I never actually posted my Yuletide fic here, and it's almost March. Way behind. But anyway, I had fun with it, so enjoy!
Title: What Abigail And Ione Did That January
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beatrice_otter
Fandom: Rivers of London
Characters: Abigail Kamara/Ione Seaton, Thomas Nightingale, Peter Grant
Written For: Chrome in Yuletide 2025
Summary: Ione comes down for a visit after Christmas. But a quiet visit is not in the cards when there is a missing persons case to be solved.
I am standing in Euston Station, and it's even worse of a madhouse than I expected it to be. But I'm so excited I'm not even bothered by the crush of tourists with roller bags who seem determined to run me over as they dash to catch their trains. Ione is coming, and though we've talked on the phone almost every day, it's been months since we said goodbye in Scotland.
I want to know if she smells as good as I remember. I want to know if her skin feels as good as I remember. I'm almost afraid I've built her up, in my head, to such a peak of perfection, that I'll be disappointed to see her again and find she's just a girl.
But if I were going to let my fear control me, I wouldn't be a wizard now. I'd never have survived the house on Hampstead Heath, or the Robinette kidnapping, or the wyvern up in Glasgow. And I'd never have gotten to kiss Ione.
I got here early enough to get myself a coffee and find a good spot on the concourse near the platform the West Coast Main Line is coming in on, where I can't possibly miss her. I'm sipping it and scanning the crowd, which is so thick that if it weren't for her mermaid skin wrapped around her neck like a silver scarf, I might never have seen her. "Oi! Ione!"
She turns, and sees me, and she smiles, and it's like everyone else disappears for a moment. I know it's just the hormones, I know that to anyone else she's just a girl, but she's amazing to me. "Abi!" she says and fights her way through the crowd to me.
It isn't like in the movies. There's an awkward exchange of greetings. What I really want to do is kiss her, but I'm not sure because while we've talked a lot—an awful lot—and we got up to a lot when we were up north, I'm not sure where we are now, what she wants. It was an intense week, yeah, and sometimes when people go through experiences like that they do things in the moment that they don't want to do afterwards. I don't think that's what Ione wants, but still. It's awkward.
Then I realize that Ione is looking at my lips. I'm overthinking it. I step forward a bit, and she steps forward a bit, and our noses bump, and it takes a bit to fit our lips together because we haven't had much practice with it. But then, we get it right and it's amazing. At least as good as I remember it, and for a little bit it doesn't matter how many hundreds of people are flowing around us, we could be in our own little world.
Someone bumps into Ione and we stumble a little bit, but I can't help going in for another kiss. Yeah. This is what I've been missing.
"Can we go back to your place so I can drop my stuff off?" Ione says as we break for air.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
We hold hands on the way out to the bus station.
***
Mum is at work and Dad's asleep, so we basically have the flat to ourselves, and we take advantage of it. Not as much as either of us would have liked, but we do have an appointment with Thomas for tea at the Folly.
We manage to be only slightly late. This being Ione's first visit, we do it the grand way—the front doors opening by themselves with Molly there to take our jackets and escort us to the Visitor's Lounge, where Thomas is waiting with the tea things all set out.
Ione looks at me with raised eyebrows. "I told you," I say. And I had. But it's different when you see it in person.
Thomas stands to greet us, with the perfect old manners he has. "Miss Seaton, be welcome to the Folly," he says. "Please, eat and drink with no obligation."
"Thanks," Ione says, and we sit down and dig into Molly's spread.
"How were your exams?" Thomas asks, leading us into a discussion of Ione's life at the University of Aberdeen. Nothing I haven't heard before, but it's nice.
"Abi, you're sure I can't entice you up to Aberdeen?" Ione asks, after a story about a prank involving a goat and a wig and a boy who couldn't take a hint. "It's even better than Oxford, and not half as snooty."
"Nah," I say, though I am torn. The thought of being closer to Ione is tantalizing. But I have a plan, and we've been doing alright so far.
"Oxford is the traditional university for practitioners," Nightingale says. "And its library holds the largest collection of magic-related books in the UK."
"But you wouldn't be reading magic," Ione says. "And you've told me you have two libraries here—how many magic books do you need?"
"Just because my official studies focus on something else doesn’t mean I won't be doing magic research on the side," I say. "And besides, Harold is there." Harold Postmartin seems like he doesn't change much, but he's really old. If Paul could die so young, then Harold could die at any time, and I don't want to miss time I could spend with him. "You could come to Oxford. They've got a great law program."
Ione scoffs. "Not as great as Aberdeen."
I sigh. We've had this conversation before. It's the only real argument we have, which Bev says means that either we're perfectly suited or don't know each other well enough to have the real fights yet.
Ione turns to Thomas. "So, you're an Oxford man, then?" Like me, she knows there's no point arguing further.
"No," Thomas says. "I never went to university. It was not so common back in my day. I went directly from Casterbridge to going on missions for the Folly—this was just after the first world war had ended, and a great many things in the colonies had been neglected during the fighting, and they preferred to send younger men out to the edges of the Empire."
"Go on, then, give us a story," I say. I smile at Ione. "Thomas doesn't tell stories often, but they're good when he does."
Thomas considers. "Well," he says, taking a bite of cake, "there was the affair of the enchanted trumpet. One of the lads found it in a pawn shop, and brought it back to the Folly. Molly was greatly distressed; she could tell that the enchantment had been set by one of her people, who was in some distress. I was able to track the trumpet back to New York City. One of my fellow Casterbridge students, an Augustus Berrycloth-Young—"
"That is not a real name," Ione says. "You got that out of Wodehouse or something."
"I've read his reports," I say. "That's how he signed them."
"Gussie was never the most serious-minded person," Thomas says, "but, fortuitously enough, his partner was a music journalist with an encyclopedic knowledge of the New York jazz scene, who was of enormous help." He spins a story involving a fae woman and her child being held hostage, a mobster, corrupt cops, and climaxing in a fight at a drag ball—with The Nightingale in full drag himself.
"Pics or it didn't happen," Ione says.
"And I've read that report," I say. "It didn't mention half that."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "This was long before the age when everyone had a camera in their pocket everywhere they went, and given the semi-clandestine nature of such proceedings, they were rarely memorialized on film. Certainly the leadership of the Folly would have been … greatly distressed to hear the full story of my New York sojourn, and I don't like to speculate what they would have done about it. But while the full details were never put in a report, it's all true. Molly helped Maurelle and Oriande get back on their feet, once we had returned to England, and can verify the story."
"I'll check," I warn.
"Of course," Thomas says.
We chat some more, and I bask in the joy of it. Ione is here, and this time we're getting to hang out without some life-threatening danger distracting them. It's less intense, but I like it.
Once we've shared stories and gossip and eaten all the cakes, Thomas asks if there are any more fox baby pictures.
I make a face. "Nah. Haven't seen Indigo for a few days. And Roger King thinks getting too friendly with humans distracts from the mission." My new liaison while Indigo's on maternity leave doesn't dislike me, but he keeps our contacts limited to necessary information sharing only. I'd got used to having a fox around, and I missed the warm weight of Indigo on my shoulder or leaning against me.
On the other hand, having a bit of space without anyone in my business is nice while Ione is in town.
"Ah," Thomas says. "Well, when you see her, give her my regards."
***
We have dinner at home; Mum had made spag bol. She's cooking a lot more, now that she has more free time. Mum and Dad both like Ione, which shows they have good taste. Though I think it's hard for them that I've got a girlfriend in uni, never mind that I'd be in uni myself if I hadn't chosen to take a gap year and intern at the Folly instead, after Paul's death.
We spent so much time taking care of Paul, these last few years; I think they forgot I was growing while all their focus was on him.
After dinner, Dad goes off to work and us girls watch TV for a bit. When Mum goes to bed, Ione and I make up the sofa for her to sleep on.
"I get why they wouldn't want me sleeping in your bed," Ione says as we tuck the sheet around the cushions, "but you've got a spare bedroom."
I swallow around a lump in my throat. It's been months. Peter says that grief takes time, that it'll keep coming around when I least expect it, but that it will get better. I don't know if I want that or not. I don't want to get used to Paul being dead.
"It's not a spare bedroom," I say. "It's Paul's bedroom."
Ione's hands pause. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."
I shrug. It's not okay, but that's not her fault. "You never met him, and it's not like I talk about him all the time." Only when I have to. Only when the bits of the story don't make sense without him. Ione knows the outline of Paul's story, but to her it's just a tragedy, like something in the news. She's sad because I'm sad, and because dead kids are always sad. Not because she knew him, loved him. "He'd have liked you."
It's true. He would have. Ione is pretty and kind, and I like her, and that's all Paul would have needed. His world was so small.
"Tell me about him?" Ione says.
"I can't," I say. The facts only tell the tragedy. They don't tell you who Paul was.
I get a pillow out of my room, and Ione and I get ready for bed.
We cuddle a bit, and have a bit of a snog. Nothing too heavy; unlike Dad, Mum's a light sleeper.
***
"So what do you want to see?" I ask Ione the next morning over breakfast. "British Museum?" I've never been, because it's for tourists. Peter likes the Science Museum, and if you're looking for odd things that may be magical, the best one is Sir John Soane's Museum. I'm pretty sure his wife Elizabeth was a member of the Society of the Rose, although I've never gotten Caroline Linden-Limmer to confirm that.
Ione shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "I think I'd rather hang about your ends, meet your friends and all."
"Sounds good to me," I say. And the fact that it'll give us more time to stop in corners and snog is only part of it. I like the real London, the one that's lived-in and flesh and blood and stone and metal, not the one that's carefully made up for tourists. And I like that Ione wants to see my London, because that's part of what made me.
I make some calls, and we head out across Hampstead Heath to spend the morning with Simon, and then afterwards we can meet Bev for lunch.
Simon's as peng as always, and now he's got all these stories of the places he's been and things he's done, and I won't lie, there was a part of me that relaxed when Ione didn't change after she got an eyeful.
When we're done there, we head for the Mansfield Road bus stop to catch the 24 to Tottenham Court Road, where we'll catch the Central Line out to Mile End. Beverly's done at Queen Mary's for the day, so after lunch she can drop us wherever we decide to go.
Just before we leave the park, there's a hissing sound from behind a bush. It's Roger King, who doesn't like to be seen with humans. Ione and I casually step off the path in his direction, as if we're just enjoying the day. She's good at making it look natural, I notice with approval.
"Here is the intelligence report for the day," Roger King says from behind the bush. He always insists on me using his full name, though I've heard other foxes call him Rog. Though usually he'll deign to come out if there aren't any other humans around—maybe he doesn't want Ione to see him. "All outside cases nominal. No unusual activity to report among the surveillance subjects you have clearance for. No ongoing investigations require your assistance."
