Chapter Text
“I still don't see why we all have to come, George. The two of us probably won't be very useful- no offence to you, Luce."
She snorted, dryly amused. "None taken."
Ahead of them, the form of their mutual friend and colleague George was striding along the pavement, the tap, tap, tap, of his footsteps sounding impatiently on the concrete. "We're all going because it'll do us good to put on a professional front! She's a student at the Imperial College, so some standards have to be maintained." He said this all with a slightly officious air, as if he was about to announce the name of a Lady or Duchess into a ballroom.
Immediately Lucy's stomach swooped a little with apprehension. The last time George had befriended an academic it hadn't ended well; plus, this being a university student probably meant that this person had likely never been an agent or even ventured outside the safety of the ghost defences after dark. Ex-agents weren't exactly known to go on to have normal or educated careers, so chances were this person would be just like all the other adults that asked Lockwood & Co for help. In other words: useless.
Suddenly she felt a nudge in her side and looked over, only to be subject to Lockwood's mega-watt smile, clearly having sensed her unease. Perhaps predictably, this made her feel pleasantly warm and chased the ill feeling away even as her employer spoke. "I'm sure it'll be fine, but just what is this Miss. McArthur like, George? You've told us that she can help us with this job, but you're the only one to have met her."
Slowing down marginally, George flapped his right hand dismissively as he thought over the question. The other one was clutching a rather thick file of papers to his chest that constantly threatened to burst and spill all over the pavement. "She'll definitely be able to help us." He said empathically. "We've helped each other out a few times now, actually. Remember the Screaming Head of Eagle Street? She's the one who gave me the tip of looking for places someone might've hidden jewellery."
Lucy made a face, remembering. "Wasn't that the one where the source was a necklace made out of her dead husband's hair?"
Unfazed, George nodded. "Yup. Common practice in Victorian times as a part of mourning."
Meanwhile, Lockwood had other things on his mind. "I'm not sure how I feel about you telling some random student the details of our cases, George. How do you know that we can trust her?"
Lucy winced a little as George cringed. No one wanted to be reminded of Joplin, but the woman had been weighing on all of their minds ever since this little outing had been proposed. Not entirely unlike the ghosts they hunted and the creeping miasma they produced, actually.
Recovering swiftly, the bespectacled boy drew himself up slightly. "Because she used to be an agent, Lockwood. One of us, so she actually gets this stuff. Besides, I hardly give away 'details'- I learned my lesson, so I'm always vague. She hardly minds so long as she gets my help with a few things."
Blinking, Lucy opened her mouth to voice the question that had arisen as soon as her mind stuttered over the word agent but Lockwood got there first. "If you don't mind my asking, help with what? What does a university student need help from an agent for?" He asked frowningly.
Apparently unbothered by his boss's disapproval, their researcher made a see-sawing motion with his free hand. "Homework, basically- Nina's a history undergraduate preparing for her dissertation, so she's in the archives a lot doing research. I've been using them for a lot longer than she has though, so sometimes I help her find what she's looking for."
"Hold on a moment. You said that she used to be an agent. How-"
"That's really not something for me to share, Lucy. Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Irritation more audible in her voice than she'd like, she responded: "Maybe I will."
The topic was then cheerfully murdered by an exuberant Lockwood, who interrupts the newly tense atmosphere by asking George about his own progress on the case, and the conversation moves on. Still, Lucy can't help but have her hackles raised; adults, historically, hadn't been very kind to Lockwood & Co, and ex-agent or not, she wasn't about to almost lose one of her team again.
“Ah, there she is.” George sighed with a big grin on his face. “Let’s go say hello.”
The building they were in was at once familiar to all three of them, but none more so than George. The National Archives might have well have been his second home, and he moved between tables and around shelves with the ease of long familiarity. Lucy and Lockwood, on the other hand, moved with some slight caution, taking in their surroundings and the woman that George was approaching.
She was facing one of the shelves so they could only see her side profile, but even so Lucy had to admit that she didn’t look like an obsessed cultist desperately wanting to get a peek at the Other Side. For one thing, she was short; possibly even shorter than Lucy, who probably had at least one growth spurt left in her. For another, she wasn’t dressed at all like the typical picture of a mousy academic; the woman had on what appeared to be steel-capped construction boots and navy blue jeans, and on top of that was a shirt with the logo of some obscure band that Lucy had never heard of. Over that was a black cardigan, as if she’d remembered at the last minute that she needed to present at least a semi-professional front.
