What about the blood?” he pointed out. “Leitner was partially drained, but if you were that hungry you would have taken all his blood. Whoever killed Leitner was...messy.”

“The Unseelie probably dragged me away before I could finish,” Martin replied.

He was ready with the answer fast enough that Jon knew that Martin, too, had asked all these questions, and none had shaken his confidence that he had killed Leitner. Jon steepled his fingers.

“I’ve thought this through, Jon,” Martin continued, “and I don’t want to believe I killed him either. But it’s the explanation that makes most sense.”

It made logical sense, but not emotional sense.

“In the cell,” Jon said, “you seemed far too hungry to have drained half a man’s blood a week and a half prior.”

“I stopped myself from killing you, didn’t I?” Martin pointed out. “And healing from wounds takes a lot of blood.”

Jon’s face twisted into a frown. He had hoped that Martin’s care for him had been the reason for his restraint, but now he saw that such thoughts were the products of foolish and naive romanticism. He had no proof that Martin had killed Leitner...but it was prudent to act as if the most likely assumption were true.

“If I get hurt again,” Martin said softly, “I can’t guarantee I won’t kill someone else.”

The subtext was clear. Martin wanted to be kept in check. To destroy himself.

“Well,” Jon replied, “it’s a good thing I don’t plan on letting you get hurt again.”

Martin laughed, sad and weak.

“Good to know I have my own white knight,” he said dryly.

It was Jon’s turn to laugh weakly.

“I’m no savior,” he said. “But I’m going to keep you safe, I pr—”

“Don’t,” Martin cut him off. “Don’t make promises like that. I’ve heard them all before.”

There was a storm brewing in his eyes.

Jon sighed. “You’re right. I can’t really protect you. I can’t even protect myself. I’m sorry. I’m...not much use, I’m afraid.”

Martin set a hesitant hand on his. “Usefulness isn’t everything. I can usually look after myself.”

“So much is happening,” Jon murmured. “And you know I’m a rubbish Archivist.”

“And you know you’re an excellent Jon.”

Martin offered Jon a smile that Jon aimed to return, with moderate success.

“You’re not mad, then?” Martin asked.

Jon examined his feelings and was not surprised to find no anger there. He had more important things to be mad about.

“To be quite honest,” Jon said, “Leitner’s demise does not sadden or shock me quite as much as it perhaps should. It was jarring to find a murder in my own office, but now that we know it was you, there are precautions we can take.”

“Precautions?” Martin repeated, and Jon could tell from his resigned eyes that he was imagining chains and stakes.

“We’ll have to make sure you drink from one of us every few days.”

Martin scoffed. “That’s it? And you’re okay with that?”

Jon shrugged. “Everyone’s amenable to it, and what happened with Leitner was...an extreme scenario.” He squeezed Martin’s hand. “We’ll figure it out. I may not be much good in a fight, but I can figure things out.”

Martin nodded slowly. “O-okay. It’s just...aren’t you supposed to kill vampires who murder people?”

Jon curled their fingers together, noticing that no pulse thrummed beneath Martin’s cold fingers. Martin didn’t pull away—in fact he met Jon’s eyes.

“I’m not a monster, Martin, and neither are you. This wasn’t your fault, and even if it was, no one would be mad about Leitner’s death. In fact, we have a contact in America whom this news will no doubt please greatly. Once I can get ahold of him, that is.”

Martin looked marginally relieved. “Okay. Okay.” His gaze slipped down to land at the books and frenzied notes on Jon’s desk. “What’re you reading? You mentioned you wanted to ask for my help?”

“Ah, right! I can’t make sense of this.”

“Go on.”

“Well, as you know, ether wasn’t invented until 1846, and didn’t pass into wide use until later—”

“I didn’t know that, but continue.”

“...Right. Anyway, the assumption is that, before 1846, all surgeries were done without anaesthesia. Obviously. So before 1846, all surgeries were done with people having to hold down the patient.”

“Yup. Sounds right.”

“Except I’m looking through these 18th century medical texts,” Jon continued, “and I’m finding no reference to that. In fact, there’s explicit accounts of painless surgeries, and no restraints on this invoice for a surgical practice. In fact, sedative seems to be taken for granted before the early 19th century. It’s like there’s a switch from some sort of sedative that shouldn’t exist to whiskey and a bullet to bite. Can you tell me what it is?”

Martin blinked at him.

“To be honest, I can’t even guess. Why is this important?”

“These are some of the last books Gertrude checked out before she died, so I can only assume they have something to do with the Unspooling, which means they’re my only lead to find an alternate way to stop it. I need data. Your kind are long-lived, right? Surely you would know more than an Institute employee, if only through exposure to that society.”

Martin stared at him incredulously, then started giggling uncontrollably.

“Jon,” he finally gasped, “how old do you think I am?”

Jon frowned. “Most vampires are at least a century.”

Martin snorted adorably and muffled his laughter behind his hand.

“Jon,” he laughed, his voice bubbling with mirth, “I’m 29.”

Jon blinked. “Oh.”

“You really thought I was, what, some Victorian dandy?” Martin wheezed. “Oh god, have you been wearing low-cut socks to seduce me?”

“It’s a fair assumption!” Jon said defensively.

“Oh no, I understand, good chap!” Martin cackled. “Oh dear, please fetch me a couch, I’m afraid I’ve been overtaken with a terrible case of the vapors from your simply beastly behavior!”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon grumbled.

Martin finally reined his mirth under control.

“Sorry I can’t be of much help,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not a...a what, a duocentenarian? Did you really think I was two centuries old? Oh God, Jon, we went on a date—does that make me a cougar?”

Jon sighed. “You’re going to tell Tim about this, aren’t you?”

“You bet,” Martin said cheerily. “Anything else?”

“Some tea would be nice,” Jon said.

“You got it,” Martin said. “Took me a while to figure out the electric kettle—we used to just roast our tea over a spit with our dinosaur haunches.”

Jon gave him a glare that was the ocular equivalent of flipping the bird. Martin cackled on his way out of the office.

At least he was in good spirits.

Chapter Text

“Again.”

“Give me a minute,” Danny groaned, letting the wooden sword fall from his hands and onto the mat on which he was currently sprawled.

“Nikola won’t give you a minute.”

“Yeah, cuz I’m not gonna fight her.”

Sasha sighed. “Danny.”

“Sasha. This is just a bit of sparring between friends, not preparation for anything. You can give me a damn minute.”

Sasha nudged Danny with her foot. “I’m just trying to help you prepare.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Tough.”

“Sasha!”

Sasha and Danny looked up to see Jon striding businesslike into the Institute training gym with a computer under one arm and Martin at his heels.

“Hey, you’re back!” Sasha greeted. “Find anything?”

“A bunch of pictures with the eyes crossed out,” Martin said.

“And this.” Jon thrust the computer at her. “Gertrude’s computer.”

“Oh man, better get into that,” Danny said. “You should get on that, Sasha. That’s more important than teaching me sword tricks.”

Sasha glared at him as she took the computer.

“I should be in within a few days,” she told them, “depending on how tight Gertrude’s security is.”

“Excellent,” Jon said.

“And depending how long our sessions take,” Sasha continued. “I’m not just going to stop training Danny, after all.”

“Sasha!” Danny groaned.

Sasha smirked. “I’m not letting you off the hook.”

Danny sighed and ruefully rubbed his wrist.

Jon and Martin stood rather awkwardly outside the Institute gym.

“So,” Martin said.

“So,” Jon repeated.

“What now?”

Jon sighed and carded a hand through his hair. He obviously hadn’t cut it in months, but Martin just thought that made him look all the more charming. Very rugged and wizardlike.

“That computer is currently our only lead. I suppose we simply wait.”

Martin nodded. “Okay.”

Martin’s hands had felt wet with blood for days and days, no mater how he scrubbed or dried. Jon wasn’t helping. His tentative smiles and gentle words reminded Martin exactly what he had to lose.

Jon’s hand awkwardly fidgeted with the agate protection charm around his neck.

“How’s that working for you?” Martin asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Wh-oh! This? It’s, ah, it’s lovely, thank you. I think it’s helping. Certainly makes me feel safer.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” Martin mumbled, internally wincing. Their conversation had been so fluid on their first date, and now they were reduced to tripping over each other.

“Just a few days,” Jon said, “and we can get our investigation back on track.”

“Yeah,” Martin said softly. “I’d hate for Danny to have to go through with the Blood Minuet. Hurting someone you care about isn’t something I’d wish on anyone.”

It was nice to have a goal that he cared about: stop the Unspooling without resorting to the Blood Minuet or letting Nikola skin Jon. It gave Martin a purpose, a focus. He hadn’t had a focus in a very long time. Certainly not since the Lukases entered his life.

Martin allowed himself a momentary reminder of what he was fighting for: he let his hand brush Jon’s wrist, casually enough to be an accident. He memorized the feel of Jon’s skin: smooth and warm and dotted with coin-shaped halos. It would be such a shame to lose that skin.

“Would you like to grab lunch?” Jon asked, and Martin decided that he loved him despite everything.

Danny was not going to have to go through with the Blood Minuet, he decided. Sure, Nikola was unpredictable, and yes, she’d threatened his brother and captured his friends, but that didn’t mean she deserved to die. And Danny cared about her. She wasn’t just like family, she was family. And to Danny, family was the most important thing.

Danny knew he had to make a decision—was he human, or Unseelie? He’d had one foot in each world for far too long, and now his indecision was tearing him apart as his families went for each others’ throats.

Tim didn’t look at him for too long when his mask was down.

He sent a message to Nikola. “Come alone,” he said, on the scroll he tied to a raven’s leg. “I will,” Nikola replied, and even in writing she could not lie.

Danny waited in a back alley, biting his lip and bouncing his hand against his leg, and he knew this was a decision he could not make. Maybe if he made enough small decisions, they’d add up and balance it out, and he wouldn’t have to choose between his selves.

It wasn’t raining. It felt like it should be. It was dark and cloudy, just the perfect weather for a tryst. It made the whole thing seem unreal, somehow, and that made it easier, like Danny was playing Betray Your Brother: The Video Game.

“Hello, Danny.”

Danny turned to see Nikola stepping into the alleyway. She looked odd outside the context of the court—she was wearing a trucker’s cap and a hoodie, looking for all the world like any normal human. It was unnerving—Nikola never looked human. She knew what she was and wore it with pride, unlike Danny, who never let his mask slip and always felt like his nature was tainted, somehow.

She had not greeted him with his fae name, and Danny felt something twist in his chest. It was a concession.

“Nikola,” Danny greeted. “Thanks for coming.”

Nikola stepped closer. Fae nobles did not just meet with changelings in dark alleys, but here Nikola was, meeting with Danny.

“You’re wondering something,” Nikola said. Her voice was subdued and tame, like she was a different person. Or like, all this time, someone else had been using her voicebox. Nikola switched between personas like a roulette wheel, and Danny had long ceased trying to keep track of them.

“I’m wondering why you agreed to this,” Danny told her.

“I wanted an opportunity to apologize,” Nikola replied. “I am sorry, Danny.”

“For threatening my brother and kidnapping his friends? Or for trying to seize power for yourself in a ritual?”

Nikola shook her head. “I cannot apologize for the ritual—it is the right thing to do. And I can’t apologize for my violence. But I can apologize for not being transparent. For lying to you.”

Danny’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Lying?” he repeated, dumfounded.

Nikola nodded. She had a mask on. Nikola never hid her true face. Danny wondered if she was just afraid of humans coming across their meeting, but it was more likely another concession.

It wouldn’t be the first time Nikola had compromised herself for Danny. It was Danny’s turn.

“You lied. How?”

“It’s not quite lying, but it’s as close as we can get.” Nikola laughed, and her laugh was subdued and weak, closer to a chuckle than anything. It wasn’t Nikola’s laugh, and yet it was somehow comforting. “The system’s quite ingenious, really.”

“The system?” Danny leaned against a brick wall as his knees started to go weak. He was out of his depth. He wished he hadn’t come—but it was almost worth it to see Nikola. To see the woman who’d never been anything but kind to him. The woman his brother wanted him to kill. “I want to know what that is.”

“Ask me.”

Danny’s eyebrows decided to make his hairline their permanent home. “What?”

“Ask me,” Nikola told him. “So I can’t leave anything out. So you know I’m telling the truth.”

Danny let the question roll over on his tongue a few times while he worked up the courage to let it loose. Asking a question of a fae noble was punishable by death. And yet he asked it. And Nikola let him.

“What is the system?”

“Your Institute is a place of knowledge and secrets,” Nikola told him, the answer spilling gladly from her tongue. “You cannot beat something that knows your every move. Deception is our only chance, and yet it is something I cannot do. If I cannot lie, I must settle for unpredictability. So over the decades, I devised a solution. I take enough psychedelic herbs to make me totally unpredictable whenever I’m a place your Eyes can see. And then I tell Breekon and Hope what to stop me from doing.” Her eyes, cold and sad, met Danny’s. “They were under orders to stop me from hurting Tim and your friends.”

Danny clutched at a dumpster for support.

“That’s…a lot to take in.”

Nikola nodded. “I am sorry I did not tell you sooner.”

Danny shook his head weakly. “Don’t be. I…I see why you couldn’t trust me.”

Tim. Tim had always prevented Danny from really being a part of the Unseelie, and for the first time, Danny resented him for it.

Nikola was the first person to understand Danny. It wasn’t Tim’s fault that he didn’t. How was Tim to know the real reason Danny always ratted him out and hissed in pain at the touch of iron?

“But why?” Danny asked. “You make it sound like we’re at war or something. The Institute wasn’t trying to destroy us before the ritual. Why the ritual? Why the Unspooling?”

“The ritual is not a ritual,” Nikola told him. “It is a Dance.” The capital D was heavy and distinct in the air.

Danny frowned at her, cocking his head. Dances, from the Blood Minuet to the Decoupling that served as a fae divorce, were associated with both bindings and undoings in fae culture. His knowledge of fae Dances was more textbook than experiential: another consequence of being trapped between worlds. Danny wished, not for the first time, that he could feel like he belonged somewhere.

“What kind of Dance?” Danny asked.

“A restorative one,” Nikola whispered, those three words laden with awe and hope. “To restore what was before the Magnus Seal.” She met Danny’s eyes. “Danny, this will change everything.”

Danny barked out a laugh. Despite their capriciousness, the Unseelie were really very dependent on tradition and culture. Change was in their nature, but changing everything ran very much counter to it. Danny, for instance, loved pranks and spur-of-the-moment vacations, but would never consider moving to another city.

“When the three courts perform the ritual,” Nikola continued, “the world will return to what it was. A better world.”

Danny frowned.

“I can’t tell you everything,” Nikola said. “But I hope this will be enough.”

“It is,” Danny said. “This is all I need to hear.” He nodded decisively. “Nikola, I don’t think I can come back to the Court after all of this. But I…I just want…” Danny growled in frustration. “Shit, I don’t know. Look, I’ll get you Gertrude’s skin if you just leave everyone alone. You can have your ritual and Jon doesn’t have to die.”

Nikola smiled sadly. “I will give the order, Danny. No Unseelie will lay a finger on those you hold dear.”

“Thanks,” Danny murmured as his heart swelled with hope.

It was the least he could do, really, after all Nikola had done for him.

He left her standing in the alley and tried to feel guilty, but he couldn’t. He didn’t regret the deal he’d made. He’d done the right thing: he could help both his families. He didn’t have to choose.

He didn’t regret it. Hopefully, he wouldn’t regret it.

“Everyone stop working,” Tim announced to the room at large.

Jon sighed and peered out of his office. Sasha looked up from Gertrude’s computer. Martin set down his boxes of files, and Danny dropped his Rubix cube.

“What is it, Tim?” Jon asked. “Is it an emergency?”

“Nope,” Tim said, popping the p. He held up his grocery bags with a grin. “We’re going on a field trip to the canteen.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked.

Tim surveyed them. His allies, his friends.

Jon was stressed, obviously. The bags under his eyes took up half his face. He’d taken on far too much, and only ever let Martin comfort him, which wasn’t ideal because Martin was worried and getting a tad neurotic. Sasha hid her fear well, but she was obviously very worried as well. And Danny…well. Danny hadn’t met Tim’s eyes for two days. Not to mention they’d all been cooped up in the Archives for far longer than was healthy to be shut in a basement full of dusty papers.

“We,” Tim declared, “are making risotto.”

Everyone’s dull eyes lit up very slightly. Tim was determined to wade through the cloying fear and ennui to create a team bonding experience.

“Come on,” Tim ordered.

“Are we even allowed—“

“Shhh,” Tim admonished Jon. “Come on. Up you pop, all of you.”
Sasha rose to her feet, stretching in a languid motion that popped all her joints. Danny eagerly sprung up, Martin close behind. Jon just snorted and turned back to his book.

“That will not do,” Sasha told him.

“I have work to do,” Jon snapped. “My skin is on the line.”

“Nikola’s not going to get your skin,” Danny told Jon, with such certainty that Tim knew he must have decided on the Blood Minuet, and the thought made Tim…not happy, but something approaching relieved. “You can take a break.”

Jon waved them off. “You all have fun.”

“Martin,” Tim addressed, “would you be so kind as to grab our Archivist?”

“Just…grab him?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Jon hissed as Martin approached his desk.

“You need a break!” Martin cajoled. “Jon. Take care of yourself.”
“I am taking care of myself. By making sure I don’t get skinned.”

Jon squawked as Martin scooped him effortlessly into a bridal carry. Tim snickered. Hopefully he’d get to be the best man at their wedding.