I roll my eyes at Ione. If Roger King had his way, they'd never ask for my help, not even when they really needed it. Still, he's a stickler for protocol. If his boss told him to ask for my help, he would. "How's Indigo?" I ask. "Can I visit her and her kits?"
Roger King paused. "Permission has been granted for you to visit the kits—no extra visitors."
That's a weird way of putting it. "Can I see Indigo while I'm there?"
"Indigo is on detached duty."
I turn and stare at the bush. "Her babies are still babies! They haven't been weaned yet." And besides, if she was planning to go away she'd tell me, or at least send word.
"Nan Star is nursing the kits in Indigo's absence."
"I def want to see the babies—and Lucifer or Sugar Niner, if they're around. Control, if they aren't."
"There's no call to disturb Control," Roger King said stiffly. "This is a minor operational matter."
And then I realize. If Ione can't go with me into the foxes' earth—we only have a few days before she has to go back up to Aberdeen. And it could be nothing. The foxes don't tell me everything, any more than I tell them everything.
Still. It's sus.
"Their earth isn't that far from here," I tell Ione, hoping she'll understand. "It'll probably only take half an hour or so."
"Only if there's nothing wrong," Ione points out. "Get good pics of the little ones. If it takes longer than you think, I can go meet Bev by myself. And if you're too long, she might take me swimming—I've never been in the water this far south, and I want to see if it feels different."
I feel a rush of warmth. This is the girl I met hunting a melanistic leopard, after all—she understands about needing to do the right thing even when it's not convenient.
***
I've only been to the earth under Gospel Oak a few times, but it's enough to have got my bearings. The kits are in one of the side dens, close enough to the main chambers for convenience, far enough away that when they escape their minder they're easy to round up before they become a problem. There are cushions and blankets making a nice nest, and ordinarily I'd be happy to spend a long time cuddling with them and cooing over their baby-talk.
The kits are cute, though, and I take a few minutes to give them scritches, and take pics for Ione and Thomas. But I don't take as long as I might have, because I want to know that Indigo is all right—and if she isn't, I want to know that, too.
As soon as Lucifer shows up, I extract myself from under the pile of kits and leave them to the watchful eyes of their minder.
"Well?" I asked.
"Not all of our operations are Falcon-cleared," Lucifer said.
"I know," I say. "You've got all sorts of irons in the fire." I'd say that not all my investigations are fox cleared, but given how good they are at surveillance, I can't say that doesn't mean they don't know about them. There are a lot more of them than there are of me, and they're all nosy. "But Indigo wasn't supposed to be on operations until her maternity leave was up, and the way Roger King talked, I don't think she checked in when she was supposed to. If she's in trouble, I want to help."
"We are unsure of her status." Lucifer doesn't manage to sound as grand as usual, which I think means she's worried.
"What happened?"
"Indigo was approached by a Sugar five days ago while out stretching her legs," Lucifer said. "He expressed interest in passing information along. We were uncertain about what information he might have, but new sources are always welcome. Indigo was following up with him when she had time free; it is always best to continue to work through the primary initial contact when possible. The Sugar was not always responsive and kept hinting at something big that he would only disclose with certain assurances. Yesterday, Indigo reported that she would be meeting him again at their drop point, and it might take longer than usual. She has not returned."
"She's been missing since last night?" My hands clench, but I keep my voice steady. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We began investigations as soon as she missed check-in," Lucifer said stiffly. "We have never needed outside assistance in intelligence matters. Furthermore, this was not a Falcon mission, and you have a guest."
"I'm not questioning your competence," I say, "but I've got opportunities you don't, just like you've got ones I don't. It'll be quicker if we both make our own enquiries."
Lucifer eyes me, and then nods. "I suppose you will want to hear her reports."
"It would help," I say.
Lucifer calls in another fox, younger and browner, and introduces him as Puck, one of their coordinators. He's the one who took Indigo's reports, and Lucifer tells him to share them with me.
He redacts a bit, but otherwise it's verbatim the report Indigo gave to him—foxes have great memories. Only there's not much there. The contact has a name, John Davis, and a description, middle-aged white man who usually wears jeans and a hoodie. Brown hair, brown eyes, no visible scars. There are millions of men like that in London, and I hope there aren't that many John Davises. Indigo was mildly impressed with his tradecraft, and they'd mostly used drops instead of meeting in person. The foxes have, of course, already checked the drops and tried to trace things back from there.
"What information was he passing along?" I ask.
Puck looks to Lucifer.
"Nothing of consequence," she says. "Small things we could have gotten in other ways. Nothing that pointed to anything of significance in Indigo's disappearance."
I don't agree—anything can be something of significance, and the foxes know that as well as I do—but I already know that if you try to get them to talk about what their core mission even is, they clam up tighter than a drum, and anyway, I have enough to start with. "I'll look into this John Davis from the Folly's end," I say.
"Thank you," Indigo says. "Please share anything relevant that you find."
"Course," I say. "Long as you do the same."
"Of course," Indigo says.
***
The earth has great phone reception and wifi throughout, but I wait to call Thomas until I'm out on the street.
"I shall get Nathan to see if we can identify this John Davis," he says after I've explained. I take a moment to be grateful the Folly has its own analyst these days, and it's not all on me and Peter. "Though the problem will likely be correctly identifying which John Davis is the correct one—there isn't much to go on."
"Maybe it'll be obvious, and as simple as looking him up and checking out his ends," I say. It's not often that easy, but sometimes it is. People can be really stupid when talking to someone they think can't check them.
"If his tradecraft is as good as Indigo reported, I doubt it," Thomas said. "More probably, it was an alias, if he was planning this from the start."
"Yeah, but why would he want to kidnap a fox?" I ask. "If he was doing it for leverage, you'd expect there to be demands made by now."
"It's possible that demands have been made, which the foxes do not wish to share," Thomas says. "It's also possible that this is somehow tied up in their main mission. Perhaps this John Davis is an agent of whatever power they are organized against. It would explain why Indigo did not wish to share information about him."
"Maybe," I say. At this stage of an investigation, it's always best to keep your options open, not get too focused on any one theory, because you're bound to be missing at least half what you need to figure it out.
Thomas promises to let me know what he finds, and signs off. I turn a corner, and there Ione is, waiting for me.
"How'd it go, Abi?" she asks.
"She's been missing since last night," I said. "She was meeting a new contact, one the foxes don't know much about, and she never came back. But she said she might be a little late, so they didn't start looking right away."
Ione wraps an arm about me, and I snuggle in to her, taking comfort in the warmth of her body. "I'm sorry," she says. "I hope she's okay."
"Me too," I say. "I'm sorry your visit is spoiled."
Ione huffs a laugh. "It's not the sort of thing anybody could control. I'd offer to help, but I don't know how to track anyone in a city."
"That's okay," I say. "I do."
***
Nightingale may be handling the official records check for this John Davis, but there's more than one way to look someone up. As we ride the bus, I search Facebook and Twitter and all the other social media sites. There are a bunch of John Davises who could be the right one, but just like I feared, there's no way to tell which one's the right one. (If any of them are. It could be a fake name—generic enough to be hard to identify, but not quite so generic as to be obviously fake.)
"What will you do if you can't figure out which one it is?" Ione asks. "Can the foxes track her scent, figure out where she went?"
"Nah," I said. "They're not dogs, they can't track by scent any more than you or I can. But there's other things we can do, especially since we know where Indigo was going to meet Davis."
***
Since we're a little later than we thought, Peter was able to get off and meet Bev and us for lunch after all. Which is convenient, since I have a job for him.
"With a name like John Davis, he'll be hard to find," Peter says as we eat. It's a kebab shop—Ione said nothing fancy or touristy, just the sort of place we'd normally eat.
"I know," I say. "I found eighty John Davises on Facebook alone who said they were from London."
Bev whistles.
"The HOLMES check might not be any better," Peter says. "It'll bring up any criminal records and whatnot, but we've no idea if the John Davis you're looking for has any brushes with the long arm of the law."
"What's the next step?" Ione asks.
"CCTV," I say. "If Peter's got the time. We know where she was going, so if we can get the cameras for that block, we can see if she left on her own, if she met him there and he led her somewhere else—if nothing else, we can get a picture and identify which John Davis he is." The thing about CCTV is that it's got to be collected, and businesses don't just hand over their data to anyone who goes looking. It can't be me that asks, it's got to be someone with a badge.
"God bless the surveillance state," Peter says, with less irony than he thinks he has. I've got complicated feelings about the ever-present cameras; they're dead useful, but the question is: useful to whom? And for what? Peter and Thomas are alright, but I don't trust Feds—or bureaucrats, or politicians—with that sort of thing. "I don't have any active cases going, so I can do it this afternoon. But you don't usually ask for this much help."
"It's Indigo," I say, "and there isn't much else to go on. Besides, you know the statistics on Missing Persons cases better than I do." I don't abbreviate it because Ione isn't used to Fed speak like I am, and I don't want to exclude her.
"Yeah," Peter says.
"What are you going to tell them when you ask?" Bev says. "You can't say you're looking for a missing fox."
"You're looking for a young mother with newborns who went missing after meeting a mysterious stranger," Ione says. "Let them make assumptions."
I smile at Ione, and squeeze her hand.
"Can we tag along while you're asking them?" I ask. We won't be any help, but I can't think of anything else to do and I can't stand to go out and have fun while Indigo may be in danger.
"Wouldn't you rather be doing stuff with Ione?" Peter asks.
"I didn't come to see London, I came to see Abi," Ione said. "And we did meet in the middle of an operation. I knew what I was getting into with her."
"I've an idea," Bev said. "It's not as if you'd really be any help to Peter, and you're going to want to be somewhere the foxes can reach you if they find something. Why don't you come back to our place? Ione and I can go swimming, if she wants, or you could watch the twins. It'd give you something to do to keep your mind off things, and you'll be easy to reach."
I'd rather go with Peter, but she's right that there's not much point in it. I look at Ione.
"Whatever you want, babe," she says, although I know she's been looking forward to swimming in the river.
I've always prided myself on going with logic rather than being ruled by my emotions. And going with Peter—that's not logic. "Alright," I say.
***
The twins are a distraction. Ione flipping her tail and going into the water is even more of one. Even as worried as I am for Indigo, it's a sight to see. If it were warmer, I'd be thinking of joining her. But even with a wetsuit, the Thames in January is a bit nippy for my tastes.
There's a fox, Almond, hanging out in the dining room. If they'd found anything, he'd have been notified, and he'd have told me. I still have to stop myself from bothering him every five minutes.