If that had been her intention, the effect was immediately ruined by her face: not that Lucy had anything against facial piercings personally, but she also knew what adults, especially those in overseeing positions like DEPRAC and possibly university professors too (not that she'd ever know , she thought with some bitterness,) generally didn’t approve of appearances that went outside the accepted norms of ‘professional.’ (1) With her (admittedly clean) steel-capped boots and piercings, Lucy wondered how she was treated by the librarians and archivists when they glared at Lockwood & Co even when they weren’t wearing clothes stained with ectoplasm.
Once George got close enough to say get her attention without having to raise his voice, the woman turned around with her lips curved into a pre-emptive smile and if she’d had any remaining inkling that they might be meeting a mild-mannered, posh, ex-Fittes agent went out the window as soon as she got a full view of her face. Aside from the piercings, her eyes were practically dripping with eyeliner, which made her eyelids match the dark bags under her eyes so much that it kind of reminded Lucy of pictures that she’d seen of pandas; Kat Goodwin wouldn’t be caught dead. The smile she aimed at George was welcoming but strained, as if they’d interrupted her in the middle of a frustrating task.
“Ah, George,” she greeted warmly in a surprisingly northern accent. For some reason it sounded vaguely familiar, but to her frustration she couldn’t place it. “Weren’t expecting you today. New case?”
“Just so, Nina.” Self-consciously pushing his glasses up his nose, he gestured towards the others. “Bit of a stinker, actually. I was hoping that you could help us with it?”
At “us” the woman looked at Lockwood and Lucy with mild surprise, as if catching sight of them for the first time. Then, bafflingly, an expression of excitement came over her face. “The famous Lockwood and Co then, I presume? I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
By the flicker of uncertainty that briefly passed over Lockwood’s face, he wasn’t sure how to take that, either. Usually when people said that they’d heard of Lockwood and Co it was because one of their fumbles had made it into the papers. Like burning down Mrs. Hope’s house. To his credit though, he recovered instantly and stuck his hand out to shake. “That would make you Miss. McArthur, then? I can’t say George has told us a lot about you.”
Nina’s eyebrows rose slightly as she took his hand and shook it. George glowered from beside her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Indeed it does, but please call me Nina. Miss. McArthur makes me feel older than I am. It’s nice to finally meet you both.” With that she smiled politely at Lockwood and then turned to purposefully make eye contact with Lucy as she disengaged from the handshake. There was a note of humour in her voice as she told her: “You must be Lucy Carlyle then? I have to say, it’s nice to finally meet another northerner in these parts. I need someone to tell me that I haven’t started sounding too posh.”
Despite herself, Lucy could feel herself relaxing, if only marginally so. Aside from their shared presence in academia, there really weren’t many immediate similarities between Joplin and Nina. Though she hadn’t spent much time around the woman herself, Lucy had gotten the uncomfortable impression that Joplin liked her subject of choice a little too much, was a little too genuinely enthusiastic to discuss the paranormal when most adults would rather gargle broken glass than acknowledge The Problem out loud, especially after she’d goaded George into jumping into Bickerstaff’s grave. Of course, that first impression had turned out to be because the woman had an intensely dangerous obsession that would lead her to breaking half a dozen laws and almost killing them all, so her wariness had been completely justified.
Nina, on the other hand, while seeming happy enough to be talking to them, just looked…tired. It made Lucy wonder what agency she’d used to work for, if she had really been an agent. Still, though…
Inside her coat pocket, Lucy’s nails bit into the palm of her hand. I'm not letting that happen again.
Externally, she gave the other woman a friendly smile and replied: “You’re fine. I do get what you mean, though. I caught myself saying ‘bath’ (2) the other day and I think that’s a sign that I’ve been spending too much time around this lot.”
Nina’s smile loosened, like a spring that had been uncoiled, looking rather like she wanted to laugh but was being mindful of the other patrons. That lasted until George cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you can bond over oatcakes and pronouncing things incorrectly later. Do you have any spare time right now to help us with a case that we’re working on? It’s alright if not- I just think maybe you’d come across something like this before.”
Clearly it was the wrong thing to say, because the smile dropped from her face entirely, replaced by a look of such resignation that it would be more fitting for someone walking to their death than doing a friend a favour. Still though, she visibly made an effort to sound upbeat and said: “I’ve only got a couple of hours before I have to be back at the university, but I might have a few ideas. What’s the case?”