“Put me down!” Jon demanded as he wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck. The words had no real force behind them.

“To the canteen!” Tim cheered.

Technically, employees weren’t allowed to use the canteen, but the canteen staff were powerless against Tim’s charms, and soon enough their crew was crammed into the kitchen with the ingredients laid out on the counter.

“You can put me down now,” Jon told Martin, who reluctantly did so. Jon’s hands lingered at Martin’s shoulders for a bit longer than necessary, and he clearly thought no one had noticed.

“Sasha, you grab our utensils,” Tim ordered. “Danny, start chopping onions. Martin, you grab the garlic—ah shit, wait—“

“Tim,” Martin laughed. “The garlic is fine.”

“I thought vampires didn’t do garlic,” Tim said.

“It doesn’t hurt us or anything,” Martin told him as he grabbed a few cloves. “But vampire taste buds are a bit different so that we can, you know, eat blood without it being disgusting. Or maybe we just process taste differently.” He shrugged. “Pe—Most vampires don’t like garlic. I do.”

“That’s good,” Tim said, relieved. “I personally am happy for you. You can have alliums!”

“Can I take care of seasoning?” Jon asked as Tim started heating some vegetable stock.

“Of course!” Tim granted, his tongue already burning in anticipation. Jon was very good at seasoning.

Five people was too many cooks for a wok full of risotto, but they made it work. The kitchen quickly grew hot, which didn’t bother Tim, but everyone else periodically gave Martin quick hugs to bask in his delicious coldness. Martin started melting into those touches. Tim ruffled his hair affectionately.

Jon yelped in indignation as Tim grabbed a bit of the parmesan he was grating. Sasha and Danny cracked jokes over the vegetables. Martin started making some chicken.

Tim grinned.

“I’m a bit hungry,” Martin said shyly, almost to himself, and Tim knew he wasn’t talking about food.

“Dibs!” Sasha said before Tim could say anything. She stuck a wrist out to Martin, and Martin took it. Martin drank, and Tim grabbed Sasha as she swayed.

“Thanks,” Martin muttered.

“No problem!”

As they portioned the risotto onto plates, Jon took a moment to just…watch. He saved this moment as a snapshot in his mind: all of them happy and together.

Jon wouldn’t forget this, he vowed. He wouldn’t forget how it felt to have friends.

Love, Jon realized, tastes like risotto. It tastes like Martin sneaking him a forkful of chicken. It tastes like tender onions and the bite of garlic.

Jon ate his plateful of love and vowed that, someday soon, he would kiss Martin again. But until then, he was happy with this.

Chapter Text

Sasha sighed as she watched Danny hobble off of the mat to get changed out of his workout clothes. He was in a bit better spirits since their first lesson, but still seemed to resent her. Which really wasn’t fair of him—she was just trying to help. Sasha didn’t really want the Blood Minuet, but it could be the only option, and she wished Danny would at least consider it rather than dismissing the option out of hand based on misplaced attachment to a woman who’d wanted to kill her. Who’d almost killed her. Sasha still woke up screaming some nights, seeing a horrible parody of her own face burned against her eyelids.

At least she’d been able to help Jon and Martin with the computer. Sasha felt a bit iffy about stealing a dead woman’s travel records, but, well. If there was an alternative to the Blood Minuet, she'd take a bit of electronic grave robbing any day.

The Institute felt empty without them. Martin had only been with them for a short time, but Sasha found herself missing him gently reminding everyone to sleep, and she kept reaching across her desk for tea that wasn’t there. Jon had long been a constant at the Institute, and Sasha missed his acerbic corrections and silent touches. At least they were safe—China was definitely outside of Nikola’s reach. Nikola hadn’t made a move since Martin and Jon had escaped, and that made Sasha highly nervous. Usually, the Unseelie queen was unpredictable and quick to act. If she was biding her time, something bad was coming. All Sasha could do was try to be prepared.

Sasha thought about their last message as she showered. Apparently the situation was more dire than they’d thought. They hadn’t found any clues from Gertrude’s visit, but they’d learned something rather unsettling about the Beijing Unseelie: they were also planning a ritual of some kind. Sasha wished she could do something about that, but she didn't see what. Her place was here, keeping the London Unseelie in check.

Sasha tilted her head back, keeping the water out of her dreads. What was going on with the Unseelie? Could the Institute, the Center, and the Foundation keep them at bay? She wanted to call Jon and discuss theories, but Jon probably needed rest. His phone wasn't working right, either. Texts were taking hours to days to get through, probably due to the international travel.

Apparently, the name of the Beijing ritual translated to “the Unreading.” The name sounded far too close to the Unspooling. If the rituals were coordinated, then the Unseelie were aiming for far more than control of London. The Unseelie were doing something synchronized. Something dangerous. Something monumental—the Unseelie never cooperated internationally like this. It just wasn’t done—the different classes of creature kept to themselves, divided both by species and region. With that amount of magic, the Unseelie could change the world, and Sasha didn’t think it was going to be for the better.

She looked at the tiled ceiling. Past the ceiling was the sky, and somewhere in that sky, Jon and Martin were on their way to Chicago, the last known location of Gerard Keay. She’d never actually met Gerard Keay, but Jon always talked highly of him. Called him “Gerry.”

She wished them luck, not that luck would help.

“I don’t know about you,” Jon yawned, “but I’m knackered.”

Martin wasn’t knackered. He felt great, in fact—Tim had let him drink deeply before their departure, and he hadn’t actually needed blood since. Tim’s blood was laced with enough raw magic to sustain him for weeks, especially with Jon insisting on topping him off. Martin opened the door to the hotel room and was slightly disappointed to find that there hadn’t been a clerical error and there were, in fact, two beds.

“Sleep,” Martin told him.

Jon obligingly strode over to the bed by the window and fastidiously removed his shoes before flinging himself onto the duvet.

“Do you need sleep?” Jon asked.

Martin shook his head. “I catnapped a little on the plane. I want to check in with the hospital where he was last seen. I can head over there while you sleep.”

Martin was aching to find something. The past week had been a blur of travel and dead ends. They’d found a bunch of bad news, and none of it had actually been helpful. It was obviously wearing on Jon, and whatever wore on Jon wore on Martin.

“We’re going over together in the morning,” Jon told him. “There isn’t a time constraint.”

“Jon, really, it’s no trouble. I’ll just pop over and grab their records, sneak in and grab the security cam footage, that sort of thing.” Martin chuckled. “I’m not that bad at research, Jon.”

“It’s not that,” Jon insisted. He flushed and fidgeted with the corner of the pillowcase. “It’s just, well, I don’t think I’d sleep knowing you’re out there on your own.”

Martin blinked. “Oh,” he squeaked. “Oh. Right. W-well, I suppose I can stay.”

“Right,” Jon mumbled. “If you’d turn your back, please, I need to change.”

Martin obliged, turning away so he couldn’t see Jon and so Jon couldn’t see his stupid little grin. Martin was used to caring about people. He wasn’t used to them caring back. At a thousand points, Martin had been convinced that Jon would see the light and run away. But he hadn’t. Jon was still there, acting as if they were just two friends on vacation.

“Well,” Martin said, “I think I’ll work on some poetry. Sleep well, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin,” Jon mumbled, even though it was 3:00 in the afternoon, from underneath the blankets.

Martin changed into his slit-backed sleep shirt and let his mask drop. Jon wasn’t quite asleep yet, but he obviously didn’t mind it. Jon’s eyes traced the lines of Martin’s wings, and where Martin might once have felt embarrassment, warm familiarity now made a home in his chest.

After about half an hour of quiet writing and Jon tossing and turning, Martin finally spoke up.

“Having trouble sleeping?” he hummed. “It’s only 3:00, you might want to wait a little. Jet lag and all that.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Jon said. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll get to sleep eventually. I just have to lay here for a bit.”

Martin made a little noise of affirmation and returned to his poem. Jon was very obviously not sleeping.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Martin said, “just let me know.”

Jon groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “I don’t understand what's wrong! I’ve been sleeping just fine on an air mattress in a basement and now I can’t sleep on a hotel bed when I’m tired as hell.”

“Change is hard to deal with,” Martin responded. “Your body’s probably just getting used to it.” He tapped his eraser against the paper. “You haven’t been sleeping well since we left the Archives, I’ve noticed.”

Jon sighed, small and sad. “I know why,” he mumbled. “It’s because…never mind.”

“Jon,” Martin said sternly. “We’ve talked about this. You have to tell me things.”

“I’m cold,” Jon told him. “Not…no, I’m not cold, I…I don’t like sleeping alone, all right? I suppose I got used to always having you or Tim or Sasha or even Danny, and the air mattress wasn’t the most comfortable but it was ours even while everything else has gone a bit pear-shaped. And now we keep getting bad news and no answers and on top of all that I’m alone in a damned cold bed.” Jon turned away from Martin. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Bit pathetic, isn’t it? I’m 30 years old and getting separation anxiety.”

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said softly. “You could have just told me. I’m not the warmest, but I’m happy to share a bed with you.”

“I don’t want to pressure you,” Jon replied.

In response, Martin grabbed his notebook, stood up, and slid into bed next to Jon. Jon's breath caught in his throat.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin told him.

After a moment, Jon turned and snuggled next to Martin, throwing an arm across Martin’s leg. Martin fondly ran a hand through Jon's hair.

“Sleep well, Jon,” he whispered.

Jon was unconscious within five minutes, because Jon trusted Martin and Martin could help Jon. He was starting to get used to that fact. The concept of goodness no longer seemed quite so foreign.

Nikola Orsinov waited for the skin she was sure Danny would find. They needed the body of Gertrude Robinson for the Unspooling to take place. Hopefully Danny wouldn’t go back on their deal.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Sasha asked for the millionth time as she pulled the car up to the front of Tim’s house.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Sasha. It’s fine. I’m just going in to grab my clothes and my favorite mug. We’ve been over this. If I’m not out in ten, then you get to be worried.” He patted Sasha on the shoulder and opened the door. “If the Unseelie haven’t pulled anything in two weeks, I doubt their master plan is to wait for me in my house.”

He smiled and walked through his front door, closing it behind him. Sasha took a deep breath. Ten minutes. She checked the dashboard clock. It was 4:47.

By 4:58, Tim had not emerged.

After a week in Chicago, Jon had reached the conclusion that Gerard Keay was a very hard man to pin down. It was, of course, a conclusion that he’d reached many times after Gerry went off the radar, but it was a conclusion that bore repeating.

Jon did not relish cleaning up the hotel room after they were done. Every available space was strewn with records, printouts, and scribbled notes arranged in a circle around where Jon sat on the bed, with a path left to the bathroom and the front door. Fortunately, Jon did not immediately need the biographical notes—Martin was sitting on them.

Their journey to the hospital had turned up some rather baffling results. Gerard Keay had entered the hospital with late-stage brain cancer and left in a body bag—in early 2014. Jon had been receiving friendly messages from Gerry until about a month before Gertrude’s death in 2015. Could it be some sort of imposter? An Unseelie Doppelgänger? It was more than possible. Martin, however, had found out that the body never made it to the funeral home, and there was no record of it being processed for burial. So there was a point in favor of faked death. But why? Jon tapped the tape recorder against his chin thoughtfully.

“If Gerry faked his death,” he narrated, “either Gertrude was in on it or he did it to escape Gertrude. What motivation would Gerry have had? It didn’t warrant cutting off communication with the Institute, which would suggest Gertrude was in on it. But then what was he escaping? Perhaps he is dead. Or perhaps there was some magic that kept him alive—it’s exceedingly rare, but not unheard of. If Gerry really did have late-stage brain cancer, which his tests indicate very strongly he did, then the only magic capable of saving his life would have to had come from the Unseelie. Considering the Unseelie seem to have been conspiring against the Institute for some time, them saving Gerry’s life seems highly unlikely.”

He glanced at his phone. He’d sent at least twenty messages to the last number he had for Gerry over the past year or so, and he’d sent off a few more over the past week. No response, of course—it couldn’t be that easy—but he would have felt stupid not trying. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but now that he had looked back through their messages, Jon realized that, since early 2014, Gerry’s messages had never contained the slightest hint of his location. Jon had printed out all their messages and laid them out on the bed, just in case.

“Gerry dedicated his life to the eradication of dark magic,” Jon continued. “His cooperation with the Institute seemed a natural progression of that, which is why his disappearance is surprising, considering the Institute’s singular dedication to eradicating evil.” He sighed. “I did try to make contact with him after his disappearance, but…well. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been ghosted, and I know he values his independence.”

“Sorry,” Martin muttered, sounding chastened.

Jon jerked his head up. “W-what?”

“Oh, it’s just,” Martin rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, “I sort of ghosted you that one time? Sorry about that. Again.” He winced. “I don't know if I’ll ever be able to make that up to you.”

Jon just stared at him. It took a bit for his brain to untangle itself from Gerry Keay and latch onto Martin’s words.

“Right,” Martin mumbled. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Well, you don’t need to do that,” Jon sputtered. He laughed a little. “To be honest, I forgot you were sitting there.”

Martin flinched at that, looking sad. “Yeah, people do that.”

Jon chewed on his previous words and wondered what he’d said wrong. Clearly, it was something—Jon said something wrong in most conversations.

“It’s all right,” Jon said. “I mean, about the ghosting thing. I forgived you for that a long time ago, Martin.”

“Right,” Martin chuckled weakly. “Right. Um. You get back to your thing.” He picked his way precariously over the papers to the door. “I’m going to get some lunch. I’ll bring some back to you. You like Thai, right.”

Jon nodded and returned to his tape recorder, trusting Martin to bring him back something good. Martin was a very good travel companion. He made the States far less overwhelming.

“It’s unknown where Gerry went after he faked his death—I am presuming that Gerry is still alive.” He had to presume Gerry was still alive. The idea of Gerry dying alone and unknown in a cold Chicago hospital was intolerable, especially because that meant that whoever Jon had been texting wasn’t Gerry. “It may be productive to track instances of Leitners across America, as those are Gerry’s chosen quarry, and I see no reason to assume he wouldn’t still be pursuing them. The Usher Foundation may have more information—perhaps he's shown up in a statement or two since then. However, in this case, I believe the most viable tool at my disposal to be of a far more arcane nature than simple legwork.”

Jon set the tape recorder down beside him and shuffled his cards. They leapt eagerly between his hands, all of their initial shyness and stiffness gone. They felt, as all good cards should, like an extension of his eyes and fingers. How fitting that he had purchased them from Martin Blackwood.

“While the amount of data we have on Gerry Keay has proven useless at locating him,” Jon explained to an unseen listener, “hopefully it will help clarify the reading. Focus it, as it were.”

He began to lay out the cards in a compass rose, with the Hermit and a black 20-sided die at the center. The thwip of each card as it hit the duvet with an unnecessary flick of the wrist helped to center him. Jon’s magic—his magic—was in little rituals, not the terrifying and unknown specter of a vast well of power.

Jon fixed the image of Gerry Keay firmly in his mind. He had a smile that always seemed to suggest him and whoever he was talking to were both in on some joke, and a laugh that suggested the joke was funny. His voice was deceptively dry, but he spoke with great enthusiasm about things like fossil preservation and Dungeons & Dragons. His skin was pale and his clothes were black, including an oversized black coat that made the man seem even smaller than he was, somehow. And he always wanted to do the right thing, pursuing good with a dedication that Jon sometimes found frightening in its intensity. Gerry made him want to do better.

“I miss Gerry,” Jon mumbled. “We weren’t overly close, but he was a friend and an ally. If we do find him, I would very much like to know what prompted him to stop talking to me.”

Jon grabbed his pencil and hovered it over the map of America laid across his lap. He closed his eyes and focused on the buzz in the back of his skull, the buzz that he’d taken years to cultivate. He’d earned this. He’d earned his skill at scrying, Elias and his Institute be damned. Jon felt the stirrings of his long-suppressed frustration at being transferred from Research.

He took a deep breath and drove those thoughts from his mind.

Jon’s fingers tapped against his thighs as the sounds of Chicago’s streets faded and became more present all at once. The whirr of the tape recorder offered an excellent white noise to get lost in. His hand began to move east. Jon remained carefully serene as his pencil followed a ley line to the Eastern Seaboard. He opened his eyes and looked down to see the point standing at attention in the center of Washington D.C.

“Oh for the love of—we were just in Newark!” Jon huffed. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. While we’re there, we can see if the Usher Foundation has any information relevant to our search. Perhaps Gerry has been working with them this whole time, and his disappearance is merely routine. People fall out of touch all the time.” Jon surveyed the paper-strewn room and sighed. “Still, D.C. is a big city. I’ll do another reading when we arrive—we should have enough research to narrow it down, unless Gerry’s done something to shield himself from divination magic. I don’t know why he would, but…well, I don’t know why he would somehow survive brain cancer either.”

Jon decided to text Tim and Sasha an update on the situation. It took him a bit to find his phone, and he realized with some consternation that he’d had it tucked away on silent for the better part of three days. When he opened his phone, Jon’s stomach curdled in dread as he saw he had 37 missed calls from Danny Stoker. Danny never used his phone. He certainly never called.

Jon called Danny back, and Danny picked up on the first ring. Yet another thing Danny never did. Jon’s gut was a cold weight.

“Jon,” Danny yelled, somber and serious with a quivering undertone of anger. “I’ve been calling you nonstop for the past two goddamn days! Tim’s been—he’s—it happened two days ago and we NEED you and you couldn’t bother to check your FUCKING PHONE!?”

Jon gasped. “Wh-what? What happened to Tim?”

“Come back to London,” Danny hissed. “I’ll need your help in the Blood Minuet.”