Taiwo and Kehinde have fun playing in the garden, but once it gets dark, we go inside, and they turn to playing with the toys that cover every available surface. Between hand-me-downs from her sisters and tributes people have given, Bev's kids have a truly terrifying amount of toys.
I'm surprised when Thomas shows up at supper time.
"Bev invited me," he says, as we sit on the couch and wait for everyone to come in. "After all, your young lady won't be in town for long, and I want to get to know her."
Not long after that, Bev and Ione come in, laughing, and Ione goes off to take a shower to rinse out her hair. I try not to think too hard about that, and how much I want to join her. Bev goes in the kitchen and starts heating up some jollof rice that Auntie Rose made for them. By the time it's on the table, Peter's home.
Over dinner, the conversation turns to the foxes.
"What are they looking for?" Ione said. "I've been getting to know the foxes up in my area, and they're very cagey about what their mission is. But it must be something large, to justify organizing their whole society around it, across the entire UK."
I shrug. "They've never shared the details, and I've been friends with Indigo and the rest for years—and doing missions with them the whole time. Whatever it is, they've got plenty of time and freedom to investigate anything else they think is interesting."
"I don't know that there really is a mission," Peter says. "If there really were some sort of adversary out there that they're trying to foil, surely we'd have seen some evidence of it by now. Abigail works pretty closely with them; if something big went down, she'd notice."
"Then where do you think they got all their ideas about spying from?" I ask.
"No clue," Peter says.
"They've been at this for a long time," I say. "Did you know they still use the original phonetic alphabet from World War II, not the modern one that everyone uses today? That's when they got started."
"Maybe they were recruited to look for Nazi spies," Ione says.
I shrug. "They know about World War II, and they know when it ended. I don't think they'd have maintained such an intense structure and hierarchy, all focused around surveillance and spying, if there weren't some sort of current threat. They only live for fourteen years or so, and they're adults at age two. It's been like twelve fox generations since the war ended, maybe more. That's a long time to guard against a threat that's not there."
"Yeah, but what threat is there?" Peter asks.
I shrug.
"It doesn't matter," Thomas says. "Whether the threat is real or not, whether it's current or not. They believe it is real enough to structure their entire lives around. They are our allies and friends; if it's real to them, it affects any joint operations the Folly has with them."
Peter and Thomas have argued about this before, and they're not going to come to any new conclusions tonight. I turn to Ione. "So how was the river?"
"Good," she said. "I don't like rivers as much as the sea, of course, but you find a lot of different things in your southern rivers than we have up in Scotland. Bev's a great tour guide."
***
After dinner Ione and I check the CCTV records for the area around where Indigo was supposed to meet John Davis. Thomas headed back to the Folly, and Peter and Bev are taking the babies through their bedtime routine, leaving the investigation to us. Ione and I sit next to each other at the dining room table, me with Peter's laptop and Ione with Bev's, each with a set of camera footage. Almond comes to watch and see what we found and also get any scritches that are going around.
I know immediately that Indigo hadn't picked the meeting spot; she'd have wanted better cover, and the street was pretty bare. It doesn't take long for Ione to spot her, and then we had a time stamp. From there, we check all the cameras and find one that captured her going into an alley. I check the address on Google Maps—it's a blind alley, so she had to have come back out the way she came, unless someone opened a door for her.
There's only one camera with a view of that alley. One, almost dead on, from the shop across the street. Neither of the shops on either side of it have cameras. And that's a problem, 'cause fifteen minutes after Indigo goes into the alley a white van parks right in front of it, in a loading zone, and we can't see what's going on. The driver gets out and walks around his van, and he could be going into the shop he parked in front of, or he could be going into the alley. After a few minutes, he gets back in his van and drives off. Indigo never comes out of the alley.
"So did she leave while the van was parked in front of the alley?" Ione asks.
"Could be," I said. "If so, we're at a dead end. But she could have gone into one of the shops next to the alley, if they've got a back door, or she could have left in the van. Maybe that wasteman was Davis."
"We have checked all the shops on the street and do not believe Indigo entered any of them," Almond says. "Direct entry would be required to clear the premises with certainty."
"Right," I say. "Well, we still need to check the other cameras on the street. If she walked away while the van was there, one of the ones farther down probably caught her."
"Check the other cameras to see if you can spot the number plate," Almond suggests.
We can't spot Indigo on any of the other cameras in the right time frame, so she probably left in the van. From the shop on the corner we get a partial picture of its number plate. And from the camera across from the alley, I get a fairly good shot of the wasteman's face. I give both to Peter, and he says he'll run them in the morning.
***
The next morning, Ione and I are fooling around when Peter calls my mobile. "The van is registered to a small cargo handling and delivery firm headquartered in Custom House, Newham."
"Does a John Davis work there?" I ask.
"No," Peter says. "But a Michael J. Davis does."
"Think it's the same man?" I ask.
"Possibly," Peter says.
"Ione and I'll go check it out," I say.
There's a pause, and I know it's because deep down Peter still thinks I'm, I don't know, twelve or something. His annoying baby cousin. Not someone who's faced down melanistic leopards and wyverns and genius loci houses and rescued people who were kidnapped and did all sorts of other things he doesn't know about.
Also, he knows that if he asks Nightingale, he'll say it's fine as long as I take proper precautions, like letting people know where I'm going so there's backup if something happens.
"We'll be fine," I say. It's annoying to have to reassure him like this, but it's the quickest way to get off and find Indigo. "It's just reconnaissance. We don't even know for sure that he took Indigo. If there's anything sus, we'll let you or Thomas know right away."
"See that you do," Peter says.
***
The delivery firm is in one grotty industrial building on a street full of them. There aren't many people hanging about, just cars going back and forth, which makes Ione and I stand out more than I'd like. But bored young people pop up everywhere, and Ione and I make it work. We've got bubble teas, and we wander down the block chatting about whatever random thing strikes our fancy.
Across the street from the delivery firm, on a bit of a diagonal from it, is a bit of low wall perfect for perching on. I hop up, and Ione joins me. She's not quite as good at hiding her interest in the target as I am, but then, she hasn't got as much practice and she's not bad.
After about half an hour of watching, nobody's gone in or out of the front door, and our bubble tea is well gone. I hop off the wall, and we wander around to the back.
This is where the delivery vans come and go; there's a loading dock just off the alley. And there's no reason for two girls to be wandering around back here, or at least, no innocent reason, but the alley is clear for now and we won't get a better shot unless we wait for dark.
I don't want to wait that long.
We walk along the alley to the loading dock, and Ione keeps watch while I climb up. There are two garage doors, for loading stuff out onto trucks, and one regular door for people with three locks on it. I put my ear to one of the garage doors, figuring it'll be thinner and transmit sound better. No vestigium beyond what you'd expect of an old warehouse, but I can just barely hear a voice inside. It's singing a song I heard Sugar Niner sing once, when we were all curled up together in my bed on a wet spring night.
"I think I can hear Indigo," I say. She doesn't sound happy, but I can't make out what she's singing.
"You sure?" Ione asks.
"No. It's well faint, I could be hearing what I want to."
Ione looks up and down the alley, and then climbs up to join me. She presses her ear against the door. "I think you're right," she says.
I pull out my phone and text Thomas and Peter both that I've found Indigo, and that Ione and I are going in. "Turn off your phone," I say, and flip the kill-switch on mine. I've got one of those nifty cases the Sons of Weyland make, but they're not perfect, and better safe than sorry.
Ione digs her phone out, and I wait for her to get it completely off.
Then I take one more look down the alley—still empty, nobody's going to see this—and use a spell to pop the locks on the regular door.
Ione takes the handle and opens it gently, enough for me to peer through. It's dark in there, several of the lightbulbs have burned out, but there's nobody around that I can see. I nod to Ione, and she opens it fully.
Now comes the hard part. Finding Indigo and getting her out … and we haven't seen anybody here, but it's the middle of the work day and if this place was sitting around empty and unused there'd be more dust over everything and the air would be mustier.
The loading dock enters onto a big room, with crates and boxes stacked around the edge. Indigo's voice is a bit louder, and it's def her.
There are doors along the side near us, and I head for the nearest one. We walk past a couple of doors, one dark, one with a strip of light shining out from under it. Ione's doing a good job of keeping an eye out, but I wish she had her spear. She's got her silver shawl around her neck as a scarf, but it's not going to do us any good today—we're too far from any of the rivers for her to flip tail and swim us to safety.
At the end of the wall is a door into a hall, and Indigo's voice is coming through there. This time, I'm the one to crack the door open for Ione to look through. She gives me a nod, and I open it wide enough for her to go through. I take one look around the cargo area to double check nobody's coming up behind us, then step through the door and close it behind me.
Indigo's voice is coming from the third room down the hall. We hurry down towards it and I check the handle—it's not locked. We slip inside, and there she is, in a dog kennel sitting on the bare floor, wedged between the wall and the filing cabinet that's the only thing in the room. Ione stays by the door, but I hurry forward.
"Abigail!" Indigo says. "You found me!"
"Your John Davis isn't the cleverest wasteman," I say. I can't pop the lock on the cage because there isn't one; the kennel is jammed so the door can't be opened until I un-wedge it. It'll make noise, and it's not exactly a straight shot from here to the door.
"He put up a good show, when he made contact," Indigo says.
There's nothing for it. I grab the kennel's handle and heave.
"Abi!" Ione's voice is tight.
I turn … and there's Michael J. Davis with a knife not three inches from Ione's throat.
And there's a thin line of blood that says he made contact enough to break the skin. There's not much blood, but any blood is too much, when it comes to the neck. He could have killed her, and I have to fight down a wave of rage as Ione presses a hand to her neck.
Now, I could take him out, no question. There's any number of spells I could throw at him that would knock him down or hurt him long enough for me to grab the knife and cosh him over the head with something. But the question is, could I do it quick enough he couldn't cut Ione again? And then un-wedge Indigo and get us all out of here before he recovered?
The answer to that is "maybe," and given that the cut on Ione's neck isn't deep enough to be serious, he's not actively trying to kill us, and I can always drop him later, that means the smart play right now is to let him think he's won.
I raise my hands. I don't need them to hurt him, anyway—any formae I might be using for self-defense, I can do without hand movements. Thomas and Peter were very thorough in making sure of it.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands.
"We're friends of Indigo's," I say. "We were worried—her kits need her." Not that I think this bruiser's going to care about any babies, human or fox, but maybe he'll lower his guard a bit if he thinks we're just soft-hearted idiots. "You didn't have to hurt us."
"The fuck you say," he says. "How many of you are there? How deep does this go?"