With that George was off, talking a mile a minute about their most recent client; he didn’t seem to have noticed her dip in mood. A quick glance at Lockwood though revealed that he had, and he raised his shoulders slightly in a nearly invisible shrug. I don't know either.
Despite that, Lucy can’t help but feel a bit uneasy, listening to Nina’s false cheer.
- - -
The case went like this:
The owner of a pub on Fleet Street had been having some trouble with what sounded like a couple of Lurkers- no one had gotten hurt, and of course no adult could actually see the things, but the intense feelings of creeping fear and anxiety had made the staff uneasy, and now word was spreading about the place being haunted. The owner wanted them to gotten rid of as quickly as possible before business suffered anymore- as did other business owners on Fleet Street.
“I don’t get why some of the other owners have been jumping to get us on the case,” Lucy admitted, looking at the papers that George had fished from his bag and spread across the desk. She eyed a map of the street in question. “Didn’t one of them give you a voucher for a crate of wine, Lockwood?” Before Lockwood could reply, Nina was musing thoughtfully: “It’s because of the River Fleet.”
“What?” she asked, but George was already nodding in agreement.
“There’s all sorts of rivers in London apart from the big one. Some of them were bricked up centuries ago and used as sewers; the River Fleet is one of those, and a part of it runs right under the street before joining the Thames. Some people have credited it with keeping low-level ghosts away the area ever since The Problem started.”
“Which is why landlords try to charge extortionate rent in areas where there’s supposed to be running water underneath the concrete.” The university student remarked dryly. She seemed to have recovered from her moment of foul mood from earlier, but she still seemed uncomfortable; her arms were crossed where they rested on the table, and a crease had appeared between her eyebrows. “I imagine the business owners are panicking because they pay premium to conduct business in places which are supposed to be relatively safe, and it turns out it might not be after all. It doesn’t surprise me.”
“And why’s that?” That question was from Lockwood, perched in his chair. Any traces of uncertainty that might have been there at the beginning of the encounter had been washed away; now that the thrill of the hunt was up he was all confidence and attentiveness, like a bird of prey on the prowl. Nina leaned slightly away from him, as if his intensity was a stench that she wanted to get away from.
“…Because the sewers get blocked up pretty easily. They’re centuries old and not designed to accommodate the sort of population that London has now; they have to send people down there with these long sticks to try and dislodge the muck, but sometimes they can’t even do that because parts of the brickwork are so old that if it's disturbed it’ll crumble down on their heads. If no one’s been down there in a while, I’d be surprised if the river was more than a trickle struggling to get through the shite.”
“You sound like you have experience.” Lockwood noted, leaning forwards in his chair as if he’d sensed her desire to retreat and wanted to give chase. Lucy lightly kicked him under the table and ignored the confused look she shot her, but Nina instantly untensed a little.
“Yeah, well,” the student shifted around in her seat. “I imagine that you’ve had your fair share of odd jobs, too.”
Now it was Lockwood’s turn to look uncomfortable and he leaned backwards so that his back actually touched his chair. “Well, any theories about these Lurkers?” “I’d need more information to do that,” she responded, looking expectantly at George. It took him a few seconds to realise that they were waiting for him to speak, apparently having become absorbed in a schematic of the pub building.
At the silence he looked up blearily, saw them all watching him, and blinked. “Sorry, what was the question?”
Rather than being annoyed, the corners of Nina’s lips quirked, as if she wanted to smile and was stopping herself. “I’m going to need more information about the Lurkers if I’m going to have any ideas about them.”
He blinked a few times more and then seemed to snap completely out of whatever daze he was in. “Oh! Oh, right, well.” Reaching with unerring accuracy for what seemed to Lucy to be a random page on the table, he went down the list with his finger and read them out. “No adults saw anything of course, but the pub owner’s daughter about eleven years old and a sensitive. (3) She reported seeing some chaps in armour lurking in corners, sunk halfway into the floor.”
“Roman, possibly, since it sounds like they're on the old level of the street.” Lucy mused but frowned at the same time. “That’s really rare, though. There’s hardly any ghosts that old.”
“Well, the amphitheatre and the Mithraeum are nearby.” Nina spoke up and then didn’t elaborate, idly peering at one of the sheets of paper. After several seconds of silence and she didn’t look up, Lockwood cleared his throat and she turned her eyes away from the page. Once he had her attention he asked: “What are you talking about, exactly?”