Chapter Text

Tim had a very clear list in mind. Clothes, favorite mug, notebook, spare earbuds, and a bar of chocolate he’d been keeping in the back of the pantry. It really wasn’t much.

It really wasn’t worth risking his life over. Which is why he wasn’t risking his life over his list. It was his house. The Unseelie hadn’t acted in weeks, and even if they were planning something, surely that something wouldn’t involve showing up at Tim’s house. And the Unseelie had no way of knowing Tim was stopping by his house, anyway.

So Tim wasn’t exactly on his guard, and he was totally unprepared for the stabbing pain that erupted in his gut out of nowhere. He screamed, wheezed in surprise, whipped his head around to see someone tall, pale, and a blade flashed and Tim dove out of the way but not in time to stop the knife cleaving a deep cut in his forearm.

Tim scrambled backward into the coffee table, his own blood ringing in his ears, as the assailant stepped between him and the door. She was tall. Her blade was unmistakably fae and her eyes were dark and oval.

“Nikola wants you dead,” she intoned raspy, stalking towards him. “We want war.”

Tim pressed one hand to the throbbing wound in his abdomen and used the other to pitch a mug at the fae woman. She stepped aside easily, but Tim had time to scramble for the bedroom. The fire escape. He needed the fire escape. Tim desperately snapped his fingers, but his ears rang and his vision blurred and he was a child again, unable to produce more than feeble sparks.

Tim threw open the door to his bedroom and saw stars as a fist hit his face. He fell flat on his ass and whimpered, staring up at another fae warrior.

“Nikola wants you dead,” he said hoarsely. “We want war.” Blood trickled from the corner of the man’s mouth.

Tim desperately willed fire to run through his veins, but his blood emptied slowly on the carpet instead of lighting up with magic.

“What the fuck?” he spat out along with a bit of blood from a bite on the inside of his cheek he hadn’t noticed producing.

“Nikola,” said the woman as she shambled forward.

“Wants you,” said the man, his ears pointed like knives.

“Dead!” yelled the woman, swinging her knife down in the arc. Tim rolled out of the way and was met with a brutal kick that left him with too much pain to even speak. He grabbed an ankle and pulled someone to the ground, he didn’t know who. His hand erupted in heat—it was the man he was clutching, judging by the scream. The man kicked wildly and caught Tim in the jaw.

Tim gritted his teeth. “So that’s how you’re going to play it?” he hissed.

Tim’s heart beat faster and his blood kept draining. He launched himself at the nearest pair of knees, and they fell to the floor. Tim hurt. He hurt everywhere, so he really hurt nowhere, just a feral animal running on adrenaline. He mashed an elbow into the woman’s nose and it broke with a satisfying crunch. The man grabbed Tim’s ankle, and he kicked out wildly until his leg was free.

Run. Tim ran. He stumbled-shambled-ran at the door, slamming into the doorknob and clinging to it, the only thing that kept him upright. He tried to turn it and then—agony. A lance in his back and Tim gasped for air, couldn’t breathe, fell to the floor, cold silver in his back his lungs his chest—

“Nikola wants you dead,” the woman said flatly as her footsteps thudded over to Tim. Every vibration of the floorboards sent waves of pain through Tim’s body.

He was so tired. He was so goddamn angry.

The woman pulled the knife out, and Tim screamed, and all the magic channeled through his blood suddenly came flooding from his heart. His back arched and his limbs spasmed. A wave of fire tore itself from his blood, and Tim sobbed in agony as the magic used his body as fuel, tearing at him, stabbing at him, burning his ribcage from the inside out. The stench of burning blood stung Tim’s nostrils. The woman screamed as she went flying through the air, and her back hit the wall with a sickening crack.

The door slammed open, and Tim saw a woman silhouetted in the doorway. He knew her. He knew nothing else as his vision faded.

“I called Jon,” Danny said, his voice low and hoarse and trembling. “Told him to come back to help.”

Sasha delicately brushed a stray lock of hair away from Tim’s face. His breathing was slow and even, and her mouth quirked into a sad smile. At least he was getting some sleep.

“I’ll be glad to have him and Martin back,” Sasha said. “But…maybe they’re better overseas.”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked.

“I mean,” Sasha told him, “there’s still the problem of the Blood Minuet. You need a way to defeat Nikola, and I’m not sure how much my training could help you.”

“I have a way,” Danny muttered. “I don’t want to use it, but I’ll do anything to make them pay for what they did to Tim.”

“We have time,” Sasha responded. “We can give them time to find out what Gertrude found it in America.”

Danny bristled. “I don’t want to wait. I’m not waiting any longer.”
“Danny, please. I don’t want you to die, obviously.”

“Three days,” Danny told her. “I’m giving them three damn days, and then we do this my way.”

He stormed over to the other chair and threw himself into it with vehemence. All of that vitriol was gone as he tentatively reached over to place a comforting hand on his brother’s uninjured arm. Sasha’s heart ached fiercely for him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, it’s not,” Danny hissed. “It’s not all right! It’s not all right at all!” He sniffled and gestured to Tim, pale on the hospital bed. “Sasha, look at him. I’ve…I’ve never seen him like this. He’s, he’s supposed to be,” Danny impatiently pushed tears out of his eyes. “He’s supposed to be the strong one. And now I have to be the strong one, because someone I trusted decided to try to kill my brother.” His eyes were distant. “He’s always been there for me. Even when I decided to step away from the human world.”

“Yeah,” Sasha sighed. “Danny, I’m sorry.” She took Tim’s other hand. It was the temperature of a normal human hand. “He’s always been there for me, too.”

“I’ll need to kill Nikola quick,” Dany said morosely. “I wish I could draw it out. Hurt her like she hurt him.”

Sasha just wrapped her fingers around Tim’s hand and gave it a slight squeeze.

Jon wasn’t talking.

He just gazed out of the window as Martin navigated the tortuous turnpikes into D.C. His hands were clenched tightly together in his lap, and Martin had to put in a lot of effort to stay focused on the road. He wanted to pull over and take Jon into his arms and just not let go.

“Jon,” Martin said softly. “We…we should talk at some point.”

Jon didn’t answer. Martin sighed.

“Tim’s going to be fine,” Martin continued. “Sasha said so. It’ll take a while, but it’ll be fine.”

Jon turned away from the window and leaned over the center console to rest his cheek on Martin’s shoulder. His eyes were as distant as ever.

“I wasn’t there,” Jon whispered.

Martin took a hand off the wheel to drape it around Jon’s delicate, bony shoulders. He stared at the cars ahead of him. It was easier to just go numb, to just not feel anything, to not remember Tim’s smile or pay attention to the cloying knot of worry that threatened to kill his useless heart. It would be so easy—Peter Lukas had taught him how.

But Martin didn’t. Tears streamed down his face as he ran his hand comfortingly up and down Jon’s arm.

Tim was Martin’s friend. Tim was badly injured. It was okay for Martin to feel broken and torn up and angry.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Martin told Jon. “Tim wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. He doesn’t want you to blame yourself.” He resisted the urge to kiss the top of Jon’s head. “What can we do, Jon?”

A bit more focus crept back into Jon’s eyes.

“Well,” he said, “if he’s in pain…you can help with that, right? Once we get back. And I…well. I can’t do much.”

“We’ll all be needed for the Blood Minuet,” Martin said dully. He wasn’t relishing the prospect of overthrowing the only people in power who’d ever been kind to him, but they’d crossed a line when they hurt Tim.

Martin’s long-suppressed protective instinct sang through his blood. He pulled Jon a little closer.

“This isn’t right,” Jon muttered. “I should have known. I should have done something.” He took a shuddering breath. “There has to be something we’re missing. We’ll just do what Sasha said. We’ll find Gerry and see what he knows. And we need to find out what the D.C. Court is doing. It could be a threat to our plans.” His voice was a bit steadier.

“Okay,” Martin murmured. “We can start with the Usher Foundation.”

“I want to go to him,” Jon told him. “But I’m no use, Martin.”

“Use isn’t everything,” Martin replied. He got as far as turning his head before reminding himself that he wasn’t allowed to kiss Jon on the top of the head.

Across the sea, Elias Bouchard smiled blandly as he opened his door.

“To what do I owe this visit?” he asked. “I typically don’t take house calls, but in your case, I’ll make an exception.”

“Fuck you,” the fae woman wheezed through bubbles of blood as she collapsed to her knees on his doorstep. “You did this to me.”

Elias tutted. “Now, really, ma’am. There’s no need to be vulgar.” Frankly, he was surprised her vocal cords still worked.

He placed a hand under her chin and gently tilted her head up to examine her neck. He gave a noise of displeasure at seeing how poorly the wound had healed. It was a dead giveaway, no pun intended.

“I have good news,” he said. “You won’t have to wait for Daniel Stoker to hunt you down.”

“The poor boy,” the woman sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

Elias took the knife from her hip, and enthralled as she was, she could only watch as he dispassionately cut her throat.

The blood would be rather easy to clean up.

Chapter Text

Martin didn’t dare move. Jon was solidly asleep and probably wouldn’t stir, but it had taken him a very long time to get that way, and Martin didn’t want to disturb him. He simply worked on his poetry.

Sleeping, the pillow makes a halo of your hair
Yet your eyes, so beautiful, are masked
The slumber smoothes your skin clear of its care
uhhhhhh what rhymes with masked???

Martin crossed out a few slant rhymes and grumbled in dissatisfaction.

His best thoughts usually came while he wrote, and they were ping-ponging through his head in every format except those acceptable for writing down. A thousand inconsistencies bumped through his skull like bumper cars. He stroked a hand absentmindedly through Jon’s hair and thought about the Magnus Institute. He trusted Jon. He trusted Tim, Sasha, and Danny. By rights, he should trust Elias and his Institute.

So why didn’t he? Elias’s conduct had been unimpeachable, and he truly seemed to have everyone’s best interests at heart.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone on the nightstand buzzed. Jon muttered and shifted in his sleep, curling against Martin’s thigh. Martin sighed and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Blackwood,” greeted Elias’s margarine voice. It struck Martin that he’d heard it before. Maybe he was just thinking of when Elias had bought a spell book from him. “I trust D.C. is treating you well.”

“It’s almost midnight over here,” Martin told him. “What do you want”

“Well,” Elias chuckled, “I know I didn’t wake you.”

No, it wasn’t that. Where had he heard Elias’s voice before? And why hadn’t he thought of it before now?

Martin rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m a vampire. I still sleep sometimes. What is it?”

“I have a task that I can trust only you to complete,” Elias continued.

Martin sat up straighter, a glow of pride in his chest. “Oh?”

“More specifically, I need you to prevent the Uncoupling from succeeding. The D.C. Court ritual, that is.”

Martin sighed. Why did Elias always choose the most inconvenient moments to reveal information?

He’d seen Elias before. In a suit, a blue suit. Sailor’s blue. Martin shivered.

“They require a vital item. That item is being delivered to them by a contact in one hour. I have already divined the contact’s location, or at least what their location will be in thirty minutes. I need you to kill them,” Elias said.

“Kill them?” Martin repeated.

“Martin, this is vital. You cannot let Jon accompany you. He won’t be an asset, and he can be…squeamish.”

“I’m not killing anyone,” Martin told him sharply. “I—I can’t.”

Elias let out an aggrieved sigh, and Martin winced.

“I’m sure you’ve heard exactly what happened to Tim,” Elias said. “Are you really sympathizing with the monsters who did that to him?”

Martin didn’t respond. Elias cared about Tim. Elias wanted to protect Tim. That made sense.

“Part of his lung will have to be removed, Mr. Blackwood,” Elias continued. “And yet you cannot bring yourself to kill one contact. Curious.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“I…I don’t like not telling Jon,” Martin finally said.

“Leave him a note, then,” Elias told him. “The contact is dangerous, and unlike you, Jon has no way of defending himself. I would prefer to not lose my Archivist so soon after what happened to Tim.”

Martin’s chest twisted. Selfish idiot, Martin Blackwood. What right did he have to put his holier-than-thou qualms above the lives of his friends? He’d already killed two people, and neither death had done any good. How could he turn down a chance to use his fangs to stop the fae seizing power?

“Give me the location,” Martin said as he scratched out a note for Jon. “I’ll make sure the delivery doesn’t go through.”

Fae are capricious creatures. A changeling’s human upbringing tends to temper their more chaotic nature, but they are still prone to impulse. Which is why Danny Stoker did not feel the need to wait for Jon and Martin to return to London before he began the Blood Minuet. He didn’t need them, after all. This was not to be an elaborate dance of ceremony and tradition. It was to be short and bloody—blood for blood. The only person he needed by his side was Officer Tonner. The price for revenge would be a high one, but it was trivial compared to the rage that sang in Danny’s heart.

Every Saturday, anyone who wanted to could walk into the House of Wax and begin the Blood Minuet. Several had, in all the years of Nikola’s reign, and none had walked out. None of them were changelings, of course. Changelings are weaker than all the other fae. They would never be considered a danger. After all, the only advantage they have is an increased tolerance for human technology.

There was a circus ring set up in the basement, with Unseelie laughing and chatting in the stands, none of them expecting a challenger. Danny heard Nikola telling jokes as he walked in, Daisy by his side.

Nikola turned to see him with a grin on her face that made Danny’s blood boil.

“Danny Stoker!” she greeted. “I am so very happy you’ve come to join us!”

“Shut up,” Danny hissed.

Nikola frowned, having the gall to look confused. She must have been on quite a lot of ergot and thornapple, Danny thought with not enough humor to be wry. He didn’t know if that would make his task easier or harder. Was it easier or harder to fight a bear on crack cocaine? Danny was well aware that his inner monologue of humor to cover up pain was a legacy from his brother, and that thought just made it hurt more. Which only hardened his resolve.

“I invoke the Blood Minuet,” Danny continued. “Quick Draw.”

Nikola gasped, her face a perfect pretty mask of shock and sadness.

“You seem surprised,” Danny hissed. “Did you think I would be too weak to do anything after what you did to my brother? Because I’m just some changeling?” Danny laughed, a fierce jackal’s call. “I was never really a part of your Court, was I?” he spat. “Just some human-world curiosity.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “I’m about to show you how I protect my real family, Nikola.”

The ergot and thornapple must have been very effective, because a single tear traced down Nikola’s cheek. It was fake, it was all fake. Tim had never faked tears.

“Danny,” she said softly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I did nothing to Tim. You’ve always been one of us. You know that’s not a lie.”

“I’m not here for your empty words,” Danny snarled as Daisy stood at the ready for the duel, weapons case in hand. “And I know just how well you can lie. You told me what your herbs do.” He raised his chin. “Grab your second.”

Breekon approached, whip case in hand.

“Danny,” Nikola pleaded. “You know that only one of us walks out of this alive. Please do not make me kill you.”

“Your remorse means nothing to me,” Danny told her. “Just like I mean nothing to you.” He nodded at Hope. “Count down.”

“Five,” said Hope.

“Danny,” Nikola continued pleading in violation of Minuet decorum.

“Four,” said Hope.

“We did nothing to Tim,” Nikola insisted.

“Three,” said Hope.

“I ordered Breekon to keep me from hurting him.”

“Two,” said Hope, his voice wavering slightly

“Danny,” Nikola whispered.

“Draw!” Hope boomed, and Nikola snatched her whip from Breekon’s hands, all hesitation gone.

Martin did not like skulking in alleyways. He did it a lot, of course, when he was hunting, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Really, he should be in combat form. He should be prepared to rend the flesh of whoever came through the alleyway in a long leather jacket. But he couldn’t. Maybe the contact could be reasoned with. Maybe he could just snatch the delivery and run.

If Martin got any more blood on his hands, he’d probably dump bleach on them until the palms burned off. His chest was wound like a spring, and he didn’t think it was just because of the Unseelie contact he was chasing.

It was still dark outside, dark enough that the black leather jacket the contact apparently wore would blend in well with the night. But not well enough to evade Martin’s keen eyes, the eyes of a nocturnal predator. Of course Martin couldn’t deny what he was—his monstrousness was encoded in his skin and bone. But maybe he could make up for it.

Killing the contact wouldn’t fix anything. He didn’t want to live in a world of blood for blood, but that was the world in which he found himself. Would the corpse of the contact pay for Leitner’s torn flesh? And who would take that transaction?

Elias knew so much about the world. Martin was always playing catch-up, always the last to know things. He wasn’t going to kill the contact, not while he had the chance to actually learn something.

Like where he’d seen Elias before.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a figure in a hooded leather jacket turned the corner into the alleyway, a book tucked under one arm. Martin quickly drew his cloak of Lukas magic around himself—normally he’d transform into a raven, but Nikola’s bands prevented him from doing so.

The figure took a few steps forward, close enough that Martin could see a man’s face and shaggy, poorly dyed hair framing swirling tattoos emerging from the scalp. Then he stopped abruptly and stared directly at Martin.

Martin froze like a deer in the headlights. That shouldn’t be possible. There was no way the man could see him—no one ever looked at Martin when he used his magic.

The man took off running down the alleyway, and Martin gathered himself and gave chase. The man was fast, far too fast for Martin to catch if he was still human, but Martin wasn’t human anymore. He didn’t run out of breath and his heart didn’t hammer. The man tried to weave and dodge through alleyways, but Martin was hungry and had caught the scent of him. Block by block, Martin gained on him, their twin footsteps pounding through the smog-thick night. He was an arm’s length away when the man turned abruptly and punched Martin in the face. Martin reeled in shock, hissing in pain at five burning points on his cheek. Silver. He slung out a grasping hand that the man easily ducked under to deliver another punch to Martin’s gut. Martin grabbed his arm and shoved the man into the brick wall of the alley, pinning both his wrists and holding a knee to his hip. The book thudded to the ground and fell open, revealing pages that looked unpleasantly soft. The man thrashed and struggled, but Martin had his bearings now, and he was strong. He was too strong to be human.