"There's just the two of us," I say, neglecting to mention that I've got two cops on speed dial and they know where we are, and what we're doing, and if anything happens to us the full weight of the Metropolitan Police is going to come crashing down on his head. "We don't know anything—or care about anything you're doing here. We just want to get Indigo home."
"D'you expect me to believe that?" he says.
Not really, but it's worth a shot.
"Hand over your phones," he says, and I hesitate. But the calculus hasn't changed, and I wouldn't want to get Ione killed over a phone. I pull mine out slowly, and crouch down to set it on the lino, and slide it over to him. He kicks it through the doorway without taking his eyes off Ione.
"You too," he tells her, and grabs Ione's phone out of her hand when she pulls it from her pocket.
He gestures Ione away from the door, and when she's clear, he slams it shut. I can hear some sort of lock engaging.
Ione slams her hand against it, and it leaves a bloody streak behind.
Quietly as I can, I go over to the door and press my ear to it to listen. Very faintly, I can hear Davis talking on his phone.
"They just showed up inside … no idea how they got in … found them trying to get that fucking fox out … now they're locked up with it. What do you mean, why?"
He must be walking away because I can't hear him any longer.
"Sorry, Abi," Ione says. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have let him get the drop on me."
"It's his fault," I say. I put my arms around her. I haven't got anything to bandage her up with, and it's already stopped bleeding, but something loosens in me, just a bit, to feel her steady and strong in my arms. "He's the one with the knife. Thomas always says that the trick to winning a knife fight is not to get in it in the first place." Besides. The only reason she's here is because of me. She wouldn't even be in London if not for me. And I couldn't have left Indigo without trying to rescue her, and Ione wouldn't have let me go alone, and Ione can take care of herself and make her own decisions.
But still, there's a bit of it that's my fault. More than it is her fault, at any rate.
"I would appreciate some freedom of movement," Indigo says.
"Right," I say. I make myself step back from Ione and turn to Indigo. "What happened? What's this Davis guy's deal?"
"He is a common small-time crook," Indigo says, "for a tiny smuggling and enforcer racket that thinks itself far more important than it is. I don't know how he figured out that we can talk—or that we conduct surveillance operations, but he did, and thought that his gang was the target. He and his boss want information about us, and they want to know whether we are the agents of the Met or Interpol."
I grab the kennel's handle and yank it up. There's a scraping sound, but it's not as loud as I was expecting. With some effort, I pull it out and set it down so that Indigo can come out.
"You're joking," Ione says. "He almost cut my throat for a case of mistaken identity?"
"I believe Davis had some government service of some sort, possibly military, before joining the gang," Indigo says. "Our first contacts, though brief and with only low-level intelligence, had enough professionalism on his part to make me view him as a credible operative. But once he got me, he didn't know what to do with me—he didn't know how to interrogate a fox." Her voice is shaky, and I knew it had been worse than she was making it sound. Her dugs were swollen and looked painful. I wrap my arms around her and she sighs.
"What was their plan?" Ione asks. "Did they even have one?"
"Not really," Indigo says. "Though I think they were eventually going to try and sell me as a novelty or exotic pet."
"I wish I'd given him an ice bomb to the dick," I say.
"Can we go now?" Ione asks.
"Can you run for it?" I ask Indigo.
"I'm a little stiff, but otherwise unimpaired," Indigo reports.
I tell her how to get to the door whose lock we busted, and we designate the kebab shop three blocks over as a meeting point if we get separated.
I don't want to let go of Indigo, but I have to. I station myself by the door, Indigo at my heels, Ione beside me.
"All ready?" I ask. I take Ione's hand and squeeze it.
"Ready," Indigo says.
"More than," Ione says.
I blow the lock, Ione yanks the door open, and out we go.
We're in luck—my phone is still on the floor of the hallway, and I scoop it up as we race toward the exit. There's men in the loading area loading a truck, and they shout at us as we go by, but nobody tries to stop us. They sound more confused than anything—I don't think they knew we were there. We blow through the door, and then we're out and free in the cold January air.
***
There aren't many people in the kebab shop, which means that when two girls and a fox walk in the door, and the pretty white girl has blood on her neck, we have the immediate attention of everyone there.
"Get that fox out of here," says the woman at the till.
"Oh my God, what happened to your neck!" says a man from the cooking area. "We have a first aid kit—I'll get it—"
"We were attacked, and I need to call the police, and the fox is a witness," I say. "We all need to stay somewhere safe and public until the police get here, yeah? If he followed us, and sees a fox hanging around outside, he'll know we're here."
The woman at the till looks like she wants to argue, but I turn away from her and take Ione's hand. "Are you alright?"
Ione nods. "Yeah. Make sure you take some pictures for evidence. I want that bastard to get everything he has coming."
I turn on my phone, and snap a few pictures, and then I call Thomas and report what happened.
***
Thomas gets there within twenty minutes. He'd started driving when he got my text, but even with the siren that must have been some driving.
He strides in, gaze finding us in a booth with Indigo at our feet. The woman at the till had tried to insist that Indigo leave a few times, but crumbled under my best unimpressed face. Besides, we were paying customers; even if Ione and I hadn't been hungry, they hadn't exactly been feeding Indigo very well. Some sort of kibble, is all; she didn't know what kind.
"Any injuries besides the obvious?" he asks.
"Not for me and Ione," I say.
"My injuries are less severe than might be expected from hostile interrogation," Indigo says. The woman behind the till drops something, hearing her speak.
"Very well," Thomas says. "Peter is putting together an operation to arrest the miscreants for assault. I need a full account of everything that happened for the warrant, and we shall also need to document Ione's injuries at the hospital—perhaps Indigo's, as well, if we choose to add a charge of animal cruelty."
"I would appreciate that," Indigo says.
"Then we shall," Thomas says. "It would probably be best to drop Indigo at the vet first, and then head to the hospital with you two. We can debrief afterwards."
We ride to the vet's with Indigo in my lap, one hand clutched in her fur, and my other arm wrapped around Ione.
When we pull up, for just a second it's hard to make myself let go of Indigo.
"It's alright, Abigail," Indigo says. "Doctor Janik will make sure I'm all right, and then I'll go home to my babies and rest."
"Right," I say, and let go.
***
Neither Doctors Walid nor Vaughn are waiting for us at hospital; there's nothing supernatural about our injuries, nothing your bog-standard casualty doctor wouldn't be perfectly capable of handling. And even though it's a slow day, Ione's neck has been bandaged and she's not actively bleeding, so we have to wait for them to see her.
It's late when we get back to Kentish Town; Thomas said he could debrief us at home as well as anywhere else, and that after a trying day it was probably better to be somewhere we could relax.
Ione mouthed 'trying' at me, raising her eyebrows. Even granted that it hadn't been much compared to our adventure with the melanistic leopard and wyvern and Ione's uncle that summer, 'trying' was a bit of an understatement for a day in which we'd been held prisoner (even if only briefly) and Ione had been hurt.
I shrugged. The Nightingale was the Nightingale, and he talked like an Edwardian gentleman sometimes because he was one.
Thomas takes our statements twice, sitting at the kitchen table, all of us drinking tea my mum made. She stays long enough to make sure we're both alright, and then retreats back into the bedroom to give us privacy.
The first run-through is an informal conversation, figuring out if there's anything we have to leave out. The big thing, of course, is what we were doing there in the first place. If you take out the kidnapping of a talking fox, all you're left with is a couple of teen girls wandering into a place they shouldn't have been.
"We can still say we heard Indigo," Ione points out. "If she was screaming, or crying—some regular foxes sound a lot like humans, when they're screaming."
"That works," I say. "So we can still say we went in because we thought somebody was in trouble in there."
"As long as no mention is made of how you got past the locks," Thomas says.
That taken care of, he turns on the recorder and brings out a notebook and starts taking our official statements.
"I'd have thought Peter would be the one doing this," I say, once we're done.
"One of the benefits of being in charge is being able to arrange assignments to one's own wishes," Thomas says. "I wanted to ascertain your safety for myself. Besides, Peter is much better at wrangling the sort of police response appropriate to an entirely mundane operation. I believe that, once assured of your good health, he was quite enthusiastic about the effect of this arrest on our clear-up rate. Although I shouldn't wonder if he takes Indigo's report on possible organized crime connections, and passes them on to another nick to build up some goodwill for the Folly."
Once the details are all down on paper and recorded on tape, Thomas wishes us a goodnight and takes his leave. Mum comes out and fusses over us a bit, and I relax under her care.
"I'd have thought she'd be more upset," Ione says quietly, once Mum has gone to bed.
"Nah," I say. "One wasteman in over his head? I've faced worse, and she knows it. This is nothing. She trusts I can take care of myself."
I pause, and think it over, and decide to say the thing I wouldn't tell most people. "Paul was so sick for so long, she and Dad had no energy left over to spend worrying about me. A person only has so much energy, yeah? And they were both stretched so thin."
Ione nods soberly.
"I could take care of myself, and Paul needed so much help. When I got into danger, it was usually all over before she and Dad found out, so it was easy for them to just … trust that Peter and Thomas would take care of me, that if I had come through without any visible damage, I must be okay. Because they couldn't worry about me the way they were worrying about Paul; they'd have gone crazy. And anyway, the trouble I found, it wasn't anything they could have protected me from. What could they have done about a house that eats kids?" I'd told her the story ages ago, because it's a good one, and because it paints me in a right proper heroic light.
Ione huffs a laugh. "Fucking nothing, that's what."
"And now that Paul's gone and they have the time and energy, it's too late to change," I say. "I am who I am and I do what I do, and Mum and Dad are too smart to think they could turn back the clock."
"Bit rough on you, though, wasn't it?" Ione asks. "Being so much on your own so young?"
I shrug. "Lots of kids have it worse, for worse reasons. It's not like they didn't care—they love me, they always have, and they've always done their best. And I've always been the independent sort, and Dad's got a large family who were also helping out, and there's Peter and Thomas."
"Yeah," Ione says. We sit quietly for a while, enjoying each other's presence.
I can feel Ione's breasts against my arm, and I shift to get a better feel of them. Ione smirks, and curls an arm around so she's got a hand rubbing she can snake up under my shirt.
Mum's probably asleep by now. I wonder how quiet we can be.
***
In far too short a time, we're back at the train station for Ione to head back up to Scotland. We get there a bit early, just in case, and although we've already had a proper good-bye snog, we make the most of the last few minutes we're going to have for a while.
"Next break, I'll come to you," I promise when we break apart. "And maybe it'll be quieter. No adventure, just hanging out."
Ione laughs. "Abi my love, I don't think we're that kind of people." She gives me another kiss, and I follow her lips as she draws back. She takes her luggage handle and turns and walks away into the bustle of Euston Station.