Nina blinked at him. “Haven’t you lived in London all your life?” She asked a little incredulously. When Lockwood just shrugged, she sighed. “The remains of an old Roman amphitheatre and a temple to Mithras aren’t far from Fleet Street. It’s quite incredible, really; workers extending the Tube tunnels found the temple underground in the sixties, perfectly preserved and with water still in the offering channels. The museum that they turned it into is still open to the public.” As she’d began talking about the Roman stuff her voice had gotten more and more animated until she sounded genuinely enthused, a light sparking in her eyes that hadn’t been there even at the start of the conversation. Even though Lucy regarded her warily, she couldn’t help but note that Nina’s and Joplin’s enthusiasm was different. Where Joplin had been restless and almost manic concerning ghosts, Nina had only lit up when she’d started talking about the actual history and had, in fact, seemed positively miserable discussing the ghosts or even alluding to her previous job.
George didn’t often mention his time with Joplin, but he’d once admitted that she said that she’d been jealous of their psychic Talent, having not a drop of it herself. Nina seemed like she’d like nothing more than to have been bled dry.
Looking between her and George, she could perhaps start to see why they got along. I wonder if this is where George will be in a few years, she thought, taking in their similarities. The line of thinking took her off-guard. As a rule, she generally didn’t think about what George, Lockwood or even herself would be like as adults. Thinking about life as an adult meant thinking about a future in which her Talents had faded, in which she’d been rendered deaf and blind to the paranormal- possibly even toiling along as a useless supervisor like Jacobs, which was a thought that instantly made her grind her teeth. If it did ever enter her mind, she didn’t like to dwell.
Looking at Nina though, and at her genuine joy at discussing something she clearly enjoyed, she wondered if maybe the future wouldn’t be so miserable after all.
As she tuned back into the conversation she noticed that she appeared to have missed some of it- Nina’s face had been drained of happiness again, and she surprised herself by feeling a little sad to see it go. “Well, it’s not totally unheard of for there to be a gladiator school situated near an amphitheatre.” She was saying. “It’s possible that there’s one underneath the pub and the workers didn’t discover it because they dug in the opposite direction, towards the temple.”
All three members of Lockwood & Co groaned at that, making Nina jump and drawing glares from other Archive patrons. “So there’s absolutely no chance of getting at the Sources, then.” George muttered.
“Probably not,” Nina agreed, not without sympathy. “Not unless you want to go smashing sewer walls in the hopes of finding a long-lost archaeological site.”
“Let’s avoid doing that.” Lockwood concurred, then sighed. “Well Nina, it looks like you’ve saved George hours of research. He can spend the new free time buying ghost protections with us and then going to install them in the pub, seeing as we can’t actually get rid of the ghost.”
“Mullet’s just came out with a pretty mobile-thing made out of silver.” The man in question mused, a bit of disappointment in his tone. “Think that would suit a pub?”
Before Lockwood could reply Nina was reaching over and lightly poking George in the forehead. Ignoring his indignant hey! She said, with a faint smile on her face, “Don’t look so glum. Chances are the protections will only be needed until the river isn’t as blocked up, not that he shouldn’t have a couple around the place anyway. Lurkers only need the presence of silver and maybe a few sprigs of lavender.”
“She’s right.” Lucy said quietly and then, louder, “You’re just moping because you don’t get to see a Roman Source.”
Right on cue, George flushed bright red. “They’re incredibly rare!”
“Speaking of Sources,” Lockwood interrupted, “Mr. Thorpe probably isn’t going to be very pleased that we can’t seal the ones that are bothering his business.”
A silence fell as they let that sink in. It happened sometimes, of course, where a Source couldn’t be found or was inaccessible and the only thing to do was to strew the ground with salt and iron and call it a day. Sometimes Sources were even entire structures or buildings, in which case the owners might not want to go through the trouble of tearing it down, though thankfully that didn't happen too frequently. Civilians didn’t tend to see it that way, though, and with their luck Mr. Thorpe would refuse to pay.
Sensing the shift in mood, Nina exclaimed, in a tone of obviously false brightness: “Well, at least this job will be easy for you guys, right?”
George managed a faux-enthusiastic “Yeah!” but no one else said a word until Lockwood stood up and thanked her for her time. For the first time Nina looked a little flustered.
“Oh, no need to thank me. I like helping out when I can.” When she said that her face twisted, as if unsure of what expression it wanted to make. Eventually it settled on a wobbly smile. “I wish you the best of luck.”
Unbeknownst to them, they’d be sorely needing it.