The man bared his teeth. “What do you want, bloodsucker?” he hissed. “Did Magnus send you?”

His voice was British, which Martin had just enough time to process before a combat boot slammed into his knee. He yelped and lost his grip for a moment, just long enough for the man to wriggle free. Martin managed to grab the back of his jacket, and the man’s windmilling arm caught Martin in the face, delivering five more pinprick burns.

“Stop that!” Martin demanded. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

“Forgive me for not believing you,” the man snapped, “considering you’re a—hng!—vampire who just cornered me in an alleyway!”

“Well, you’re the one who’s cooperating with the Unseelie!”

The man snorted incredulously as he delivered a stomp aimed at Martin’s instep. Martin scrabbled out of the way, but that made his footing unsteady enough that the man could shove him aside and dive for the book. Martin swiftly kicked him in the side and the man hissed in pain. Martin hauled him to his feet by the lapels.

“Stop trying to escape.”

“Then tell me what you want!”

“I want information.”

The man laughed. “Ask your Archivist.”

“How do you know I’m with the Magnus Institute?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re British and trying to stop the Unseelie.”

“You’re trying to make a power grab for the world’s magic. Why the hell aren’t more people trying to stop you?”

The man just stared at him, then laughed. “You don’t really think that’s what we’re trying to do, do you? You don’t really expect me to believe that?”

He had an eye tattooed on his neck. Martin frowned.

“Wait a moment,” Martin said. “You’re not…are you Gerry Keay?”

“I thought you knew that,” the man who was apparently Gerry Keay responded. “Figured you were here to collect the bounty Douchard’s no doubt put on my head.”

“Are you talking about Elias Bouchard? Why does he want you d—oh, right, because you’re working for the Unseelie.”

“If you’re going to kill me,” Gerry snarled, “do it quick.”

“I’m not going to—why does everyone think I kill people intentionally! I said I was sorry about Leitner! Christ!”

“Leitner?” the man repeated. “What happened to Leitner?”

“He’s dead,” Martin told him. He needed Gerry on his side, or at least willing to talk. “I…I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Jon said you’d be glad to hear that.”

“I am, actually. Shame I didn’t get to do it myself—wait, did you say Jon?”

Martin stiffened. “No. No, I didn’t.”

Gerry’s face twisted into a snarl. “If you’ve hurt Jon, I swear I’ll—“

“If I’ve hurt Jon?” Martin laughed bitterly and lifted Gerry off the ground. “You’re working for the people that kidnapped him and wanted to skin him. Don’t expect me to believe you care about Jon.”

“You’re awfully protective.” Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “Is he your thrall?” he spat.

“Why do people always assume the worst of me?” Martin exploded. “He’s not my goddamn thrall, okay? I’m allowed to care about people! And I care about him, so just tell me what the D.C. Court is planning and I’ll let you go!”

Gerry gave him a long, sad look.

“You really don’t know anything, do you,” he said softly.

“That’s what I’ve been getting at.”

Gerry sighed. “Look, whoever you are, I don’t trust you enough to tell you anything. Except…okay, don’t trust Elias Bouchard. He’s not who he seems. And…the Unseelie don’t always do the right thing, but they’re trying to this time. If the rituals succeed, the world goes back to how it’s supposed to be.”

The wind whistled overhead, and in the distance a car horn beeped forlornly.

“That’s bullshit,” Martin finally said.

“I think you know it’s not,” Gerry replied, his eyes glinting in the dark. “Who do you think drained Gertrude Robinson?”

A thousand more words warred for dominance on Martin’s tongue. What about Tim? What did Gerry mean about Elias? What was the Institute for, if not for stopping the world from ending? Did Gerry really expect him to believe this?

Martin’s wrist throbbed, and he set Gerry down on the pavement. He watched as Gerry picked up the book, nodded to him, and ran into the darkness.

He wouldn’t let ignorance make him a monster again. And he wouldn’t let the Magnus Institute do so either.

Martin remembered seeing Elias in the Lukas manor.

Here is the thing about Nikola Orsinov: She was fast, and she was strong, and she was nearly unstoppable. She had cut down every opponent to ever face her before they had a chance to get a hit in with their blade. She could fight off any weapon a fae could hold. She’d never fought a changeling, and she hadn’t trained specially to face them—why bother? Changelings are weaker than all the other fae. They would never be considered a danger. After all, the only advantage they have is an increased tolerance for human technology.

Here is the thing about Tim Stoker. He was barely conscious, and the doctors warned that he may be left with chronic pain and a permanent limp, not to mention the reduced range of motion in his arm and the magic burnout—and the lung, of course. He was in immeasurable amounts of pain, and no matter how he tried to bite back his cries or smother them in morphine, those who loved him couldn’t help but feel his agony.

Here is the thing about changelings: they have an increased tolerance for human technology. For instance, Nikola could never have used a cell phone. And just touching a gun with her bare skin would have been enough to leave her with a shriveled arm.

Here is the thing about Danny Stoker: he loved his brother very much, and seeing Tim hurt was enough to fill Danny’s ribcage with ice and fire in equal measure. Danny could never have beaten Nikola in the kind of single combat she’d trained for.

Here is the thing about changelings: theoretically, one could hold a gun, if only for a few seconds and in immense pain.

It’s hard to say if Danny Stoker’s scream was in rage or agony, but whatever its core emotion, it rattled the museum as he snatched the gun from the open case in Daisy’s hand and fired, once, twice, three times, four times, emptying the entire chamber, each crack of the gun coinciding with a torn cry as the metal jolted against his sizzling flesh with the recoil.

Nikola fell, mouth open in shock, eyes wet with tears, chest soaked in her own seeping blood. The .38 revolver fell, chamber empty, from Danny’s hands.

It’s hard to say if Danny Stoker’s scream was in rage or agony. Perhaps it was grief.

Danny turned to the stands of shocked Unseelie as his hand blistered and sizzled. He doubted he’d ever be able to feel it again.

“Welcome,” said Breekon finally, “new Ringmaster.”

Jon tried to call Danny, but he didn’t pick up. He tried to call Sasha, but the call didn’t go through. His emails and texts refused to send no matter how good the wifi was. And their flight back to London didn’t leave for another day. Which meant he was left pacing their hotel room while Martin sat at the desk and stared vacantly at a smiling advertisement for the hotel’s resorts.

“Martin,” Jon said, choosing his words carefully. “I worried about you last night.”

Martin sighed and swiveled the chair around.

“I trust you, Jon,” he said. “But I can’t trust the Institute. And that means I can’t trust whatever part of you belongs to it.”

Jon hissed like he’d been stabbed. Where was this coming from?

“Martin,” Jon whispered. “I thought we were past this. You like the Institute!”

“I don’t know how much of you that is,” Martin said bitterly, his eyes still distant. “Must be a lot, if you’re this deep in denial. You have to have noticed something is wrong with the place.”

Something buzzed at the back of Jon’s mind. Gertrude. Leitner. Martin. The sigils. Elias. And then the feeling was gone.

“The Institute fits me like a glove,” Jon replied dejectedly. “They’re doing good in the city, Martin. We have far bigger things to worry about.” Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it.

He should have known it would end like this: distant, full of false words and mistrust.

Martin sighed again, more of a breath than a sigh, soft and yet full of resolve. “Jon. I’m going to tell you something. You’re not going to tell anyone else.”

“Of course not,” Jon told him eagerly. Anything to make Martin trust him.

Martin slowly unbuttoned his flannel and pulled it away to reveal his left pectoral. A few inches above the nipple was a ring of scar tissue that Martin gestured to. It looked like a warped bite mark, and Jon’s breath caught.

“Jon,” he said softly, and his voice was choked with tears. “I’m not like Peter Lukas. I never wanted this.” He took a steadying breath, and his gaze slid away from Jon’s. “The Lukases have a manor where they keep all their thralls. Anyone they can grab who no one will miss. I was the perfect candidate. I…I had no way to escape. The thralldom was light, but there were so many of them.” He sniffled, and Jon took a cautious step forward. “I was there for almost a year before Peter Lukas took a liking to me and decided to make me his own.” He closed his eyes. “You don’t need to know the details. All you need to know is that this is where he liked to feed from, and he liked to take me out of the manor. He got pretty out of it when he was full of blood, and he…he left his teeth in while he recovered. So one day, while he was sprawled on top of me engorged with my blood, I smashed a vase over his head and ran. But his teeth left a scar as they tore out of me.” His finger circled the scar absentmindedly. “I spent a few months wandering London, homeless and terrified. I saw him everywhere I looked, but as far as I could tell, he hadn’t found me. So I thought I was safe. I needed to know that what I’d experienced wasn’t a drug trip or something.” He finally met Jon’s eyes. “So I made a statement to the Magnus Institute. And guess who cornered me in an alleyway that night, saying that an old friend had let him know I was in town?’

“Oh,” Jon breathed.

Martin buttoned his shirt back up with shaking fingers.

“It makes sense,” he said, “for it to have been Elias. Did you know he and Peter used to be married? I didn’t think much of it, thought maybe he’d been a victim like I was, but now…”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. “Martin, I’m so sorry.” He blinked. “Wait. Elias?”

“I met Gerry Keay last night,” Martin said. “He told me not to trust Elias.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Jon, I think Elias is a ———“

Jon blinked. His wrist pinged with pain. “A what?”

“A v———? You know what that is, Jon, don’t be dense.”

Color blurred and twisted at the edges of Jon’s vision. His heart was beating far too fast. He felt the same buzz on his tongue that the Institute’s magic brought.

“Martin, I don’t—I don’t understand what you’re saying.” His breath came quick and shallow. His wrist screamed.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but—“

“No, I mean I literally don’t understand what you’re saying. You say Elias is a, and then all I hear is…is…” Jon groaned and clutched his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t know! I can’t even think what you might be saying!”

Martin let out a choked, disbelieving sob, then another. Jon heard footsteps and felt strong, cold arms wrap around him. Those arms guided him to sit down on the bed, and Martin held him close, clutching Jon to his chest with trembling hands as he they both cried, Jon with tiny tears of frustration, Martin with deep wracking sobs that shook his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” Martin wept. “I promised I’d keep you safe…I promised…” He buried his head in Jon’s hair. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him for doing this to you.”

Jon opened his mouth. He didn’t know if it was to ask a question or offer reassurance, but what came out was neither. What came out buzzed with Institute magic that twisted at the back of his head, that reached into where it wasn’t wanted and pushed down, down, pushed things where they didn’t belong, and then—

Martin’s sniffling subsided.

“What was I crying about?” he asked, sounding confused.

“I have no idea,” Jon replied.

They were both pleasantly surprised when Martin’s silver shackles uncoupled and fell to the floor, signaling the death of the evil Ringmaster. The threat was over.

“I guess Danny did it,” Martin laughed.

“I suppose he did.” Jon smiled. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but…we’re close.” Jon leaned into Martin. “We’re safe.”

He couldn’t wait to return to the Institute. Elias would be so proud of all of them.

Chapter Text

Martin and Jon didn’t even drop off their things at their flats before heading over to the hospital. Visiting hours had technically been over for half an hour, but a glare from Jon, some magic from Martin, and Sasha’s well-timed appearance were more than enough to get the two of them into Tim’s room.

“I’ll give you guys a moment,” Sasha murmured.

“Get me some pudding while you’re out,” Tim slurred. Sasha rolled her eyes and left, and Tim turned to look at Jon and Martin with hazy, painkiller-fogged eyes and a dopey smile. Jon remembered the night of the worms, how high Tim had been on C02. Those scars still dotted Tim’s face, but they were now covered by bruises and bandages. Tim looked, put simply, like hell. Jon was very, very glad that Nikola was dead.

“Hey, guys,” Tim said softly.

“Tim,” Jon said. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say, really. I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow. “S okay,” he said.

“Are you feeling well?” Martin asked.

Tim shrugged, and winced at even that small movement. “Could have been worse. They were trying to kill me.” He frowned. “It was really weird. They were acting almost…robotic.” He sighed. “I guess that’s what happens when you get brainwashed by a fae Ringmaster.”

“At least the Ringmaster is better now,” Jon offered. “Because, you know. It’s Danny.”

“He didn’t want this, you know,” Tim snapped back. Jon looked down at his hands.

“At least it’s over now,” Martin said. “It’s all solved. Might take a bit to go back to normal, but it’s going to be okay.” Jon noticed his hands were shaking.

“Yeah,” Tim muttered. “Yeah, I think it will.”

Jon hesitantly sat down in the chair by Tim’s bed. Tim reached out a trembling hand, and Jon took it.

“Wish I could ask for a hug,” Tim said. “But, you know…the lung. I could really use a hug from Martin right now.”

“I’ll give you one once you’re feeling better,” Martin promised. “All the hugs you could ever want.”

“As long as you wear those soft sweaters,” Tim told him.

“I’ll knit you one,” Martin replied. “A sleeveless one.”

Tim smiled faintly, the action twisting the bruises and bandages on his face. “That sounds nice.”

Tim’s fingers tightened around Jon’s. Jon could almost feel the weakness spidering through Tim’s bones.

“Hey, Jon,” Tim said. “Did you guys find anything out?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jon told him. “If one ritual can’t go off, the rest won’t either.”

“It’s just weird, is all,” Tim muttered. “They were acting weird. The Unseelie knights, that is. And we still don’t know who killed Gertrude.”

Jon sighed. He wanted to just give up, go home, and not acknowledge what they didn’t know. But that wasn’t Jon. Jon loved to know, to see, to discover. If there was a mystery still unsolved, solving it was the only way to save the people he loved.

From what? No one was in danger. But that didn’t stop Jon’s body from filling with restless energy. The same restless energy that buzzed in the back of his mind as the Institute filled him with magic, except this energy fizzled in his gut while his head remained silent.

“I’ll find out,” he promised. “But not now. Now, we can just rest.”

“Rest,” Tim murmured. “Yeah, that sounds really nice.” He sighed. “I’ll try to sleep, but…you know how my blood is, Jon. Painkillers don’t exactly work right.”

“Can I help?” Martin asked.

Tim turned a bleary eye to Martin and simply nodded.

Martin walked over, lifted the wrist with no IV, and placed it to his lips. Tim sighed, went limp, and was asleep within seconds. It was so routine—lift, drink, set down. How odd their lives had become, that letting a vampire feed from them had become a normal part of the routine.

“Sleep well, Tim,” Martin whispered. He kissed the wrist he’d finished feeding from. “I hope your rest goes undisturbed.”

“So,” Jon asked. “What now?”

“I guess I go back to my flat,” Martin replied. His eyes were blank and tired. “I need to open the shop back up.”

“It’s weird,” Jon said softly. “After everything that’s happened, it feels weird for it all to go back to normal.”

“I’m glad,” Martin said. “For things to be back to normal, that is.”

His hand drifted up to touch his chest, then dropped. Jon frowned. He wanted to kiss Martin very much, but that thought somehow felt foreign. He shook his head. He could think about it after he slept.

There was no one sleeping in the Institute anymore. It was an empty and austere place of learning. Jon’s work went undisturbed and he didn’t trip over mattresses. Jon was constantly on edge.

He still hadn’t seen Danny. Apparently he was very busy. Apparently he only left the wax museum to visit Tim.

One week. It had been one week since everything was solved, but Jon didn’t feel like a citizen of a saved world. Maybe because he’d been totally useless to its salvation.

“Jon do you have a moment?”

Jon looked up to see Elias peering officiously through the doorway.

“Elias. What is it,” Jon sighed.

“I was wondering how you were doing,” Elias said crisply. “We’ve recently experienced a big change.”

“Thank you for the revelation, Elias.”

“I’m simply checking in.”

“Everything’s fine,” Jon sighed. “Except for the fact that we don’t know who killed Gertrude, and I’m still not sure who killed Leitner.”

“Didn’t Mr. Blackwood state that he killed Leitner?”

“If he did,” Jon said, “then that still leaves Gertrude. I don’t think there are two unrelated vampires running around killing people in the Institute. Occam’s razor.”

“If we’re going by Occam’s Razor,” Elias said, “wouldn’t the best way to cut away extraneous explanations be to assume that Martin killed Gertrude?”

Jon recoiled. “What possible reason would Martin have to kill Gertrude?”

“You’d have to ask him. Mr. Blackwood and Gertrude did meet several times, you know.”

With that, Elias left Jon’s office. having totally failed in his stated objective to make sure Jon was doing okay.

Martin had mentioned giving a statement to the Institute, hadn’t he? Of course he had. It was the night before they came back to London. He’d given a statement to Gertrude, and…it was completely unremarkable. Jon hadn’t thought it unusual at all.

If Martin did kill Gertrude, Jon was sure he had a reason. He had to have a reason. Martin wasn’t a monster, after all.

“Martin. Blackwood.” Melanie stormed into Blackwood Bookshelf with a vicious scowl.

“Hello, Melanie.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I told you, I was traveling.”

“I don’t mean that,” Melanie said impatiently. “Something’s been going on with you for months. There’s a huge buzz about something happening in the paranormal forums, do you know anything about that?”

“Why would I know anything about that?” Martin asked.

“Because you know more than you let on, and I’m sick of it! If you have some secret, or whatever, just tell me that you have a secret! You don’t have to go around acting all mysterious.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin said softly.