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Title: What Abigail And Ione Did That January
Author:
beatrice_otter Fandom: Rivers of London
Characters: Abigail Kamara/Ione Seaton, Thomas Nightingale, Peter Grant
Written For: Chrome in Yuletide 2025
Summary: Ione comes down for a visit after Christmas. But a quiet visit is not in the cards when there is a missing persons case to be solved.
I am standing in Euston Station, and it's even worse of a madhouse than I expected it to be. But I'm so excited I'm not even bothered by the crush of tourists with roller bags who seem determined to run me over as they dash to catch their trains. Ione is coming, and though we've talked on the phone almost every day, it's been months since we said goodbye in Scotland.
I want to know if she smells as good as I remember. I want to know if her skin feels as good as I remember. I'm almost afraid I've built her up, in my head, to such a peak of perfection, that I'll be disappointed to see her again and find she's just a girl.
But if I were going to let my fear control me, I wouldn't be a wizard now. I'd never have survived the house on Hampstead Heath, or the Robinette kidnapping, or the wyvern up in Glasgow. And I'd never have gotten to kiss Ione.
I got here early enough to get myself a coffee and find a good spot on the concourse near the platform the West Coast Main Line is coming in on, where I can't possibly miss her. I'm sipping it and scanning the crowd, which is so thick that if it weren't for her mermaid skin wrapped around her neck like a silver scarf, I might never have seen her. "Oi! Ione!"
She turns, and sees me, and she smiles, and it's like everyone else disappears for a moment. I know it's just the hormones, I know that to anyone else she's just a girl, but she's amazing to me. "Abi!" she says and fights her way through the crowd to me.
It isn't like in the movies. There's an awkward exchange of greetings. What I really want to do is kiss her, but I'm not sure because while we've talked a lot—an awful lot—and we got up to a lot when we were up north, I'm not sure where we are now, what she wants. It was an intense week, yeah, and sometimes when people go through experiences like that they do things in the moment that they don't want to do afterwards. I don't think that's what Ione wants, but still. It's awkward.
Then I realize that Ione is looking at my lips. I'm overthinking it. I step forward a bit, and she steps forward a bit, and our noses bump, and it takes a bit to fit our lips together because we haven't had much practice with it. But then, we get it right and it's amazing. At least as good as I remember it, and for a little bit it doesn't matter how many hundreds of people are flowing around us, we could be in our own little world.
Someone bumps into Ione and we stumble a little bit, but I can't help going in for another kiss. Yeah. This is what I've been missing.
"Can we go back to your place so I can drop my stuff off?" Ione says as we break for air.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
We hold hands on the way out to the bus station.
***
Mum is at work and Dad's asleep, so we basically have the flat to ourselves, and we take advantage of it. Not as much as either of us would have liked, but we do have an appointment with Thomas for tea at the Folly.
We manage to be only slightly late. This being Ione's first visit, we do it the grand way—the front doors opening by themselves with Molly there to take our jackets and escort us to the Visitor's Lounge, where Thomas is waiting with the tea things all set out.
Ione looks at me with raised eyebrows. "I told you," I say. And I had. But it's different when you see it in person.
Thomas stands to greet us, with the perfect old manners he has. "Miss Seaton, be welcome to the Folly," he says. "Please, eat and drink with no obligation."
"Thanks," Ione says, and we sit down and dig into Molly's spread.
"How were your exams?" Thomas asks, leading us into a discussion of Ione's life at the University of Aberdeen. Nothing I haven't heard before, but it's nice.
"Abi, you're sure I can't entice you up to Aberdeen?" Ione asks, after a story about a prank involving a goat and a wig and a boy who couldn't take a hint. "It's even better than Oxford, and not half as snooty."
"Nah," I say, though I am torn. The thought of being closer to Ione is tantalizing. But I have a plan, and we've been doing alright so far.
"Oxford is the traditional university for practitioners," Nightingale says. "And its library holds the largest collection of magic-related books in the UK."
"But you wouldn't be reading magic," Ione says. "And you've told me you have two libraries here—how many magic books do you need?"
"Just because my official studies focus on something else doesn’t mean I won't be doing magic research on the side," I say. "And besides, Harold is there." Harold Postmartin seems like he doesn't change much, but he's really old. If Paul could die so young, then Harold could die at any time, and I don't want to miss time I could spend with him. "You could come to Oxford. They've got a great law program."
Ione scoffs. "Not as great as Aberdeen."
I sigh. We've had this conversation before. It's the only real argument we have, which Bev says means that either we're perfectly suited or don't know each other well enough to have the real fights yet.
Ione turns to Thomas. "So, you're an Oxford man, then?" Like me, she knows there's no point arguing further.
"No," Thomas says. "I never went to university. It was not so common back in my day. I went directly from Casterbridge to going on missions for the Folly—this was just after the first world war had ended, and a great many things in the colonies had been neglected during the fighting, and they preferred to send younger men out to the edges of the Empire."
"Go on, then, give us a story," I say. I smile at Ione. "Thomas doesn't tell stories often, but they're good when he does."
Thomas considers. "Well," he says, taking a bite of cake, "there was the affair of the enchanted trumpet. One of the lads found it in a pawn shop, and brought it back to the Folly. Molly was greatly distressed; she could tell that the enchantment had been set by one of her people, who was in some distress. I was able to track the trumpet back to New York City. One of my fellow Casterbridge students, an Augustus Berrycloth-Young—"
"That is not a real name," Ione says. "You got that out of Wodehouse or something."
"I've read his reports," I say. "That's how he signed them."
"Gussie was never the most serious-minded person," Thomas says, "but, fortuitously enough, his partner was a music journalist with an encyclopedic knowledge of the New York jazz scene, who was of enormous help." He spins a story involving a fae woman and her child being held hostage, a mobster, corrupt cops, and climaxing in a fight at a drag ball—with The Nightingale in full drag himself.
"Pics or it didn't happen," Ione says.
"And I've read that report," I say. "It didn't mention half that."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "This was long before the age when everyone had a camera in their pocket everywhere they went, and given the semi-clandestine nature of such proceedings, they were rarely memorialized on film. Certainly the leadership of the Folly would have been … greatly distressed to hear the full story of my New York sojourn, and I don't like to speculate what they would have done about it. But while the full details were never put in a report, it's all true. Molly helped Maurelle and Oriande get back on their feet, once we had returned to England, and can verify the story."
"I'll check," I warn.
"Of course," Thomas says.
We chat some more, and I bask in the joy of it. Ione is here, and this time we're getting to hang out without some life-threatening danger distracting them. It's less intense, but I like it.
Once we've shared stories and gossip and eaten all the cakes, Thomas asks if there are any more fox baby pictures.
I make a face. "Nah. Haven't seen Indigo for a few days. And Roger King thinks getting too friendly with humans distracts from the mission." My new liaison while Indigo's on maternity leave doesn't dislike me, but he keeps our contacts limited to necessary information sharing only. I'd got used to having a fox around, and I missed the warm weight of Indigo on my shoulder or leaning against me.
On the other hand, having a bit of space without anyone in my business is nice while Ione is in town.
"Ah," Thomas says. "Well, when you see her, give her my regards."
***
We have dinner at home; Mum had made spag bol. She's cooking a lot more, now that she has more free time. Mum and Dad both like Ione, which shows they have good taste. Though I think it's hard for them that I've got a girlfriend in uni, never mind that I'd be in uni myself if I hadn't chosen to take a gap year and intern at the Folly instead, after Paul's death.
We spent so much time taking care of Paul, these last few years; I think they forgot I was growing while all their focus was on him.
After dinner, Dad goes off to work and us girls watch TV for a bit. When Mum goes to bed, Ione and I make up the sofa for her to sleep on.
"I get why they wouldn't want me sleeping in your bed," Ione says as we tuck the sheet around the cushions, "but you've got a spare bedroom."
I swallow around a lump in my throat. It's been months. Peter says that grief takes time, that it'll keep coming around when I least expect it, but that it will get better. I don't know if I want that or not. I don't want to get used to Paul being dead.
"It's not a spare bedroom," I say. "It's Paul's bedroom."
Ione's hands pause. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."
I shrug. It's not okay, but that's not her fault. "You never met him, and it's not like I talk about him all the time." Only when I have to. Only when the bits of the story don't make sense without him. Ione knows the outline of Paul's story, but to her it's just a tragedy, like something in the news. She's sad because I'm sad, and because dead kids are always sad. Not because she knew him, loved him. "He'd have liked you."
It's true. He would have. Ione is pretty and kind, and I like her, and that's all Paul would have needed. His world was so small.
"Tell me about him?" Ione says.
"I can't," I say. The facts only tell the tragedy. They don't tell you who Paul was.
I get a pillow out of my room, and Ione and I get ready for bed.
We cuddle a bit, and have a bit of a snog. Nothing too heavy; unlike Dad, Mum's a light sleeper.
***
"So what do you want to see?" I ask Ione the next morning over breakfast. "British Museum?" I've never been, because it's for tourists. Peter likes the Science Museum, and if you're looking for odd things that may be magical, the best one is Sir John Soane's Museum. I'm pretty sure his wife Elizabeth was a member of the Society of the Rose, although I've never gotten Caroline Linden-Limmer to confirm that.
Ione shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "I think I'd rather hang about your ends, meet your friends and all."
"Sounds good to me," I say. And the fact that it'll give us more time to stop in corners and snog is only part of it. I like the real London, the one that's lived-in and flesh and blood and stone and metal, not the one that's carefully made up for tourists. And I like that Ione wants to see my London, because that's part of what made me.
I make some calls, and we head out across Hampstead Heath to spend the morning with Simon, and then afterwards we can meet Bev for lunch.
Simon's as peng as always, and now he's got all these stories of the places he's been and things he's done, and I won't lie, there was a part of me that relaxed when Ione didn't change after she got an eyeful.
When we're done there, we head for the Mansfield Road bus stop to catch the 24 to Tottenham Court Road, where we'll catch the Central Line out to Mile End. Beverly's done at Queen Mary's for the day, so after lunch she can drop us wherever we decide to go.
Just before we leave the park, there's a hissing sound from behind a bush. It's Roger King, who doesn't like to be seen with humans. Ione and I casually step off the path in his direction, as if we're just enjoying the day. She's good at making it look natural, I notice with approval.
"Here is the intelligence report for the day," Roger King says from behind the bush. He always insists on me using his full name, though I've heard other foxes call him Rog. Though usually he'll deign to come out if there aren't any other humans around—maybe he doesn't want Ione to see him. "All outside cases nominal. No unusual activity to report among the surveillance subjects you have clearance for. No ongoing investigations require your assistance."
I roll my eyes at Ione. If Roger King had his way, they'd never ask for my help, not even when they really needed it. Still, he's a stickler for protocol. If his boss told him to ask for my help, he would. "How's Indigo?" I ask. "Can I visit her and her kits?"
Roger King paused. "Permission has been granted for you to visit the kits—no extra visitors."
That's a weird way of putting it. "Can I see Indigo while I'm there?"
"Indigo is on detached duty."
I turn and stare at the bush. "Her babies are still babies! They haven't been weaned yet." And besides, if she was planning to go away she'd tell me, or at least send word.
"Nan Star is nursing the kits in Indigo's absence."
"I def want to see the babies—and Lucifer or Sugar Niner, if they're around. Control, if they aren't."
"There's no call to disturb Control," Roger King said stiffly. "This is a minor operational matter."
And then I realize. If Ione can't go with me into the foxes' earth—we only have a few days before she has to go back up to Aberdeen. And it could be nothing. The foxes don't tell me everything, any more than I tell them everything.
Still. It's sus.
"Their earth isn't that far from here," I tell Ione, hoping she'll understand. "It'll probably only take half an hour or so."
"Only if there's nothing wrong," Ione points out. "Get good pics of the little ones. If it takes longer than you think, I can go meet Bev by myself. And if you're too long, she might take me swimming—I've never been in the water this far south, and I want to see if it feels different."
I feel a rush of warmth. This is the girl I met hunting a melanistic leopard, after all—she understands about needing to do the right thing even when it's not convenient.
***
I've only been to the earth under Gospel Oak a few times, but it's enough to have got my bearings. The kits are in one of the side dens, close enough to the main chambers for convenience, far enough away that when they escape their minder they're easy to round up before they become a problem. There are cushions and blankets making a nice nest, and ordinarily I'd be happy to spend a long time cuddling with them and cooing over their baby-talk.
The kits are cute, though, and I take a few minutes to give them scritches, and take pics for Ione and Thomas. But I don't take as long as I might have, because I want to know that Indigo is all right—and if she isn't, I want to know that, too.
As soon as Lucifer shows up, I extract myself from under the pile of kits and leave them to the watchful eyes of their minder.
"Well?" I asked.
"Not all of our operations are Falcon-cleared," Lucifer said.
"I know," I say. "You've got all sorts of irons in the fire." I'd say that not all my investigations are fox cleared, but given how good they are at surveillance, I can't say that doesn't mean they don't know about them. There are a lot more of them than there are of me, and they're all nosy. "But Indigo wasn't supposed to be on operations until her maternity leave was up, and the way Roger King talked, I don't think she checked in when she was supposed to. If she's in trouble, I want to help."
"We are unsure of her status." Lucifer doesn't manage to sound as grand as usual, which I think means she's worried.
"What happened?"
"Indigo was approached by a Sugar five days ago while out stretching her legs," Lucifer said. "He expressed interest in passing information along. We were uncertain about what information he might have, but new sources are always welcome. Indigo was following up with him when she had time free; it is always best to continue to work through the primary initial contact when possible. The Sugar was not always responsive and kept hinting at something big that he would only disclose with certain assurances. Yesterday, Indigo reported that she would be meeting him again at their drop point, and it might take longer than usual. She has not returned."
"She's been missing since last night?" My hands clench, but I keep my voice steady. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"We began investigations as soon as she missed check-in," Lucifer said stiffly. "We have never needed outside assistance in intelligence matters. Furthermore, this was not a Falcon mission, and you have a guest."
"I'm not questioning your competence," I say, "but I've got opportunities you don't, just like you've got ones I don't. It'll be quicker if we both make our own enquiries."
Lucifer eyes me, and then nods. "I suppose you will want to hear her reports."
"It would help," I say.
Lucifer calls in another fox, younger and browner, and introduces him as Puck, one of their coordinators. He's the one who took Indigo's reports, and Lucifer tells him to share them with me.
He redacts a bit, but otherwise it's verbatim the report Indigo gave to him—foxes have great memories. Only there's not much there. The contact has a name, John Davis, and a description, middle-aged white man who usually wears jeans and a hoodie. Brown hair, brown eyes, no visible scars. There are millions of men like that in London, and I hope there aren't that many John Davises. Indigo was mildly impressed with his tradecraft, and they'd mostly used drops instead of meeting in person. The foxes have, of course, already checked the drops and tried to trace things back from there.
"What information was he passing along?" I ask.
Puck looks to Lucifer.
"Nothing of consequence," she says. "Small things we could have gotten in other ways. Nothing that pointed to anything of significance in Indigo's disappearance."
I don't agree—anything can be something of significance, and the foxes know that as well as I do—but I already know that if you try to get them to talk about what their core mission even is, they clam up tighter than a drum, and anyway, I have enough to start with. "I'll look into this John Davis from the Folly's end," I say.
"Thank you," Indigo says. "Please share anything relevant that you find."
"Course," I say. "Long as you do the same."
"Of course," Indigo says.
***
The earth has great phone reception and wifi throughout, but I wait to call Thomas until I'm out on the street.
"I shall get Nathan to see if we can identify this John Davis," he says after I've explained. I take a moment to be grateful the Folly has its own analyst these days, and it's not all on me and Peter. "Though the problem will likely be correctly identifying which John Davis is the correct one—there isn't much to go on."
"Maybe it'll be obvious, and as simple as looking him up and checking out his ends," I say. It's not often that easy, but sometimes it is. People can be really stupid when talking to someone they think can't check them.
"If his tradecraft is as good as Indigo reported, I doubt it," Thomas said. "More probably, it was an alias, if he was planning this from the start."
"Yeah, but why would he want to kidnap a fox?" I ask. "If he was doing it for leverage, you'd expect there to be demands made by now."
"It's possible that demands have been made, which the foxes do not wish to share," Thomas says. "It's also possible that this is somehow tied up in their main mission. Perhaps this John Davis is an agent of whatever power they are organized against. It would explain why Indigo did not wish to share information about him."
"Maybe," I say. At this stage of an investigation, it's always best to keep your options open, not get too focused on any one theory, because you're bound to be missing at least half what you need to figure it out.
Thomas promises to let me know what he finds, and signs off. I turn a corner, and there Ione is, waiting for me.
"How'd it go, Abi?" she asks.
"She's been missing since last night," I said. "She was meeting a new contact, one the foxes don't know much about, and she never came back. But she said she might be a little late, so they didn't start looking right away."
Ione wraps an arm about me, and I snuggle in to her, taking comfort in the warmth of her body. "I'm sorry," she says. "I hope she's okay."
"Me too," I say. "I'm sorry your visit is spoiled."
Ione huffs a laugh. "It's not the sort of thing anybody could control. I'd offer to help, but I don't know how to track anyone in a city."
"That's okay," I say. "I do."
***
Nightingale may be handling the official records check for this John Davis, but there's more than one way to look someone up. As we ride the bus, I search Facebook and Twitter and all the other social media sites. There are a bunch of John Davises who could be the right one, but just like I feared, there's no way to tell which one's the right one. (If any of them are. It could be a fake name—generic enough to be hard to identify, but not quite so generic as to be obviously fake.)
"What will you do if you can't figure out which one it is?" Ione asks. "Can the foxes track her scent, figure out where she went?"
"Nah," I said. "They're not dogs, they can't track by scent any more than you or I can. But there's other things we can do, especially since we know where Indigo was going to meet Davis."
***
Since we're a little later than we thought, Peter was able to get off and meet Bev and us for lunch after all. Which is convenient, since I have a job for him.
"With a name like John Davis, he'll be hard to find," Peter says as we eat. It's a kebab shop—Ione said nothing fancy or touristy, just the sort of place we'd normally eat.
"I know," I say. "I found eighty John Davises on Facebook alone who said they were from London."
Bev whistles.
"The HOLMES check might not be any better," Peter says. "It'll bring up any criminal records and whatnot, but we've no idea if the John Davis you're looking for has any brushes with the long arm of the law."
"What's the next step?" Ione asks.
"CCTV," I say. "If Peter's got the time. We know where she was going, so if we can get the cameras for that block, we can see if she left on her own, if she met him there and he led her somewhere else—if nothing else, we can get a picture and identify which John Davis he is." The thing about CCTV is that it's got to be collected, and businesses don't just hand over their data to anyone who goes looking. It can't be me that asks, it's got to be someone with a badge.
"God bless the surveillance state," Peter says, with less irony than he thinks he has. I've got complicated feelings about the ever-present cameras; they're dead useful, but the question is: useful to whom? And for what? Peter and Thomas are alright, but I don't trust Feds—or bureaucrats, or politicians—with that sort of thing. "I don't have any active cases going, so I can do it this afternoon. But you don't usually ask for this much help."
"It's Indigo," I say, "and there isn't much else to go on. Besides, you know the statistics on Missing Persons cases better than I do." I don't abbreviate it because Ione isn't used to Fed speak like I am, and I don't want to exclude her.
"Yeah," Peter says.
"What are you going to tell them when you ask?" Bev says. "You can't say you're looking for a missing fox."
"You're looking for a young mother with newborns who went missing after meeting a mysterious stranger," Ione says. "Let them make assumptions."
I smile at Ione, and squeeze her hand.
"Can we tag along while you're asking them?" I ask. We won't be any help, but I can't think of anything else to do and I can't stand to go out and have fun while Indigo may be in danger.
"Wouldn't you rather be doing stuff with Ione?" Peter asks.
"I didn't come to see London, I came to see Abi," Ione said. "And we did meet in the middle of an operation. I knew what I was getting into with her."
"I've an idea," Bev said. "It's not as if you'd really be any help to Peter, and you're going to want to be somewhere the foxes can reach you if they find something. Why don't you come back to our place? Ione and I can go swimming, if she wants, or you could watch the twins. It'd give you something to do to keep your mind off things, and you'll be easy to reach."
I'd rather go with Peter, but she's right that there's not much point in it. I look at Ione.
"Whatever you want, babe," she says, although I know she's been looking forward to swimming in the river.
I've always prided myself on going with logic rather than being ruled by my emotions. And going with Peter—that's not logic. "Alright," I say.
***
The twins are a distraction. Ione flipping her tail and going into the water is even more of one. Even as worried as I am for Indigo, it's a sight to see. If it were warmer, I'd be thinking of joining her. But even with a wetsuit, the Thames in January is a bit nippy for my tastes.
There's a fox, Almond, hanging out in the dining room. If they'd found anything, he'd have been notified, and he'd have told me. I still have to stop myself from bothering him every five minutes.