“Fine,” Melanie sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I need a new Ouija board—same place?”

“Yup, same shelf.”

The bell above the door rang, and Jon walked in looking perturbed. Melanie turned to look at him, and they froze as they locked eyes.

“Ms. King,” Jon said stiffly.

“Archivist,” Melanie sighed. Jon flinched a little. Martin could taste the tension.

“What can I do for you, Jon?” Martin asked.

“Martin, can we talk?” Jon asked, with a nervous glance at Melanie.

“Can you come back after closing in an hour? I don’t really have much wiggle room with Joshua after I closed for a few months.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jon replied, wringing his hands. “I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

Jon left, and Melanie rounded on Jon with an incredulous expression.

“Martin,” she demanded, “are you and Jonathan Sims dating?”

Martin gaped at her. “N-no!” he spluttered. “No, we’re just friends.”

“Right.”

Melanie bought a Ouija board and left, leaving Martin to contemplate what she’d said. Why had she immediately assumed Martin and Jon were dating? Was Martin really that obvious about his crush?

Jon, sure enough, was back the moment Martin started closing.

“Can I help?” he asked.

Martin waved him off. “No, it’s fine, this shouldn’t take more than 15 minutes.”

Jon snatched the broom out of his hand and started sweeping. “Really, Martin,” he said.

Martin gave a bemused sigh and started closing down the counter. Once they’d finished, he asked Jon if he’d like to talk upstairs, and Jon agreed, and there were no implications to this. Martin definitely didn’t feel very nervous about Jon coming to his flat. Certainly not.

“Tea?” Martin offered as Jon crossed the threshold.

“Yes please,” Jon said gratefully.

Jon stayed with Martin in the kitchen as he busied himself with the tea. He hovered awkwardly like a pigeon waiting for breadcrumbs, hesitant and almost scared. He was so small, and looked up at Martin with eyes whose brightness had long since turned fevered. Martin had hoped that the return to normalcy would give Jon a chance to rest, but he still looked disheveled and exhausted.

“Have you been sleeping?” Martin asked him.

“Yes,” Jon replied, immediately, defensively, obviously lying.

“Jon,” Martin sighed in harmony with the bubbling teakettle. “I thought we talked about lying.”

“I’ve been trying,” Jon muttered. “I keep feeling nauseous.”

“Are you sick? I can try to brew something up for you—“

Jon shook his head, eyes downcast. “It’s not my stomach. It’s my gut.”

“Gas, maybe?”

“I don’t mean my literal intestines.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“My magic,” Jon explained. “The kind that doesn’t come from the Institute. Something’s wrong. That’s…that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

The teakettle screamed. Martin poured the boiling water into their two mugs and placed a saucer over each one to steep the tea.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

Jon leaned against the counter, his eyes far away and unfocused.

“Have you ever used magic, Martin?” he asked.

“Yes,” Martin told him.

“Where do you feel it?”

“In my blood. In my teeth.”

“Has it ever felt wrong?”

“Yes, when I try to use it when I haven’t been fed. It hurts.”

“Do you like your magic, Martin?”

Martin crossed his arms and thought for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I didn’t want it. I don’t like that I have it. But it comes in handy.”

“I like my magic,” Jon said quietly. “Or at least I used to. I worked very hard for it. And now there’s more magic in the back of my skull, and it’s useful, far more useful than my magic if I let it. But…but something’s wrong, Martin. With my magic. It’s telling me something is wrong. If the magic of the Institute is as powerful as Elias claims, it should be giving me the same signals. But my head feels fine.”

“So what does that mean?” Martin already knew.

“I don’t know,” Jon replied.

“Maybe,” Martin said, “it means the Institute is the problem.”

His wrist burned, his neck burned, his chest burned. He heard the voice of Gerry Keay. Gerry must have said something relevant. He did. He told Martin not to trust Elias.

A fog washed over Martin’s mind—no, a fog washed back over Martin’s mind. He didn’t worry about it. They were fine. Everything was fine, of course it was—Jon was right there, safe.

“The Institute can’t be the problem,” Jon said.

“Why not?”

Jon didn’t reply.

“Why can’t it?” Martin pressed. “Why are you so convinced there’s nothing wrong with the Institute?”

“Why are you so convinced there is something wrong with the Institute?” Jon snapped.

“I already told you why!”
Jon opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Martin,” he said quietly. “Martin, why don’t you like the Institute?”

“I, I told you!”

“I know you did,” Jon whispered. “I…”

Martin removed the saucers and handed Jon a mug of tea. Jon took a frazzled sip.

“I need my cards,” Jon said. “I need to do some scrying.”

“Do you need help?”

“That would be excellent. Tomorrow, after my performance review.”

“Performance review?” Martin snickered. “After everything that’s happened, you have a performance review?”

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Jon grumbled. “But Elias is a stickler for protocol. I’m the last one to be reviewed, apparently.”

“Christ, did he visit Tim in the hospital to give him his review?”

“No, of course not. But he did visit the Court to try to offer Danny a job.”

“I don’t like the idea of the Institute having vampire donors and a Ringmaster on staff.”

Jon stared at him. “Vampire donors?”

“Yeah. Peter Lukas.”

Jon just looked at him blankly. Martin frowned at him. Surely he knew Peter Lukas donated to the Institute.

“Jon,” Martin said, “what is it.”

“Peter Lukas donates to the Institute.”

“Yes.”

“Peter Lukas is a vampire.”

“Yes.”

Jon shook his head as if trying to clear away drunkenness. “There’s a conclusion I should be drawing here, Martin.” Panic slowly began to creep across his face. “Martin, what’s going on?”

There was something wrong. The fog crept in. There was nothing wrong.

“I’m scared,” Jon whispered. He looked so small and scared, like a stray cat, complete with the frazzled hair.

Martin set the mug of tea down and hesitantly placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders. Jon melted beneath his touch, and Martin drew him into an embrace. Jon nestled into his arms, shivering. Martin ran a hand through that frazzled hair, twisting a lock around his finger, and Jon buried his face in the crook of Martin’s neck. Martin wanted to keep him there forever, to protect him, to hold him close. He rested his head on top of Jon’s—cheek to top of head, as much as he wanted to give Jon a kiss.

“You know I’m here for you,” Martin said, “right?”

“I know,” Jon said, his words hot against Martin’s neck.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Martin promised.

Chapter Text

“Shall we begin?” 

Elias’s voice was as calming as it was authoritative. His tone implied that he wasn’t afraid—that he had never been afraid. That if Danny had failed in stopping the Unseelie, Elias could simply have stared Nikola down and cited her for HR guideline violations, and everything would have been okay. His eyes showed analysis and competence in equal measure, and Jon’s trained eyes picked up a glimmer of the immense magical skill that had made Elias’s name one spoken with fear and awe in London’s magical underground. 

“I suppose,” Jon replied. “I’m still not clear on what we’re discussing.”

“This is a performance review, Jon. You have had a review before.”

Jon expected Elias to bring out some sort of folder or laptop, but instead Elias simply folded his hands on the table and pinned Jon with his gaze like a moth to a corkboard. He seemed insistent on making eye contact, but the thought of maintaining eye contact with Elias for a whole meeting was absolutely unbearable, so Jon just stared at his dangly earring. 

“So,” Elias began, “what accomplishment from the last review cycle are you most proud of?”

“I-I don’t know, I really have no idea. I suppose helping stop a world-ending ritual—well, I didn’t really help with that.”

“You’re selling yourself short, Jon. Gathering information is the most important part of what we do here, and I must say, you’re very good at it. Far better than our last Archivist. You were built for research.”

Jon sat up a little straighter, glowing with professional pride. 

“What are you hoping to accomplish over the next quarter?”

Jon had no idea what he wanted to do next, but framing it in a professional question allowed him to think a bit more clearly. 

“I want to know about the Lukases and if they’re hurting anyone. How they’re hurting people, I should say, I know, I know they’re hurting people.”

“As I’ve told you, the Lukases are very generous to our organization.” Elias’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But considering you’re already investigating them in your spare time, I don’t suppose I can stop you. Do try not to run into the manor guns blazing.” Elias’s eyes glimmered with pride. “Your thirst for knowledge is admirable, Jon. It’s no wonder the Institute’s magic has taken to you so readily. You are the perfect fit for this position.”

Jon suppressed a smile. Apparently he was actually doing something right. 

“Do you have access to all the tools and resources you need?” Elias asked. 

“I think so, yes. Anything we don’t have, I can get from Martin.”

“You and Mr. Blackwood have become rather close—“

“Elias, can...can we please not have this conversation again?”

Elias lifted a hand to forestall Jon’s argument, and Jon flinched back in his seat like a chastised dog. 

“I was simply going to ask if he would be willing to sign on as a contractor.”

Jon blinked. “O-oh.”

Truth be told, he hadn’t actually had time to think much about his future with Martin, considering how hectic everything had been. But now that Elias had brought it up, Jon realized signing Martin on as a contractor was a good idea. After all, they all planned on seeing much more of Martin. May as well make it official. 

It hit Jon, suddenly, that now that they were no longer in imminent danger, he could interact with Martin in any context he wanted. They could spend time together. Jon could keep looking at him, managing his unruly feelings, and making strictly platonic overtures. 

It sounded lovely.

“He’s a diligent worker,” Jon said, “and my team and I work well with him. Not to mention his expertise. I’ll ask him about it.”

“Speaking of which,” Elias said, “have you and your team been having any issues?”

“Other than one of my team being in the hospital with injuries likely to affect him for the rest of his life?”

“Other than that, yes.” Elias looked almost amused.

“No,” Jon said confidently. Of course not. Their team had a rocky start several years ago, but they’d since become a well-oiled machine.

“Jon, do you feel each member of your team contributes equally?” Elias asked.

“Of course.”

“I don’t.”

Jon shrank into his chair. Of course they didn’t contribute equally. Tim and Sasha could slash and burn through monsters with ease. They’d saved lives and burned dens of feral rats to the ground. Jon just had some cards and magic tricks. Earlier praise aside, this was the part where Elias told Jon he had to pull his weight. 

“Tim and Sasha are quite superfluous, really,” Elias said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I’m sorry?” Jon demanded.

“Think about it, Jon.” For a moment, their eyes locked, and Jon’s head suddenly cleared of its jumble of confusion. He simply listened as Elias explained, “The Institute hunts monsters, yes, but that is not its function. We are a place of research and learning. Our purpose—your purpose—is to gather secrets.”

Jon got the distinct sense that this was no longer a standard performance review.

“After all,” Elias said, “the Institute didn’t share its gifts with Tim and Sasha. It chose you, Jon. I chose you. I would call you a chosen one if I weren’t so aware of the cliche.”

Elias bent down to rummage in one of his desk drawers. He came up with a bottle of wine, label long since faded, and two crystalline glasses. 

“How much do you know about thralls, Jon?” Elias asked as he uncorked the bottle with a pop that Jon found somehow sickening. 

“I—wh—The basics, I suppose. No more than anyone else.” Jon frowned as his brain caught up to the subject change. He opened his mouth to protest, but Elias motioned him to continue, and Jon found himself explaining: “I know they have a short lifespan. I know they’re people bound to servitude by vampires, although they aren’t so much compelled to follow orders as under an altered state. Vampires create them by forcing them to drink the blood of their would-be masters and then feeding from them, and they do so to acquire a steady source of food. Usually, only high-ranking members of major bloodlines do it. The kind that don’t feel remorse. I’m…I’m unclear what this is about.”

“That is common knowledge, yes, but common knowledge is not what this Institute deals in. What else do you know?”

Jon sighed with exasperation. He decided to play along in the hopes Elias would get to the point—trying to force Elias to be straightforward was like trying to get a cat to swim. 

“I have theories. Rumors I’ve heard, and such.”

“And are they true?”

“If I knew that, Elias, I wouldn’t call them theories and rumors,” Jon retorted.

Elias raised an eyebrow. “There’s no need to be rude. What have you heard, Jon?”

“I’ve heard,” Jon said tentatively, “from old lore manuscripts, that thralldom wasn’t always negative. It created a bond of love, apparently. But that doesn’t fit with what Martin told me—or anything else I know about thralldom, for that matter.”

Elias poured the wine. Red wine, dark and deep. It was probably just their topic of discussion that made it remind Jon of blood. He shook his head, once, twice, but the neck of the bottle was still a sliced vein, spilling blood into the crystalline glasses. 

“Martin Blackwood and Peter Lukas believe thralldom is simply a powerful vampire using an inferior human. They only disagree on whether that is good or bad. They’re both wrong, of course, but so are your manuscripts claiming thralldom is a bond between equals.” He passed a glass across the desk to Jon. Jon took it, but did not drink. He just swirled the wine around and around, staring at the little vortex in the glass as an excuse to not meet Elias’s eyes. “You see, the reason that so many thralls die after a few months is because their masters do not feed them.”

“…Sorry?”

“Thralls are meant to feed on the blood of their master periodically, not just once. They need blood as long as they’re being fed from. I’m fairly sure none of the major bloodlines know this, and even if they did, they wouldn’t feed their thralls. It would make them a far less efficient food source. That is all thralls are to the likes of Lukas.” Elias grimaced. “Nothing but a…a Big Mac. A Whopper. A triple cheesy chalupa.”

“Yes, Elias, you know foods, I get it,” Jon snapped. Elias’s list of fast food was making him sick. His gut roiled with anxiety. His heart pounded with fear. His head was calm and cool. “So what are thralls?”

“Students. Acolytes.” Elias’s eyes shone. His eyes were bright, far brighter than most people’s, brighter than Jon’s had ever reflected in a scrying bowl. Jon chalked it up to magic. “A way to pass on a vampire’s legacy. They are supposed to be prepared to join the bloodline and take on a great deal of magic. Ideally, it’s a willing stage of transition.”

“That seems…Elias, why is this relevant?”

“Drink your wine and I’ll tell you.”

Jon stared at the wine glass with trepidation. He’d had plenty of wine in his life, but now he felt like he was going to throw up. He scolded himself. Mind over matter. 

“Take a big sip,” Elias encouraged him.

Jon took a big sip of the wine and immediately grimaced. It was disgusting.

“Swallow,” Elias ordered. 

Jon gulped the wine down, iron and bitterness filling his throat. It was absolutely nasty, and Jon was well and truly irritated. He always knew wine snobbery was a scam, but this was ridiculous.

“Elias,” he sputtered, wishing for a glass of water, “what on Earth is in this?”

Elias grinned, the first time Jon had ever seen him do so. Two sharp fangs glinted from his mouth, and Jon’s breath caught.

“My blood.”

Chapter Text

With a speed that Jon could barely follow, Elias vaulted the desk, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him close. For an insane moment Jon thought Elias was kissing his neck—he didn’t even have time to struggle before the fangs slid in, and every instant slowed like time was trapped molasses.

Jon’s breath left him in a strangled scream. It burned. It hurt. he could feel those teeth tearing at him, stealing his blood so fast it ached. He tried to shove Elias away, but Elias merely clutched him closer, and Jon realized all at once just how terrifyingly strong vampires were. As those twin lances of fire seared his neck, his arms dropped to his side and his limbs turned to stone. He remembered the honeyed relaxation of Martin’s bite—maybe one of them wasn’t actually a vampire, because this was the opposite.

His veins throbbed and spasmed. His heartbeat hurt. His breath came in spurts and shudders. Had this happened before? How many times had it been? How many drinks had he forgotten? His limbs were full of static. He opened his mouth and tried to yell for help, but his voice had left him. His knees buckled, and Elias caught him at the waist. Jon’s skin screamed in protest at his touch and his mind whirled with confusion.

The teeth withdrew, but Jon was still so very weak, collapsed in Elias’s arms. His heart fluttered like that of a scared rabbit.

“Shhhh,” Elias murmured. “How are you feeling, Jon?”

Jon had no idea how to answer that. His feelings were muted, somehow.

“You killed Gertrude,” Jon choked out as his brain buzzed in protest. “You…you killed Leitner.”

“Very good,” Elias praised him. “You managed to overcome my magic by realizing that. Imagine how much more powerful the Institute’s magic could make you if you embraced it?”

“Is that your plan for me?” Jon whispered.

“I want you to reach your apotheosis. You can have immortality, all the knowledge you could ever want. All you must do is carry on my bloodline.”

Jon raised a trembling hand to his neck.

“How long?” he asked, his voice full of familiar static.

Elias grinned. “Since your promotion, I have been guiding you. Giving you what gifts I could.”

Jon felt sick. He’d been Elias’s toy for so long, and hadn’t even realized. The unwitting slave of a murderer. He wanted to throw up the blood Elias had tricked him into drinking.

“So, what, every performance review was just an excuse to feed from me?” He lowered his voice, filling it with Elias’s magic. “How many times have you done this to me?”

“Now, now, Archivist, there’s no need to be cross. After all, you would have starved long ago had I not fed you at our little meetings. Your thralldom is a necessary step to assuming your true destiny.”

Jon’s heart leapt into his throat, leaving a space behind for his gut to occupy.

“No,” Jon whispered. “No, I won’t. Whatever you want from me, I, I won’t.”

Elias frowned. “You would rather remain in ignorance than follow your true path? You have always chosen to seek knowledge. It’s who you are. An Archivist.”

“I chose to seek knowledge, not be a thrall!”

“For the Magnus bloodline, the two are the same.” One of Elias’s cold, cold hands cradled Jon’s cheek, and though Jon wanted to flinch away, he leaned in to the touch. “You belong to me, mind and body. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Elias lapped a stray drop of blood from Jon’s neck. Jon’s eyelids fluttered against his will, and his hands gripped Elias’s shoulders tightly even as he recoiled in disgust.

This wasn’t right. He’d heard about thralldom, but he hadn’t anticipated it would feel so wrong. Wrong like twisted, misused magic. Jon let his eyes close and remembered Martin, who had sipped from him with gentle restraint. That had felt right in a way that resonated with Jon’s arcane feeling of truth, the magic that lived not in his head but in his instincts.

“I am not yours,” Jon wheezed. “I am marked.”

Elias slammed him into the wall, and Jon screamed through gritted teeth.

“I’ve been wondering,” Elias mused, his voice calm despite the anger in his tight and clutching hands, “why you’ve refused me every time. But now I see. You have failed to embrace your true place because of doubt, and because of those who have led you astray with promises of altruism and camaraderie. I must merely take away everything that stands in our way. The barriers that live in your mind.” His lips were red with Jon’s blood. “The anchors that weigh you down.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon demanded as he unsuccessfully tried to struggle free. He had no idea what to do. All he could muster was divination, and apparently even that was a bloody legacy from Elias. “My anchors—you don’t mean—“

Elias pressed a smirking kiss to Jon’s wrist, and Jon choked back a sob as his heart skipped a beat.

“That’s not for you,” Jon whispered.

The fangs slid in again, but this time, the pain shot straight into Jon’s skull, and he could feel Elias there, watching, waiting, taking, lurking in his blood. He was tired, so tired, and so very scared.

His head hurt. Something was wrong with it. Jon knew the ins and outs of his mind very intimately, and he knew exactly when someone was committing a smash and grab in his cerebral cortex.

He called out for someone, anyone, trying to channel what threads of magic remained untouched by Elias. He called to Sasha—or he tried, before realizing with horror that he could no longer remember her face. His blood should have run cold and his heart should have stopped, but instead it pounded, eagerly giving up his blood and memories in equal measure.

“No,” he sobbed, “no, please, don’t take her, she’s my friend.”

Who is? came Elias’s voice, echoing between his ears even as Elias’s mouth was occupied.

“I, I don’t—wh—“

Who were you calling for, Jon?

Jon began to hyperventilate. “N, no one, I…”

That’s what I thought.

“Get out of my head!” Jon snarled.

He thought of Tim, Tim on the day they met, Tim’s arms around his shoulders and voice in his ear, the taste of risotto, too-hot skin, too-hot skin bloodied in a hospital room, a man who was his friend…a man whose name he did not know.

He had a friend. A man he knew. Who was he? All that Jon was left with was the taste of garlic, a taste that faded as soon as it registered. He must have had friends. People had friends, didn’t they?

Jon had assistants. Of course he did. Who were they? They must be new, and he hadn’t learned their names yet—had he seen them? No, no he hadn’t. Of course he didn’t have assistants. What would an Archivist need with assistants?

As his vision swam before his eyes, Jon’s wrist burned, and he remembered honey flowing through it. He remembered a gentler kiss, a kiss of giving rather than taking.

No, said Elias, the only person who’d ever kissed him on the wrist.

He remembered a gentler bite, twin pinpricks he’d barely felt, so different from the spears piercing him now. He remembered trust, and he held it close as his heart beat so fast it was on the verge of breaking free from his ribcage. He remembered eyes that were both red and green, to touch given freely.

I told you, no, said Elias, the only vampire who’d ever bitten him.

There was no face, no name, but he clung desperately to soft red-brown hair, to shy smiles and little jealous glances, and his eyes snapped open and then closed again as if his head leaned against a broad and slowly breathing chest, listening to a heart that beat for him alone—

I SAID NO! Elias’s roar of possessive fury ripped through his mind, leaving only desolation and fragments in its wake. His ears rang, and his tongue tasted of electricity.

It passed, and then the Archivist stood perfectly still as Elias retracted his fangs.

“Much better,” Elias purred. “Are you ready to begin, Archivist? We have a dinner to attend.”

The Archivist bowed his head to his master. Of course he was ready. He’d never been anything but ready to follow his master’s lead.

Chapter Text

“You seem sad,” Sasha commented, leaning against the counter.

“It’s nothing,” Martin replied quickly. He lifted up Sasha’s elbow so he could wipe the counter below it. “Just worried about Tim, you know?”

Sasha raised an eyebrow. “Martin. You know you could talk to me.”

Martin sighed. “It’s…it’s nothing, really. It’s just that Jon and I were going to have an important conversation, is all. I mean, I’m sure it’s not his fault he had to leave, but…”

Sasha nodded sagely. “Important conversation, you say?”

Martin swatted her with the rag. “I know what you’re implying, and it’s not that.”

“Shame,” Sasha remarked. “I think you two could work it out, you know.”

“Thank you, Sasha,” Martin replied crossly. The worst part was that she was right. Maybe Jon and him could date again. Maybe. But facing that, asking Jon to give him another try—too risky. Far too risky.

“Did he tell you where he was going?” Sasha asked.

“No, just that he and Elias had something to follow up regarding the Lukases, nothing dangerous. Didn't say where.” Privately, Martin was very worried, but Elias was so experienced that even Jon respected him, so hopefully everything would be fine.

Martin shot off a text to Jon.

>everything good?

The reply was immediate.

>>Everything is fine, thank you. Do stop worrying, Martin.

“He says everything’s fine,” Martin told Sasha.

“Well, then, I suppose that’s that.” Sasha patted Martin on the shoulder.

“I guess,” Martin said. “I…yeah, yeah, he’s fine, I was just being paranoid.”

Sasha frowned and cocked her head. “Paranoid? You don’t seem paranoid to me.”

“I texted him, you know. Around the time he left with Elias, I…never mind. It’s nothing, I just…”

“Martin. What’s going on.”

“I’m fine, Sasha.”

“I know.” Sasha turned to face him fully. “But I’m your friend, Martin. You can tell me things. That’s kind of the point.”

Martin smiled weakly back at her. “Right. Right. Um, so…something happened two days ago. Something…weird. I probably would have seen a doctor about it, honestly, if I was human.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It takes a lot to kill a vampire.”

“So tell me what happened. I work at the Institute, maybe I can help.”

Martin took a shuddering breath, taking a moment to still himself before he started speaking in a deliberately calm tone. “I was in the store—slow day luckily. It was about, ah, 11 a.m.? Actually around the time of Jon’s performance review—maybe that’s why…” Martin trailed off.

“And?” Sasha prompted.

“I started feeling anxious. This weird tickle in my chest. I thought it was nothing, maybe hunger, but it just got worse. And I just felt this…this snap. This tugging. I don’t know how do explain it, it didn’t feel…physical? If that makes sense, I, I don’t know, but it hurt so much that I collapsed behind the counter and I started panicking. My heart started beating and I couldn’t stop breathing and my skin was so hot it hurt.”

“That sounds awful,” Sasha said softly.

“I thought maybe it was just a panic attack, if not for the…the snap. And it probably was, really, that’s why I thought of Jon. I was just suddenly convinced that he was in trouble. It was so overwhelming I could barely think, I just knew he was in trouble and I just started panicking. I came back to myself ten, twenty minutes later, with one of the customers awkwardly holding my hand.” Martin chuckled. “I was convinced I’d received some…I don’t know, some psychic message? It sounds stupid, but I was about to go all white knight and save Jon. Like he was in trouble or something. And then I got a text from him saying he was heading out with Elias, and I asked him if he was okay, and he said he was. I felt like an idiot.”

Sasha reached out and wiped away a tear Martin hadn’t even noticed.

“You’re not an idiot,” she told him. “I…something similar happened to me. Around the same time, actually. I started feeling anxious about Jon, and then he texted me and he was fine. He even sent a selfie.”

Martin laughed a little. “Right. He’s an easy man to worry about.”

Sasha nodded with a little hum. “I sometimes wish I could wrap him up in a blanket burrito and not let him leave the house, honestly.”

Martin smiled fondly at the thought of Jon in a blanket burrito. Sasha rapped her knuckles on the counter.

“I’ll leave you alone, I promised Tim I’d stop by tonight to tuck him in. See you later, Martin.”

Martin smiled softly as Sasha left the bookshop. That smile didn’t last long as the door opened again, and in came Peter Lukas.

“Hello, Martin!” Peter greeted jauntily.

“Peter,” Martin replied flatly.

“You know what time of year it is, Martin.”

“Peter, I’ve turned down every invitation to your dinner. Why do you keep asking.”

Peter leaned up against the counter in a cruel mockery of Sasha’s casual ease. “Because this dinner will be very special. I was actually asked by Magnus to invite you.”

“Magnus?” Martin repeated, dumbfounded. “I-wh—as in the Magnus Institute?”

“Yes, Jonah Magnus. You remember the bloodline I was telling you about? The one that dealt in secrets?”

“I—wh—you said that was just an urban legend!

“I lied!” Peter said cheerily. “Magnus has been laying low for centuries, but now he’s choosing a successor.”

“A successor?”

Martin’s mind whirled. He had no idea what to make of this. Why was the Institute named after a vampire?

“Odd, I know. He’s been insistent that he has to choose the right thrall to continue the bloodline, and now he’s found one.”

“Peter,” Martin said quietly, filled suddenly with a horrible certainty. “Jonah Magnus doesn’t currently go by that name, does he.”

“I believe you know him as Elias Bouchard,” Peter hummed blandly, as if Martin was supposed to know. As if anyone fucking told Martin anything important. “In any case, he requested your attendance at the dinner. He said he wanted your help, I believe. To help his thrall adjust.”

Martin clutched the counter for support as his legs gave way beneath him. His heart screamed in his ears as it pounded in terror and his thoughts left in a rush of fog, his mind full of only one name.

“You seem upset, Martin,” Peter said, feigning concern.

“I’m fine,” Martin whispered. “I…I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful!” Peter clapped Martin on the shoulder. “I knew you’d come around and join the family. I’ll meet you there.”

The steps Peter took towards the door seemed to take an eternity. The moment Peter left, Martin collapsed on the floor behind the counter and sobbed. His hands shook, his body was cold, so cold. He gripped at his hair, tugging in a desperate effort to ground himself.

Jon in the Lukas manor. Elias with fangs. Jon, eyes glazed and tear-filled, surrounded by bloodthirsty monsters tearing into him. Jon, lost to him forever and drained and dead and cold and enthralled—

He couldn’t breathe and somehow he felt like he was choking even though his lungs no longer needed air. He bit his lip until it bled.

Elias was a vampire. Elias was a vampire. Elias was a vampire. Martin buried his head in his hands and screamed.

How could this happen? They were okay, everything was okay, and then—but it hadn’t been okay, not really. None of it had been okay. Ever since Jonathan Sims walked into that shop Martin had been under the thumb of a vampire without even realizing it—and Jon had been a victim even longer. How long had he been enthralled? How much had Elias taken?

There was no way Jon was leaving the Lukas manor with skin unmarred by a thousand pinprick points, little scars that mirrored Martin’s own. Martin’s wrist screamed in pain, and he clutched it with desperation.

He remembered sitting on a chair as greedy vampires sipped from him. He remembered being dragged around like a dog, talked about like a steak, his body subject to wills that were not his own, passed around from Lukas to Lukas like a plate of deviled eggs. He could handle it. He was alone when he was taken, rock bottom with nothing left of himself except the seeds of what he would build afterward.

But Jon. Jon, stick-thin and more scared than he would admit. Jon, with barely enough blood for himself. Jon, who prided himself on the sharpness and soundness of his mind.

Martin sobbed pathetically, unable to even stand to run to Jon’s rescue.

He sat there for hours, maybe. Maybe the entire night.

“Jon,” Martin moaned. “Oh God, Jon.”

Nothing made any sense. Elias was a vampire, and nothing made any sense. What about the Unspooling? What about all the good the Institute did…all the good they did taking care of creatures that could pose a threat to Elias’s power. Like Nikola.

The fae knights had been acting weird. They hadn’t showed up since, not even to finish the job—one Sasha killed, but where was the other? Why hadn’t they examined the body?

Martin stood up and took a deep breath. They could unravel Elias’s involvement later. They had to save Jon. He took out his phone to call Sasha, then paused.

How long had Jon been enthralled? Martin had no way of knowing. There was no one way for a thrall to act—Jon probably wouldn’t have even known. And Martin had no reason to think it was only Jon.

For all he knew, Tim and Sasha were enthralled. He was fairly positive they were human, but it was more than likely that they were under Elias’s—Magnus’s—control. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they did. Martin couldn’t believe that they were willing confederates…but he had to act as if they were.

He couldn’t trust them.

He would save Jon alone.

“You look quite smart, Archivist.”

The Archivist stared at himself in the mirror. His white suit stood out, fabric pristine, against his mahogany skin. While his master couldn’t fix the pockmark scars, he looked far more professional after a shave and a haircut. A handsome, well-groomed thrall in a white suit.

White like a sacrifice, came an unbidden thought.

“Smart enough for a dinner?” he asked.

Magnus smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I do expect that the suit will become quite stained.”

“I’m sure I can manage to eat cleanly,” the Archivist replied.

“It’s not your meals that will mark it.”

Chapter Text

“What the hell is going on here?” Danny demanded.

The two women poised over the body looked up guiltily, one of them still clutching a boot just taken off the corpse.

“Um,” one of them said. Dr. Lyra, Danny remembered. “Burial rites?”

Danny’s fists clenched. “This man is a traitor. Or have you forgotten what he did?”

“He followed the orders of the Ringmaster,” Dr. Feyra said. “And every one of our number deserves the rites.”

“It’s just an examination and a dressing,” said Dr. Lyra. “It’s your decision whether to hold a ceremony, Ringmaster.”

Danny pinched his nose and sighed deeply. He’d totally forgotten about the corpse in the middle of everything. He’d been too full of anger and fear and the crushing weight of responsibility. (He couldn’t imagine running a human funeral home—dang humans, so vulnerable to rot.) But the doctors were right. It wasn’t the place of even a Ringmaster to deny an Unseelie burial rites.

Luckily this was happening now, and not directly after Tim’s beating, or Danny probably would have used the body as a piñata.

“Very well,” Danny sighed. “Do the examination and dressing.”

“Thank you, Ringmaster,” Dr. Lyra replied.

“Please don’t call me that. It’s weird.”

“Er, Lyra?” Dr. Feyra said, examining the wrist. “This is the first time the corpse has been examined, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Come and look at this.”

Danny and Dr. Lyra both rushed to look at the wrist Dr. Feyra was holding up. It was pale with the grip of death, and yet above the vein was a purple bruise, at the center of which were two red pinpricks.

“Hm,” Dr. Leyra remarked. “That’s…decidedly odd.”

“That's a vampire bite,” Dr. Feyra said, her voice hushed.

Danny’s breath hitched in his throat.

“I need to talk to Tim.”

“Hey, Martin.”

Martin looked up from the book he was staring at. He obviously hadn’t fed in a bit, as his skin was ashen and his eyes gleamed with hunger.

“Danny,” Martin said dully. “How are you today?”

“I have a question about vampires. Are there any vampires who would want to hurt Tim?”

Martin gave him a sharp glance. “Why do you ask?”

Danny fidgeted back and forth. “I…one of the knights that attacked Tim had a vampire bite. If…if they were enthralled, I need to figure out who did it.”
He just needed to figure out who did it. Then he could think through the implications.

What if Nikola hadn’t sent them? What if she hadn’t been lying?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Martin’s thumb rubbed anxiously against the palm of his hand.

“Tim said they were acting weird, didn’t he?” He chewed on his lip, and Danny saw a flash of a sharp canine.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Danny?”

“Hm?”

Martin finally met his eyes. “I’m leaving town in three days. Do you know why?”

Danny blinked, baffled. “No?”

“Is it possible for a fae to be enthralled without their knowledge?”
“No, they’re one of the only races that is incapable of self-deception.”

Martin nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “That’s…yeah. That’s right. Listen, Danny…meet me in my upstairs apartment after closing, all right?”

“Sorry, what?” Sasha demanded.

Tim lost his focus for a moment and his head dipped below the water. He sputtered as he resurfaced and swam to the side of the small pool.

Danny looked around the pool to make sure there was no one else present. Perks of a run-down gym owned by the Unseelie: he could make sure they had some privacy.

“You heard me,” he said, his voice as tired as the rest of him. Guilt and horror settled in his bones like a bad toothache, like the aftertaste of a too-sweet candy.

“Yeah, I did. I just…it’s so hard to believe. Elias?”

“And why the hell didn’t Martin tell us?” Tim snapped. “Christ, I trust the guy! I thought we were friends! And now my best friend’s been enthralled and kidnapped to God knows where and he just putters around his bookshop? What the fuck?”

“He told me not to tell you,” Danny said. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

Tim made a frustrated gesture that Danny recognized as one of boiling anger. "I knew it. He doesn’t trust us.”

“Can you blame him?” Danny retorted. “Any one of you could be enthralled! Jon was, for who knows how long!”

“So why tell us?” Sasha asked.

Danny wrapped his arms around himself, trying to find some semblance of warmth on the cold tile.

“Trusting you is a mistake,” he said. “Not trusting you would also be a mistake. I already made the mistake of not trusting my family, and look how that turned out.” He attempted a smile, but it felt so much like a lie that it hurt. “Figured I’d switch things up.”

“Shit,” Tim sighed.

“How do you know he’s telling the truth?” Sasha asked. “For all you know, he left those marks. He’s got as much of a reason to want Tim dead as Elias—no reason at all, that is.”

“Like I said. I’m done with distrust. And Elias didn’t want Tim dead.”