Taiwo and Kehinde have fun playing in the garden, but once it gets dark, we go inside, and they turn to playing with the toys that cover every available surface. Between hand-me-downs from her sisters and tributes people have given, Bev's kids have a truly terrifying amount of toys.
I'm surprised when Thomas shows up at supper time.
"Bev invited me," he says, as we sit on the couch and wait for everyone to come in. "After all, your young lady won't be in town for long, and I want to get to know her."
Not long after that, Bev and Ione come in, laughing, and Ione goes off to take a shower to rinse out her hair. I try not to think too hard about that, and how much I want to join her. Bev goes in the kitchen and starts heating up some jollof rice that Auntie Rose made for them. By the time it's on the table, Peter's home.
Over dinner, the conversation turns to the foxes.
"What are they looking for?" Ione said. "I've been getting to know the foxes up in my area, and they're very cagey about what their mission is. But it must be something large, to justify organizing their whole society around it, across the entire UK."
I shrug. "They've never shared the details, and I've been friends with Indigo and the rest for years—and doing missions with them the whole time. Whatever it is, they've got plenty of time and freedom to investigate anything else they think is interesting."
"I don't know that there really is a mission," Peter says. "If there really were some sort of adversary out there that they're trying to foil, surely we'd have seen some evidence of it by now. Abigail works pretty closely with them; if something big went down, she'd notice."
"Then where do you think they got all their ideas about spying from?" I ask.
"No clue," Peter says.
"They've been at this for a long time," I say. "Did you know they still use the original phonetic alphabet from World War II, not the modern one that everyone uses today? That's when they got started."
"Maybe they were recruited to look for Nazi spies," Ione says.
I shrug. "They know about World War II, and they know when it ended. I don't think they'd have maintained such an intense structure and hierarchy, all focused around surveillance and spying, if there weren't some sort of current threat. They only live for fourteen years or so, and they're adults at age two. It's been like twelve fox generations since the war ended, maybe more. That's a long time to guard against a threat that's not there."
"Yeah, but what threat is there?" Peter asks.
I shrug.
"It doesn't matter," Thomas says. "Whether the threat is real or not, whether it's current or not. They believe it is real enough to structure their entire lives around. They are our allies and friends; if it's real to them, it affects any joint operations the Folly has with them."
Peter and Thomas have argued about this before, and they're not going to come to any new conclusions tonight. I turn to Ione. "So how was the river?"
"Good," she said. "I don't like rivers as much as the sea, of course, but you find a lot of different things in your southern rivers than we have up in Scotland. Bev's a great tour guide."
***
After dinner Ione and I check the CCTV records for the area around where Indigo was supposed to meet John Davis. Thomas headed back to the Folly, and Peter and Bev are taking the babies through their bedtime routine, leaving the investigation to us. Ione and I sit next to each other at the dining room table, me with Peter's laptop and Ione with Bev's, each with a set of camera footage. Almond comes to watch and see what we found and also get any scritches that are going around.
I know immediately that Indigo hadn't picked the meeting spot; she'd have wanted better cover, and the street was pretty bare. It doesn't take long for Ione to spot her, and then we had a time stamp. From there, we check all the cameras and find one that captured her going into an alley. I check the address on Google Maps—it's a blind alley, so she had to have come back out the way she came, unless someone opened a door for her.
There's only one camera with a view of that alley. One, almost dead on, from the shop across the street. Neither of the shops on either side of it have cameras. And that's a problem, 'cause fifteen minutes after Indigo goes into the alley a white van parks right in front of it, in a loading zone, and we can't see what's going on. The driver gets out and walks around his van, and he could be going into the shop he parked in front of, or he could be going into the alley. After a few minutes, he gets back in his van and drives off. Indigo never comes out of the alley.
"So did she leave while the van was parked in front of the alley?" Ione asks.
"Could be," I said. "If so, we're at a dead end. But she could have gone into one of the shops next to the alley, if they've got a back door, or she could have left in the van. Maybe that wasteman was Davis."
"We have checked all the shops on the street and do not believe Indigo entered any of them," Almond says. "Direct entry would be required to clear the premises with certainty."
"Right," I say. "Well, we still need to check the other cameras on the street. If she walked away while the van was there, one of the ones farther down probably caught her."
"Check the other cameras to see if you can spot the number plate," Almond suggests.
We can't spot Indigo on any of the other cameras in the right time frame, so she probably left in the van. From the shop on the corner we get a partial picture of its number plate. And from the camera across from the alley, I get a fairly good shot of the wasteman's face. I give both to Peter, and he says he'll run them in the morning.
***
The next morning, Ione and I are fooling around when Peter calls my mobile. "The van is registered to a small cargo handling and delivery firm headquartered in Custom House, Newham."
"Does a John Davis work there?" I ask.
"No," Peter says. "But a Michael J. Davis does."
"Think it's the same man?" I ask.
"Possibly," Peter says.
"Ione and I'll go check it out," I say.
There's a pause, and I know it's because deep down Peter still thinks I'm, I don't know, twelve or something. His annoying baby cousin. Not someone who's faced down melanistic leopards and wyverns and genius loci houses and rescued people who were kidnapped and did all sorts of other things he doesn't know about.
Also, he knows that if he asks Nightingale, he'll say it's fine as long as I take proper precautions, like letting people know where I'm going so there's backup if something happens.
"We'll be fine," I say. It's annoying to have to reassure him like this, but it's the quickest way to get off and find Indigo. "It's just reconnaissance. We don't even know for sure that he took Indigo. If there's anything sus, we'll let you or Thomas know right away."
"See that you do," Peter says.
***
The delivery firm is in one grotty industrial building on a street full of them. There aren't many people hanging about, just cars going back and forth, which makes Ione and I stand out more than I'd like. But bored young people pop up everywhere, and Ione and I make it work. We've got bubble teas, and we wander down the block chatting about whatever random thing strikes our fancy.
Across the street from the delivery firm, on a bit of a diagonal from it, is a bit of low wall perfect for perching on. I hop up, and Ione joins me. She's not quite as good at hiding her interest in the target as I am, but then, she hasn't got as much practice and she's not bad.
After about half an hour of watching, nobody's gone in or out of the front door, and our bubble tea is well gone. I hop off the wall, and we wander around to the back.
This is where the delivery vans come and go; there's a loading dock just off the alley. And there's no reason for two girls to be wandering around back here, or at least, no innocent reason, but the alley is clear for now and we won't get a better shot unless we wait for dark.
I don't want to wait that long.
We walk along the alley to the loading dock, and Ione keeps watch while I climb up. There are two garage doors, for loading stuff out onto trucks, and one regular door for people with three locks on it. I put my ear to one of the garage doors, figuring it'll be thinner and transmit sound better. No vestigium beyond what you'd expect of an old warehouse, but I can just barely hear a voice inside. It's singing a song I heard Sugar Niner sing once, when we were all curled up together in my bed on a wet spring night.
"I think I can hear Indigo," I say. She doesn't sound happy, but I can't make out what she's singing.
"You sure?" Ione asks.
"No. It's well faint, I could be hearing what I want to."
Ione looks up and down the alley, and then climbs up to join me. She presses her ear against the door. "I think you're right," she says.
I pull out my phone and text Thomas and Peter both that I've found Indigo, and that Ione and I are going in. "Turn off your phone," I say, and flip the kill-switch on mine. I've got one of those nifty cases the Sons of Weyland make, but they're not perfect, and better safe than sorry.
Ione digs her phone out, and I wait for her to get it completely off.
Then I take one more look down the alley—still empty, nobody's going to see this—and use a spell to pop the locks on the regular door.
Ione takes the handle and opens it gently, enough for me to peer through. It's dark in there, several of the lightbulbs have burned out, but there's nobody around that I can see. I nod to Ione, and she opens it fully.
Now comes the hard part. Finding Indigo and getting her out … and we haven't seen anybody here, but it's the middle of the work day and if this place was sitting around empty and unused there'd be more dust over everything and the air would be mustier.
The loading dock enters onto a big room, with crates and boxes stacked around the edge. Indigo's voice is a bit louder, and it's def her.
There are doors along the side near us, and I head for the nearest one. We walk past a couple of doors, one dark, one with a strip of light shining out from under it. Ione's doing a good job of keeping an eye out, but I wish she had her spear. She's got her silver shawl around her neck as a scarf, but it's not going to do us any good today—we're too far from any of the rivers for her to flip tail and swim us to safety.
At the end of the wall is a door into a hall, and Indigo's voice is coming through there. This time, I'm the one to crack the door open for Ione to look through. She gives me a nod, and I open it wide enough for her to go through. I take one look around the cargo area to double check nobody's coming up behind us, then step through the door and close it behind me.
Indigo's voice is coming from the third room down the hall. We hurry down towards it and I check the handle—it's not locked. We slip inside, and there she is, in a dog kennel sitting on the bare floor, wedged between the wall and the filing cabinet that's the only thing in the room. Ione stays by the door, but I hurry forward.
"Abigail!" Indigo says. "You found me!"
"Your John Davis isn't the cleverest wasteman," I say. I can't pop the lock on the cage because there isn't one; the kennel is jammed so the door can't be opened until I un-wedge it. It'll make noise, and it's not exactly a straight shot from here to the door.
"He put up a good show, when he made contact," Indigo says.
There's nothing for it. I grab the kennel's handle and heave.
"Abi!" Ione's voice is tight.
I turn … and there's Michael J. Davis with a knife not three inches from Ione's throat.
And there's a thin line of blood that says he made contact enough to break the skin. There's not much blood, but any blood is too much, when it comes to the neck. He could have killed her, and I have to fight down a wave of rage as Ione presses a hand to her neck.
Now, I could take him out, no question. There's any number of spells I could throw at him that would knock him down or hurt him long enough for me to grab the knife and cosh him over the head with something. But the question is, could I do it quick enough he couldn't cut Ione again? And then un-wedge Indigo and get us all out of here before he recovered?
The answer to that is "maybe," and given that the cut on Ione's neck isn't deep enough to be serious, he's not actively trying to kill us, and I can always drop him later, that means the smart play right now is to let him think he's won.
I raise my hands. I don't need them to hurt him, anyway—any formae I might be using for self-defense, I can do without hand movements. Thomas and Peter were very thorough in making sure of it.
"Who the fuck are you?" he demands.
"We're friends of Indigo's," I say. "We were worried—her kits need her." Not that I think this bruiser's going to care about any babies, human or fox, but maybe he'll lower his guard a bit if he thinks we're just soft-hearted idiots. "You didn't have to hurt us."
"The fuck you say," he says. "How many of you are there? How deep does this go?"