“Sure felt like he did,” Tim replied, gesturing to the scar above his lung.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have cared if you died, but I think he wanted me to be mad enough to kill Nikola. Which I did, like a damn fool.” Danny laughed bitterly. “Some Ringmaster I make, huh? Nothing more than a puppet dancing for vampires to who knows what end.”

Sasha laid a consoling hand on his.
“You couldn’t have known,” she said.

Of course he couldn’t have known. But he might have known. Might have somehow prevented what happened. Nikola’s death was Danny’s fault, and as Sasha’s cool and comforting fingers brushed his own, the full weight of his guilt came swinging down upon him like a sack of bricks, and he burst into heavy and grating sobs.

Sasha took Danny into her arms, and Tim clambered gracelessly out of the water to sit beside them. Danny just leaned into Sasha’s shoulder and cried as Tim rubbed his back with a wet hand.

“It’s all my fault,” he sobbed. “I was rash, I…I shouldn’t have…and now everything’s…”

“It’s okay,” Sasha soothed.

Eventually, Danny composed himself and sat up. At this point, everyone was either wet with tears or pool water, and he hiccuped a feeble giggle.

“What do we do now?” he asked, his voice still raspy. “Everything’s gone wrong, and I don’t see a way forward after what I’ve done.”

“There’s an old Unseelie saying,” Tim said with a wry little smile. “You used to tell me, remember?” He brushed a stray lock of hair from Danny’s eyes. “It is expected to grovel before the beast of your sins. It is good to slay it. And it is great to carve it into food.”

“You’re mistranslating it.”

“You get the point, wise guy.” Tim ruffled Danny’s hair. “Now is the time to carve something up.”

“You’re not suggesting we eat Elias,” Sasha scoffed.

Tim shrugged. “He is rich, isn’t he, comrade James?”

Danny nodded decisively. He was guilty. He was wrong. But he was the Ringmaster of the Unseelie Court, and he felt the ghostly crown of his forebears rest upon his forehead.

“I knew it,” Daisy growled, pacing back and forth in Tim’s living room that was far too small for the gathering it currently hosted, and certainly too small for her to be pacing. “I knew there was something off about him. When I catch up with that bastard, I’ll tear his throat out.” She grinned mirthlessly. “Where did Martin say he was?”

“He didn’t,” Danny said. “We need to find where Elias has taken Jon, and Martin won’t tell us. Which is why we brought you two.” He gestured to Georgie and Melanie.

“Hold up,” Melanie put a hand up. “Just—slow down, all right! What in the ever loving fuck?” She rounded on Georgie. “Babe, you didn’t tell me vampires were real!”

“You’re still stuck on the vampires?” Sasha was incredulous. “That was like, the first thing we mentioned!”

“You’ve kind of dropped a lot on me! My friend was a vampire this whole time and now he’s not telling you about your friend being kidnapped because any one of you people could be enthralled or whatever—it’s a lot to process, all right!”

Mike snickered and sipped his tea.

“Process it quickly, then,” said Basira. “It isn’t just this Sims guy at stake. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like Bouchard hunting in London with impunity.”

“Risotto’s ready!” Tim called from the kitchen.

“Do prepare me a bowl!” said Micheal.

“And another thing,” Melanie announced. “Didn’t you just say he’s, what, some sort of monster? Why is he here? ”

“To cause problems on purpose,” Micheal purred. “And because I am simply tired of being watched.”

Daisy shot him an absolutely venomous glare. “Are there any other monsters you’re inviting we should know about?”

Tim started passing out the bowls of risotto. “Not unless you know any, no.”

“Why are you getting uppity about monsters?” Mike drawled. “You’re a werewolf!”

“You’re a WHAT!” Melanie demanded.

“So!” Danny showed off the whiteboard. “We know that Elias is a vampire who has Jon enthralled. He’s had him enthralled for a bit, but is now escalating to take him as a thrall with the purpose of adding him to the bloodline. And he’s taking Jon…somewhere. I assume that has something to do with where Martin’s going in two days.”

“And he didn’t tell us because any of us might be enthralled,” Basira concluded. “Well, any one of you. I think it’s hard to argue that Elias would have reason to enthrall me.”

“I would’ve smelled him on you,” Daisy confirmed.

“Or maybe you’re both enthralled,” Melanie pointed out.

Georgie raised her hand. “I was born immune to magical mental influence, if that helps.”

“Maybe Elias enthralled you to say that,” Tim countered lightly.

“And maybe it doesn’t matter anyway,” Danny concluded. “I’m going to act as if we’re all uninfluenced and hope for the best.”

“And you’re sure that’s the right choice?” Micheal giggled.

“It’s a choice I can live with,” Danny told him.

“Right,” Melanie sighed. “Sure. This is fine.”

Micheal turned to her. “Don’t forget,” he said cheerily, “you could be enthralled and not even know!”

Georgie swatted him with a rolled-up newspaper, and he returned to his risotto with a pout.

Danny started outlining a checklist. “First of all, we need to find out where Bouchard has taken Jon. Then, we need to find out if he’s working with anyone. Finally, we need to know what he wants.”

“I think it’s obvious what he wants,” said Sasha. “Power.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Mike pondered. “Why now?”

“Because of the Unspooling,” Danny said, tapping the whiteboard. “The Unseelie forced his hand. He needed a sucker to stop it—that’s where I came in—and then I guess he got scared.”

“Cool,” Mike said. “I suppose I’m simply unclear on why this matters to you all so much. It seems there’s no more at stake than one man.”

“Well, you’ve obviously not been paying attention,” Daisy responded. “We’ve known for years someone’s been shielding certain supernatural offenders from repercussions. Now we know who.”

“Haven’t you ever felt watched, Micheal?” Micheal asked. “Haven’t you ever felt his gaze on the back of your neck, coming from everywhere at once?”

“We don’t know much,” Basira said. “Which means that there’s probably far more reasons why he needs to be stopped, and we need to be proactive.”

Mike raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his tea.

“Well,” Melanie sighed. “I guess we start looking into where Bouchard is, huh?”

Chapter Text

The process of putting the suit on was almost meditative. Martin’s face was stone as he made sure the fabric lay right. His hands did not shake as he fixed the cufflinks—small golden suns, not the opals Peter gave him. His eyes were steady and determined as he tucked a few items into the pockets, and there was an unfamiliar set to his mouth that left him confident it would say what it needed to say.

He was getting out of Moorland House with Jon, or not at all.

He’d already placed a few choice words, sewn the seeds of discontent in Moorland house. Not enough to cause a coup. Just enough to hopefully distract Elias long enough to whisk Jon away.

And then what? Where could they hide? How could he break the enthrallment? Martin didn’t know. He had a few ideas, but he couldn’t wait until he had a full plan. It had taken him long enough to make those calls and make them right.

He’d taken a break, of course, to visit the Institute. To search Elias’s desk. He’d found nothing of note but for two things: an empty wine bottle with a few drops of red liquid still remaining, and an agate protection charm on a leather cord. He slung the cord around his neck under the cravat and let the stone rest next to his heart.

Martin didn’t really have the budget for a rental car, but he needed transportation he could depend on for the getaway. He’d sell his entire bookshop if it meant helping Jon escape. Hell, he’d burn it to the ground. He’d give up anything. He had the feeling that resolution would end up being put to the test, and he’d made his peace with that.

Why had Elias-Magnus invited him? What was he hoping to achieve? To rub his victory in Martin’s face? Well, Martin would certainly play along with that if he had to.

The road to Moorland House was long and lonely. Fog streamed past the windows as he drove those desolate streets. Once he got close, there wasn’t a single other car on the road, even though dozens of vampires were on the way to this three-day get-together. It was a peculiar quality of the Lukas clan: near them, things were far more lonely.

And then he was at the house itself. It loomed like a guilty secret, with almost as many windows as stories held within its walls. The perfect setting for a dashing rescue, Martin thought wryly, but he had the feeling his spiriting away of the man he loved wouldn’t go quite like a fairytale.

And then what? Magnus wouldn’t let go of his prize so easily, and Martin wasn’t strong enough to stand against the combined might of all those clans, even if he could cajole Cane over to his side. His only option was to cause strife between Magnus and Lukas, and even that might not work. It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was Jon.

He strode up the too-long front pathway and knocked on the door, three sonorous and conclusive thumps. The door swung open. Martin was expecting a thrall to answer it, but instead there was the Lukas patriarch himself.

“Hello, Mordechai,” Martin said, his voice as cool and smooth as a frozen lake, betraying none of the screeching turmoil underneath.

“Blackwood,” Mordechai grunted. “So you’ve come to your senses.”

“I’ve come to terms with who I am,” Martin replied. “And I’d like to see what you’re serving for dinner.”

The Lukas dinners were always extravagant, with all manner of food as an appetizer and the thralls as the main course. Martin had his own seasonings up his sleeve, of course. The Lukases may have been immortal vampires, but they were, first and foremost, white people who had not learned how to season chicken in their centuries of unlife.

Martin walked into the manor and had to suppress the urge to turn around and run. He hadn’t been here since he’d been on the menu. It was just as cold as he remembered. The main hall could have been a thing of warmth and grandeur, but instead it felt like a church the dead. Tables clothed in white were laid out across the walls, laden with fruit and alcohol. The hall was already dotted with vampires, idly chatting and catching up. Between them flitted thralls like waiters without trays, holding out their wrists for whatever vampires asked for them. Martin suppressed the urge to grab the thralls and run. He was here for Jon.

He looked around, but couldn’t find Elias. Martin frowned as he poured himself a glass of wine just to have something to do with his hands. Elias cared greatly about punctuality—would he really be late?

As if on cue, someone knocked on the door. Mordecai answered it, and there was Elias’s smarmy face that Martin longed to rake off with his teeth.

“You’re late,” Mordecai told him.

“Apologies,” Elias replied. “I had to get a suit dry cleaned.”

He stepped inside, and behind him—

Jon. There was Jon.

He was in a suit, all-white like a sacrifice. His long hair was cropped short, and his stubble was shaved clean. He looked alien. He looked dead. His eyes were as blank as the corpse Magnus planned to make him into. Martin bit his lip. He prepared to signal Jon to stay quiet, but as Jon’s eyes passively scanned the room, they didn’t linger on Martin at all. He didn’t look hurt, which was good. He just looked blank.

Martin remembered a story about the vampire Magnus. That he could take memories. He pushed the story away to the back of his mind.

There was no point in hiding his presence. He marched right up to Elias.

“Hello, Elias.”
“Ah, Mr. Blackwood,” Elias greeted. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Martin took a deliberately casual sip of wine. “I wasn’t going to, until I heard you’d personally requested my presence.” His tongue felt…odd, forming that formal dialect the vampires all seemed to insist on. They never seemed to speak like normal, working-class people. “I was curious.”

Elias gestured to Jon. “You’ve met my Archivist, correct?”

“Yes, Jon and I—“

Elias held up his hand. “He is the Archivist, not Jon. I’m afraid you’ll need to reintroduce yourself.”

So the stories were true. So Jon’s memories were sucked out like blood. Martin took another long sip of wine and pretended it was Elias’s blood, then turned to Jon.

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

Jon bowed. Fucking bowed. He said nothing. Martin’s fist clenched.

Once Jon was safe, he was going to kill Elias.

The manor was exactly what the Archivist was expecting. He looked around once they entered—there were plenty of vampires here that his master would no doubt introduce him to.

Sure enough, he met one. A man named Martin Blackwood. Martin instantly put the Archivist at ease—he was a bit confused, and those kind eyes seemed safe. And apparently Magnus himself had requested his presence, so surely he was a friend.

The Archivist was happy, he told himself. The next three days were going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Martin could smell the of cooking from the kitchen—rare meat, exotic shellfish that would no doubt look disgusting, marinades made from all sorts of expensive wines and extracted blood. The meal was no doubt being prepared by captive thralls, like the ones that set the table. He’d come back for them. Once Jon was free and they had a plan, he’d come back for them. He poured himself a glass of wine from the side table.

“How are you enjoying the party?”

Martin gasped and whirled around to see Elias standing there, holding his own glass of what was probably not red wine.

“F-fine,” Martin stuttered out. “It’s…a bit garish, don’t you think.”

Elias hummed. “You really should come to these things more often. Develop a taste for it. So to speak.” He took a decadent sip of his wine. “I do hope you don’t harbor any ill feelings towards me about my Archivist.”

Martin took his own sip. “I have to admit, I’m a little...upset, I guess is the word I would use. I was preparing him to be my own thrall, not knowing you’d already called dibs.”

“Well, it’s not like he’s leaving the area,” Elias said. “He’ll still be enthralled at the Institute for quite some time while I prepare him for his transformation. I’m sure we can share. I’m not a possessive man, and I do believe you will be a great aid in his metamorphosis.”

Martin’s skin crawled.

“I would like for us to be on good terms,” Elias continued. “I believe we have a lot to offer each other.”

“I agree completely,” Martin said. He raised his glass. “To our ongoing partnership, and to Jon.”

Elias smirked, clinked their glasses. “To my Archivist.”

Martin sipped his wine in unison with Elias and made a private toast to Elias’s coming death. He vowed to ruin Elias, to tear him apart, to see his blood run upon the floor.

Martin found Jon in the hallway, looking at the paintings of the Lukas family hung on the wall.

“Hello,” Martin said softly. Jon didn’t look at him. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Jon answered immediately. “What else would I be?”

“Are you excited for dinner?” Martin asked. “I’ve never actually been. Well, not as a guest.”

“I’m not excited,” Jon replied, his voice slow. “I’m…I think I need to learn how to feel excited again.”

“Elias took your memories, right?”

Jon’s shoulders stiffened a little. “I don’t know. Someone must have, right? I should have 29 years of memories, but there’s just…ash.” He finally looked at Martin. His brows were knit in concentration. “Did you know me, Mr. Blackwood?”

“It’s just Martin. And yes. I did.”

“Who was I,” Jon asked, “before I was the Archivist?”

“You’ve been an archivist as long as I’ve known you. But you were so much more.”

Martin opened his mouth to say more, but at that moment, the dinner bell rang. They walked into the dining room side by side, as they had walked so often, and yet though Martin hadn’t grown an inch Jon was impossibly small. The table was long and the lighting was dark. The intricate gold of the tablecloth embroidery was wasted, its details only shown in glimpses by the candelabras every few feet. Though Martin was among the taller of the vampires, they all seemed to loom, their faces cast in dramatic shadow.

Martin ended up seated between Jon and Annabelle Cane. She actually chose to sit next to him. Martin wondered why that was. Maybe she wanted to talk about knitting. Probably not.

A line of blank-faced thralls streamed from the kitchen, placing plates in front of everyone containing the meals they’d requested from the list that had come with the invitation. In one smooth motion, they uncovered the meals. There were so many of them. So many people that needed to be freed. But Martin didn’t have the energy for them. He turned his attention to applying garlic salt to his own food.

Elias had no doubt chosen the contents of Jon’s plate—caviar, rare steak, a single gold-flaked grilled cheese sandwich. Jon poked at the food disinterestedly with a fork, silent as the table erupted into conversation.

“Not hungry?” Martin asked.

Jon looked up with a start.

“Here.” Martin slid his plate in Jon’s direction. “Try some of this.”

Jon gave it a cautious prod. “What is it?”

“Risotto.”

“I’ve never had it.”

Martin smiled weakly. “There’s a first time for everything.”

The Archivist had never had risotto before. He was sure he never had risotto before. But Martin wanted him to try it, and Elias wanted him and Martin to get along, so he took a bite.

The risotto was creamy, the flavor cheesy and light with the unmistakable tang of garlic. There was a pea in the bite he took. It was simple, homey, delicious, and the Archivist felt a dull buzz in the back of his skull. He took another bite, unthinkingly, and his head started to hurt. The garlic tickled his tongue in a way that was intimately familiar. He took another bite, and it was like coming home.

The Archivist set his fork down and shook his head. No. No, this wasn’t right. His home, his destiny was with Elias.

“Do you like it?” Martin asked, and The Archivist’s mouth was flooded with the creamy taste of garlic. He catalogued it, committed it to memory, to the Archive in his skull.

“I—I don’t…I don’t know.” That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right. He was supposed to know everything.

“Are you all right, Archivist?” Elias asked from the other side.

“I’m fine,” the Archivist replied, and realized suddenly that he had just lied to Elias. He wasn’t fine. Something was wrong.

“Can I try yours?” Martin asked, and the Archivist nodded. There was a secret hidden like the peas in this risotto, and he had to find it. Martin could have the Archivist’s entire plate. The Archivist had to know. The need for knowledge thrummed through his veins and found a home behind his eyes.

He kept eating the risotto, and with each bite, his head started to clear a little. Yes, he’d eaten this before. His magic hummed in his eyes and fingertips. He turned it inward, tracing sigils on the underside of the table with one hand as he ate with the other. His neck prickled, and he knew somehow that Elias and Martin were both watching him. He slowed down. Ate in the prim, bland bites Elias was expecting.

He knew Martin. They had met. His neck hurt, his wrist hurt—which one had Martin fed from? It had been one of them, he knew. He didn’t remember. He still remembered nothing. But there was knowledge there, knowledge without context, like he’d picked up a book from a secondhand store and found the details of his life written within.

A bookstore. Now there was a funny analogy. The Archivist wondered where he’d gotten it from. He wondered where he’d felt Martin’s gaze before, and why it felt like the smell of paper and rosemary.

On his right, Martin and a woman Elias had introduced as Ms. Cane made small talk. On his left, Elias chatted with Peter Lukas. The Archivist did not like Peter Lukas, but his reasoning was a dreamed memory as tangible as candy-floss.