"There's just the two of us," I say, neglecting to mention that I've got two cops on speed dial and they know where we are, and what we're doing, and if anything happens to us the full weight of the Metropolitan Police is going to come crashing down on his head. "We don't know anything—or care about anything you're doing here. We just want to get Indigo home."
"D'you expect me to believe that?" he says.
Not really, but it's worth a shot.
"Hand over your phones," he says, and I hesitate. But the calculus hasn't changed, and I wouldn't want to get Ione killed over a phone. I pull mine out slowly, and crouch down to set it on the lino, and slide it over to him. He kicks it through the doorway without taking his eyes off Ione.
"You too," he tells her, and grabs Ione's phone out of her hand when she pulls it from her pocket.
He gestures Ione away from the door, and when she's clear, he slams it shut. I can hear some sort of lock engaging.
Ione slams her hand against it, and it leaves a bloody streak behind.
Quietly as I can, I go over to the door and press my ear to it to listen. Very faintly, I can hear Davis talking on his phone.
"They just showed up inside … no idea how they got in … found them trying to get that fucking fox out … now they're locked up with it. What do you mean, why?"
He must be walking away because I can't hear him any longer.
"Sorry, Abi," Ione says. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have let him get the drop on me."
"It's his fault," I say. I put my arms around her. I haven't got anything to bandage her up with, and it's already stopped bleeding, but something loosens in me, just a bit, to feel her steady and strong in my arms. "He's the one with the knife. Thomas always says that the trick to winning a knife fight is not to get in it in the first place." Besides. The only reason she's here is because of me. She wouldn't even be in London if not for me. And I couldn't have left Indigo without trying to rescue her, and Ione wouldn't have let me go alone, and Ione can take care of herself and make her own decisions.
But still, there's a bit of it that's my fault. More than it is her fault, at any rate.
"I would appreciate some freedom of movement," Indigo says.
"Right," I say. I make myself step back from Ione and turn to Indigo. "What happened? What's this Davis guy's deal?"
"He is a common small-time crook," Indigo says, "for a tiny smuggling and enforcer racket that thinks itself far more important than it is. I don't know how he figured out that we can talk—or that we conduct surveillance operations, but he did, and thought that his gang was the target. He and his boss want information about us, and they want to know whether we are the agents of the Met or Interpol."
I grab the kennel's handle and yank it up. There's a scraping sound, but it's not as loud as I was expecting. With some effort, I pull it out and set it down so that Indigo can come out.
"You're joking," Ione says. "He almost cut my throat for a case of mistaken identity?"
"I believe Davis had some government service of some sort, possibly military, before joining the gang," Indigo says. "Our first contacts, though brief and with only low-level intelligence, had enough professionalism on his part to make me view him as a credible operative. But once he got me, he didn't know what to do with me—he didn't know how to interrogate a fox." Her voice is shaky, and I knew it had been worse than she was making it sound. Her dugs were swollen and looked painful. I wrap my arms around her and she sighs.
"What was their plan?" Ione asks. "Did they even have one?"
"Not really," Indigo says. "Though I think they were eventually going to try and sell me as a novelty or exotic pet."
"I wish I'd given him an ice bomb to the dick," I say.
"Can we go now?" Ione asks.
"Can you run for it?" I ask Indigo.
"I'm a little stiff, but otherwise unimpaired," Indigo reports.
I tell her how to get to the door whose lock we busted, and we designate the kebab shop three blocks over as a meeting point if we get separated.
I don't want to let go of Indigo, but I have to. I station myself by the door, Indigo at my heels, Ione beside me.
"All ready?" I ask. I take Ione's hand and squeeze it.
"Ready," Indigo says.
"More than," Ione says.
I blow the lock, Ione yanks the door open, and out we go.
We're in luck—my phone is still on the floor of the hallway, and I scoop it up as we race toward the exit. There's men in the loading area loading a truck, and they shout at us as we go by, but nobody tries to stop us. They sound more confused than anything—I don't think they knew we were there. We blow through the door, and then we're out and free in the cold January air.
***
There aren't many people in the kebab shop, which means that when two girls and a fox walk in the door, and the pretty white girl has blood on her neck, we have the immediate attention of everyone there.
"Get that fox out of here," says the woman at the till.
"Oh my God, what happened to your neck!" says a man from the cooking area. "We have a first aid kit—I'll get it—"
"We were attacked, and I need to call the police, and the fox is a witness," I say. "We all need to stay somewhere safe and public until the police get here, yeah? If he followed us, and sees a fox hanging around outside, he'll know we're here."
The woman at the till looks like she wants to argue, but I turn away from her and take Ione's hand. "Are you alright?"
Ione nods. "Yeah. Make sure you take some pictures for evidence. I want that bastard to get everything he has coming."
I turn on my phone, and snap a few pictures, and then I call Thomas and report what happened.
***
Thomas gets there within twenty minutes. He'd started driving when he got my text, but even with the siren that must have been some driving.
He strides in, gaze finding us in a booth with Indigo at our feet. The woman at the till had tried to insist that Indigo leave a few times, but crumbled under my best unimpressed face. Besides, we were paying customers; even if Ione and I hadn't been hungry, they hadn't exactly been feeding Indigo very well. Some sort of kibble, is all; she didn't know what kind.
"Any injuries besides the obvious?" he asks.
"Not for me and Ione," I say.
"My injuries are less severe than might be expected from hostile interrogation," Indigo says. The woman behind the till drops something, hearing her speak.
"Very well," Thomas says. "Peter is putting together an operation to arrest the miscreants for assault. I need a full account of everything that happened for the warrant, and we shall also need to document Ione's injuries at the hospital—perhaps Indigo's, as well, if we choose to add a charge of animal cruelty."
"I would appreciate that," Indigo says.
"Then we shall," Thomas says. "It would probably be best to drop Indigo at the vet first, and then head to the hospital with you two. We can debrief afterwards."
We ride to the vet's with Indigo in my lap, one hand clutched in her fur, and my other arm wrapped around Ione.
When we pull up, for just a second it's hard to make myself let go of Indigo.
"It's alright, Abigail," Indigo says. "Doctor Janik will make sure I'm all right, and then I'll go home to my babies and rest."
"Right," I say, and let go.
***
Neither Doctors Walid nor Vaughn are waiting for us at hospital; there's nothing supernatural about our injuries, nothing your bog-standard casualty doctor wouldn't be perfectly capable of handling. And even though it's a slow day, Ione's neck has been bandaged and she's not actively bleeding, so we have to wait for them to see her.
It's late when we get back to Kentish Town; Thomas said he could debrief us at home as well as anywhere else, and that after a trying day it was probably better to be somewhere we could relax.
Ione mouthed 'trying' at me, raising her eyebrows. Even granted that it hadn't been much compared to our adventure with the melanistic leopard and wyvern and Ione's uncle that summer, 'trying' was a bit of an understatement for a day in which we'd been held prisoner (even if only briefly) and Ione had been hurt.
I shrugged. The Nightingale was the Nightingale, and he talked like an Edwardian gentleman sometimes because he was one.
Thomas takes our statements twice, sitting at the kitchen table, all of us drinking tea my mum made. She stays long enough to make sure we're both alright, and then retreats back into the bedroom to give us privacy.
The first run-through is an informal conversation, figuring out if there's anything we have to leave out. The big thing, of course, is what we were doing there in the first place. If you take out the kidnapping of a talking fox, all you're left with is a couple of teen girls wandering into a place they shouldn't have been.
"We can still say we heard Indigo," Ione points out. "If she was screaming, or crying—some regular foxes sound a lot like humans, when they're screaming."
"That works," I say. "So we can still say we went in because we thought somebody was in trouble in there."
"As long as no mention is made of how you got past the locks," Thomas says.
That taken care of, he turns on the recorder and brings out a notebook and starts taking our official statements.
"I'd have thought Peter would be the one doing this," I say, once we're done.
"One of the benefits of being in charge is being able to arrange assignments to one's own wishes," Thomas says. "I wanted to ascertain your safety for myself. Besides, Peter is much better at wrangling the sort of police response appropriate to an entirely mundane operation. I believe that, once assured of your good health, he was quite enthusiastic about the effect of this arrest on our clear-up rate. Although I shouldn't wonder if he takes Indigo's report on possible organized crime connections, and passes them on to another nick to build up some goodwill for the Folly."
Once the details are all down on paper and recorded on tape, Thomas wishes us a goodnight and takes his leave. Mum comes out and fusses over us a bit, and I relax under her care.
"I'd have thought she'd be more upset," Ione says quietly, once Mum has gone to bed.
"Nah," I say. "One wasteman in over his head? I've faced worse, and she knows it. This is nothing. She trusts I can take care of myself."
I pause, and think it over, and decide to say the thing I wouldn't tell most people. "Paul was so sick for so long, she and Dad had no energy left over to spend worrying about me. A person only has so much energy, yeah? And they were both stretched so thin."
Ione nods soberly.
"I could take care of myself, and Paul needed so much help. When I got into danger, it was usually all over before she and Dad found out, so it was easy for them to just … trust that Peter and Thomas would take care of me, that if I had come through without any visible damage, I must be okay. Because they couldn't worry about me the way they were worrying about Paul; they'd have gone crazy. And anyway, the trouble I found, it wasn't anything they could have protected me from. What could they have done about a house that eats kids?" I'd told her the story ages ago, because it's a good one, and because it paints me in a right proper heroic light.
Ione huffs a laugh. "Fucking nothing, that's what."
"And now that Paul's gone and they have the time and energy, it's too late to change," I say. "I am who I am and I do what I do, and Mum and Dad are too smart to think they could turn back the clock."
"Bit rough on you, though, wasn't it?" Ione asks. "Being so much on your own so young?"
I shrug. "Lots of kids have it worse, for worse reasons. It's not like they didn't care—they love me, they always have, and they've always done their best. And I've always been the independent sort, and Dad's got a large family who were also helping out, and there's Peter and Thomas."
"Yeah," Ione says. We sit quietly for a while, enjoying each other's presence.
I can feel Ione's breasts against my arm, and I shift to get a better feel of them. Ione smirks, and curls an arm around so she's got a hand rubbing she can snake up under my shirt.
Mum's probably asleep by now. I wonder how quiet we can be.
***
In far too short a time, we're back at the train station for Ione to head back up to Scotland. We get there a bit early, just in case, and although we've already had a proper good-bye snog, we make the most of the last few minutes we're going to have for a while.
"Next break, I'll come to you," I promise when we break apart. "And maybe it'll be quieter. No adventure, just hanging out."
Ione laughs. "Abi my love, I don't think we're that kind of people." She gives me another kiss, and I follow her lips as she draws back. She takes her luggage handle and turns and walks away into the bustle of Euston Station.
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