The Archivist ate. The Archivist finished his risotto. The Archivist stared at the plate until dinner was over because his head hurt every time he tried to talk. His tongue felt wrong.

After the dinner, Martin asked the Archivist how he liked the risotto, and the Archivist didn’t have an answer. The risotto hated his master. The risotto hurt his tongue like the edge of a pan hurts an eggshell. The risotto tasted divine and made his heart so hot it threatened to char his ribcage.

“I have a gift for you,” Martin said as they headed up to their rooms. “I can’t give it to you until we’re back in London.” He reached a hand beneath his suit and showed the Archivist a pendant. Agate, the Archivist knew.

“I’ll be a different person back in London,” the Archivist said, and immediately frowned. What did he mean by that? How did he know that Elias would do something to him, would take more than he’d already taken? Certainly no one had told him, but it was in the Archivist’s nature to know.

“What person do you want to be?” Martin asked.

The Archivist didn’t have an answer. He tasted garlic.

Chapter Text

The Archivist was remembering.

He paced back and forth in his far too opulent bedroom. The risotto still lingered in his mouth. He had to uncover those memories. They were starting to come back, flashes and snippets and fragments like the shards of a broken mirror.

There was a man in his memory who snapped his fingers and produced sparks. There was a woman with glinting blades springing from her skin. They were important. He loved them. Who were the people in his memories? Martin would know. Martin would know about the man who wore Hawaiian shirts and the woman who loved watching YouTube video essays about movies she’d never seen and games she’d never played.

They made risotto for him, and he loved them deeply. Their laughs were hot chocolate and their faces were safety. The Archivist wasn’t safe now. He was in the right face to fulfill his true purpose, and he wasn’t safe.

Elias wasn’t safe. What did Elias want with him? What did the Archivist want? He wanted to see them smile again. He wanted to get out of here. He wanted to know, and knowledge was here, and yet he wanted to leave. He wanted the knowledge that Elias wouldn’t give him.

And then there was Martin. The Archivist desperately wanted far more memories of him than he had. He wanted to know what it was to be loved by Martin, but he didn’t know if such things lived in his mind or had never existed.

Did Martin just want to make him his own, like Elias?

The Archivist staggered over to the chair in the corner and braced his arms against the back. He had to get out of here. He had to piece things back together. But he couldn’t. He belonged to Elias, and that was a bond he couldn’t break. What could break a vampire’s thrall? A thrall, right. That’s what he was. He’d read about this, hadn’t he?

A raven landed on the sill of his open window.

“Martin,” The Archivist breathed. He had no idea Martin could change into a bird. And yet he knew that name like it was imprinted on his tongue, like he was an archeologist finally clearing the dirt away from a mosaic. Elias couldn’t erase anything from his Archive, just hide it deep within the stacks.

And there was Martin, changing in one fluid motion to stand in his bedroom. The Archivist’s heart started pounding. What if he was wrong? What if Martin wasn’t safe?

“Are you okay?” Martin asked, voice soft as his feathers, and all Jon’s distrust evaporated in an instant, dispersed by the cold wind of trust.

“Y-yes. Yes, I’m okay.”

Martin walked to him, grabbed him by the shoulders. “We need to get you out of here. I need you to remember, Jon. I need you to remember who you are.”

The Archivist blinked. “I can’t. Elias doesn’t want me to.”

Who was Jon?

“Fuck Elias! You don’t need him to be an Archivist, Jon. You’re not his. Please, Jon.” Martin’s hands were shaking. “Please. I need you, Jon.”

The Archivist’s heart ached, his chest so empty it hurt. His heart wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It wasn’t supposed to feel anything. The fact that it beat at all was an unfortunate malfunction. Martin was hurting. He was in pain, and sad, and it was Jon’s fault because he couldn’t remember. The Archivist didn’t want to hurt Martin. The Archivist’s love for Martin was emblazoned like the name of a library above the doors.

He couldn’t remember deciding that he’d do anything for Martin, but it was a decision he’d made at some point. He’d walk into hell for the man standing before him. Martin was stamped so indelibly on his brain that Elias could only wipe him out for so long. He had to remember.

The Archivist remembered the taste of garlic on his tongue.

“Tim,” he breathed. “Sasha.”

Martin lit up. “Yes, yes! Tim and Sasha! They’re you’re friends, and…and they could be in trouble too. We have to get you out of here so we can make sure Elias didn’t get to them too.”

All three of them needed him. He was not Elias’s archivist.

He was the Archivist. He was Jonathan Sims. The Archive in his mind was his alone, and it would be organized as he saw fit.

He collapsed into the chair.

“I’m Jon,” he breathed. “I’m Jonathan Sims, and I have friends, and I am in love.”

“Yes!” Martin laughed. “Yes, yes you are! Okay, so, now what do we do?”

Jon glared at him. “I thought you had a plan. How do we get me out of servitude to an extremely old and powerful vampire?”

Martin looked sheepish. “I…don’t know. I don’t think we’re going to be able to convince him to perform an unbinding ritual.”

Jon closed his eyes. What Elias had done to him seemed to have aligned something in his brain, as if Elias had reorganized his magic. It was odd. There was a catalog behind his eyes.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What’s your idea.”

“I think thralldom used to be something like marriage. Something that was entered into with the consent of both parties. If both of us wanted it, maybe you could enthrall me. That might be enough.”

“No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

Jon cracked an eye open. “Martin. If we ever want to break the Magnus Seal, we’re going to have to get me out of here.”

Martin blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, we have to…finish what Nikola started…” Jon trailed off as he realized what he was saying. Some of Elias’s power must have leaked into him. Gross. “We’ll talk about that later. This is the only way.”

“I’m not going to do that do you, Jon! Being enthralled is horrible. I promised myself I’d never do to anyone else what Peter did to me. I won’t subject you to that! I just won’t!”

“So you’ll leave me here with Elias?”

“We’ll find another way. We have to find another way.”

“Martin.” Jon stood up, walked over to him, took his hand. “You won’t break your promise. Because you’re not like Peter. We can do this right.” He reached up and touched Martin’s cheeks. Martin’s eyes were closed and filled with tears. “You’re not a monster. I love you, and I trust you.”

Martin’s eyes flew open. “You…oh.”

“Now, don’t waste time. Bite me.”

Martin giggled, shocked and tired. “Did you just make a joke? Now?”

“Mmmm, no, you must have heard wrong.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. But as soon as we’re safe, I’m unbinding you.” In one smooth motion, he picked Jon up off his feet. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight until then.”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving your sight.”

Martin deposited Jon on the bed. “You might want to just, ah, relax. I’ve never done this before, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I won’t mind much if you do.” Jon flushed. “That came out, ah, a tad kinkier than I intended.”

“Any insights on how to do this?”

“I though you knew how to enthrall someone!”

“I know the Peter way. We’re trying to not do that, remember?” Martin closed his eyes, and wings grew from his back. His ears grew pointed, and Jon saw his teeth shift beneath his lips. “S-sorry about this. I don’t think I can focus on, um, I just can’t focus on holding my form right now.”

“It’s all right, Martin.”

“Okay.” Martin’s fangs flashed when he spoke. They’d been in Jon before, and it hadn’t hurt at all. “Let’s do this.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to, uh, start with a benediction,” Martin said.

“Isn’t that a fae thing?”

“Well, I don’t really know what I’m doing, okay? I’m flying blind here!”

Jon opened his mouth to make some argument, then shut it again. Martin cupped his cheek in one hand. His skin was soft.

“Fae benedictions help free someone from the compulsions of their kind,” Martin said. “I figure, since thralldom and feeding are about intention, I could maybe imitate that?”

“By all means.”

Martin abruptly remembered that benedictions involved a kiss, and a little thrill ran down his spine. Jon loved him. Jon loved him, and Martin wasn’t going to hurt him.

He pressed a kiss to Jon’s knuckles. “May your actions remain your own.” He kissed Jon’s forehead, and Jon’s eyes fluttered closed. “May your thoughts remain your own.” He kissed both of Jon’s eyelids. “May what you see be unaltered, and may your eyes see true.” He kissed the tips of Jon’s ears. “May you be free from lies and deceit.”

Martin felt the thrum of magic through his teeth. It felt like when his fangs were buried in his friends, warm and languid.

He pushed Jon’s blazer off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt halfway to press a kiss to the skin of his chest over his heart.

“May you choose where your heart takes you.”

“I’ve already chosen,” Jon whispered.

Martin’s breath hitched. Jon had chosen him. He hadn’t chosen him for his utility, for his ability to carry on a bloodline, or for his malleability. He had chosen him out of love.

“Martin,” Jon continued, “don’t you think my words ought to remain my own, as well?”

He looked up at Martin through half-lidded eyes, a little smirk on those beautiful lips, cheeks flushed. His voice sounded almost giddy, like he was riding the high of getting his memories back. It could also just be the blood loss.

“Well,” Martin hummed, “if you insist.”

He bit his own tongue, filling his mouth with blood, and captured Jon’s mouth in a kiss. Jon hummed deep in his chest, more of a vibration than a sound, and his hands reached up to tangle in Martin’s hair. As Jon’s tongue ran over his sharp teeth, tasting Martin’s blood, Martin poured his intention into the kiss. He would reciprocate Jon’s blood with protection. He would give Jon all he needed. He would never hurt Jon. He would love him with all his inhuman ferocity and human tenderness.

For richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health.

“Martin,” Jon breathed as their lips parted. He repeated the name again. “Martin.”

He said it like “Mahtin.” He said Martin’s name like he needed to say it to survive, like he couldn’t breathe without Martin.

“Take my blood,” Jon said, and Martin felt the buzz of magic in his words. “It’s yours.”

A verbal contract was not something to be taken lightly in their circles. When Jon said those words, Martin could suddenly hear Jon’s heartbeat. He could taste blood that wasn’t his.

“I am yours,” Martin replied. This had to be reciprocal. He had to belong to Jon just as much as Jon belonged to him. He said those three words, and his heart felt warm. He couldn’t stop it from beating if he tried.

Jon tilted back his neck, and Martin needed no further invitation. He slid his fangs into Jon’s neck with the utmost tenderness and sipped from his veins as if taking communion. This blood was given freely as a reassurance of love, and Martin could feel it in Jon’s hands.

As he drank, Martin vowed that he would be Jon’s, and Jon would be his. They would belong to no one else. He would never influence Jon, and Jon would never hurt him. Jon melted beneath his touch, and their hearts beat in time with each other.

“I love you,” Jon choked out.

Blood rushed into Martin’s mouth, and something just clicked. He felt it in his heart and in his veins, and judging from how Jon’s hands clenched against Martin’s back, he felt it too. He withdrew his fangs.
“Did it work?” he breathed.

A howl of rage echoed from down the hall, where Elias’s room was. Footsteps pounded closer and closer.

“Uh,” Jon gasped, “I believe that’s a yes.”

Martin grabbed Jon’s hand and hauled him to his feet. He felt more human than he had since he’d been turned, but humanity wasn’t what they needed right now. It suddenly occurred to Martin how stupid his plan—or lack thereof—was. The entirety of the Lukas manor would be after them.

He scooped Jon into his arms and leapt out of the window, taking to the skies. He wasn’t use to flying in this form, and especially not while carrying someone, so they nearly hit the ground before Martin gained enough momentum to clear the treetops.

“Get back here!” Elias screamed from the window. “You’ve taken what’s mine!”

“I told you!” Jon yelled back. “I am not for you!”

Martin glanced back just in time to see Elias pull out a gun. Why the fuck did he have a gun?

Martin prepared to dive below the treetops, but then the crack of a gunshot echoed through the foggy skies, and he was plummeting as his broken wing spurted blood. He was too shocked to even scream, but Jon screamed for him, and that gave Martin the resolve to pull into a spiraling glide. Martin’s back hit the ground first, and he curled around Jon protectively as they skidded across the driveway. His other wing was definitely broken, but Martin barely felt the pain.

“Shit,” Jon muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He detangled himself from Martin and stood.

“Martin. Martin, get up, we have to go.”

Martin stood up shakily. His wings were already starting to heal thanks to the blood he’d taken from Jon, but they weren’t nearly ready to fly.

“We have to get to the car.” He grabbed Jon’s wrist and started running.

“Get back here!” Mordecai Lukas’s voice boomed as the manor door slammed open. “You have broken our treaty!”

Martin didn’t know or care what the hell that meant. He just needed to make it to the rental car. He cursed himself for parking on the street before the driveway rather than the driveway itself.

Martin and Jon were fast, but the vampires streaming from the house were faster. They were going to catch up.

A orb of fire pierced the dark sky, lighting the fog up in a soft glow as it arched towards the manor. The vampires all tracked its motion as it hit, sending the roof up in flames.

“HEY!” a familiar voice yelled. “Vampires! Stop right there or I burn the whole house down!”
There was Tim Stoker, standing alone in the driveway, wearing some kind of metal glove. Oh no, had he come alone? Even the three of them couldn’t stand against all these vampires.

The vampires didn’t stop. Elias was on them in a second, and Martin lunged at him, but Elias was too fast. He pointed a gun at Jon’s forehead, and everyone froze. Elias was magnetic like that—in every situation he was in, he held all the strings like some puppeteer.”

“Now,” Elias said in his smooth voice, “since you came here to rescue him, I assume he’ll make an effective hostage. Don’t do anything hasty.”

Martin slowly raised his hands in surrender. Elias had been around so much longer than him—he couldn’t be beat one-on-one.

“I know you have allies hiding in the trees,” Elias continued. “Step out or I shoot him in the head. I have time to raise another Archivist. I won’t hesitate.”

Martin’s eyes darted desperately over the other vampires, searching for allies. None of them seemed sympathetic. Most of them looked hungry, and they licked their lips as figures emerged from the woods. Martin frowned. How had they gotten the Distortion and Am Fear Liath Mor on their side? Oh no, Daisy and Melanie were here. And Sasha. And Danny. So many people he cared about in one place, and they were probably all about to die.

“Let’s talk,” Danny said. “Give us Jon back.”

“He’s the Archivist. I’ve grown rather fond of him.”
Danny was sweating and shaking. He didn’t look well, and Martin recognized the telltale signs of herbal influence in his eyes. What was he on?

“From what I’ve seen,” Danny said, “it looks like you want power more than Jon specifically. And you want to stop the Magnus Seal from being broken. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to make a deal that gives us all what we want. One that gives us Jon, and guarantees that the Seal won’t be broken.”

Elias chuckled. Jon trembled in his grip, and Martin could feel Jon’s fear in the pit of his stomach. “I’m not a fool. I know you’ll just use Jon to break the seal.”

“Which is why we’re offering you a guarantee that the London court will cooperate,” Tim said. He didn’t look at all happy. He looked like he was about to cry. Martin got the sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to like this deal.

“Your guarantees mean nothing,” Elias said. “I’m sure a fae as clever as Danny can figure out a way to go back on a promise.”

Danny pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and Elias’s eyes widened in hunger.

“Well, well, well,” Elias breathed. “Is that—“

“My birth certificate,” Danny confirmed.

Oh. Fuck.

Changelings guarded their birth certificate with their lives. That piece of paper contained their true names, and whoever owned it owned them.

“Danny, don’t!” Jon yelled. “He won’t actually kill me. Please, don’t do this! Leave me, and break the seal!”

Elias pressed the barrel of the gun into Jon’s skin. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, and Martin longed to run to him.

“You have no power in this negotiation, Archivist,” he said smoothly.

“He’ll just take Jon back,” Martin told Danny. “Once he controls you, he’ll just take Jon back.”

“I’m a gentleman, Mr. Blackwood,” Elias said. “I’m perfectly happy with Mr. Stoker’s proposition. We won’t have to fear the seal being broken, and I can always find a new successor.”

“You give us Jon and Martin,” Danny said, “and I’ll give you the certificate.”

Elias let Jon go. Martin immediately ran to him and grabbed his hand. They ran away from the vampires to stand behind Tim.

“You’re not really going to let him do this!” Jon hissed to Tim.

“We have no other choice,” Tim whispered back. He grabbed Jon’s forearm. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Martin could only watch in despair as Elias took Danny’s birth certificate, unfolding it with relish. Elias would know if it was forged, so that really was Danny’s birth certificate. They’d traded one thrall for another.

“This isn’t right,” Martin said.

“Just trust us!” Tim hissed.

Elias’s eyes skimmed over the certificate, and he smirked. Now that Elias had Danny’s name, Danny could not disobey him.

“None of the Court will harm me or any other vampire, except on my instructions,” Elias ordered. “You will stop your friends from harming me, and if one of them succeeds in killing me, you will kill yourself.”

Danny nodded solemnly. The vampires all relaxed, their grins sharp and self-satisfied. They’d won.

“In return, I will leave you and your friends alone. The Archivist, Mage, and Hunter will still work for the Institute, but I will not enthrall them.”

“Danny,” Martin whispered helplessly.

They’d failed. They’d never even had a chance to succeed.

“One more thing,” Danny said.

“Yes!”

Danny raised two fingers, and a fleet of silver arrows shot from the treetops like rain. Elias screamed as two pierced his legs. It happened too fast for Martin to even process—one moment the vampires were all standing, and the next, they were all grievously wounded by Unseelie arrows. They’d let their guard down and paid the price. Martin just didn’t understand how.

“Wh—but—your birth certificate!” Elias spluttered as he tugged at the arrows. “I gave you an order! I have your name!”

Danny grinned, eyes wild and teeth sharp.

“My birth certificate doesn’t have my true name. I’m trans, dipshit.”

With that, Tim’s hands lit up with fire and their ragtag army charged at the wounded vampires.