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The last few days have been nothing but ruin, his few texts to Alex going unanswered and the one call he'd made sent to her voicemail with a speed that suggested something deliberate. The garbage bag with the bat and their fouled sheets still sits in the corner of the bedroom like something evil; he'll need to get rid of it before it starts to smell, but he can't yet. Not when it feels like the last link he has to a girl he never expected.
Alex had accused him that night of being more consumed by the how and not the why, and she hadn't been wrong. The reasons mattered, but not as much as the fact that she'd managed to do something he'd previously thought impossible. She'd let in a Grey, absorbed Helen Watson's spirit in an act of--what? Desperation? Anger? Thoughtless destruction? He still didn't know, any more than he understood how the aftermath of it hadn't left her as unresponsive as the other prospective candidates Lethe had documented and monitored, catatonic shells forever changed by their brush with things beyond the Veil. All Alex had suffered was a rough awakening by some EMT and an extended hospital stay as the fentanyl worked its way out of her system.
And the loss of her friend, her boyfriend, and everyone she'd ever known, but right now Darlington looks at that with a little less pity than he had before.
Were he back in New Haven, he'd have access to the collected stores of Lethe, the files and books and artifacts held at Il Bastone. He'd be able to start making some kind of sense of what he'd learned, falling into research and pulling evidence out of the library; the Albemarle Book and the house itself might disapprove, along with Dawes, but Darlington could weather that scorn for the sake of finding a solution to a mystery he knows would threaten them all. Here, there's nothing, or as good as such. He's done his best, late nights of search after search on his laptop, a glass of scotch beside him and Kirby watching from the couch or curled at the foot of the bed. He'd even tried the Darrow Public Library, not that it led to much of anything other than frustration.
None of it is leading anywhere, until he recalls a fragment of his conversation with Luke at the festival. Like a big library full of scary stuff, he'd said, talking with an odd confidence about some Archive within the bounds of the city containing accounts and records, things that just maybe he'd be able to use. It feels ludicrous to be taking the word of a child, especially at a time like this, but right now Darlington's ready to try venturing down just about any avenue.
Another search turns up an address only a few blocks away, and the next day, Darlington leaves work and heads directly for it. The outside is...unassuming, to say the least, none of the ostentation of the tombs he's used to or even Il Bastone's quiet red-brick grandeur, but he pushes the front door open and steps inside. Whatever he might find, at least it's better than nothing.
Alex had accused him that night of being more consumed by the how and not the why, and she hadn't been wrong. The reasons mattered, but not as much as the fact that she'd managed to do something he'd previously thought impossible. She'd let in a Grey, absorbed Helen Watson's spirit in an act of--what? Desperation? Anger? Thoughtless destruction? He still didn't know, any more than he understood how the aftermath of it hadn't left her as unresponsive as the other prospective candidates Lethe had documented and monitored, catatonic shells forever changed by their brush with things beyond the Veil. All Alex had suffered was a rough awakening by some EMT and an extended hospital stay as the fentanyl worked its way out of her system.
And the loss of her friend, her boyfriend, and everyone she'd ever known, but right now Darlington looks at that with a little less pity than he had before.
Were he back in New Haven, he'd have access to the collected stores of Lethe, the files and books and artifacts held at Il Bastone. He'd be able to start making some kind of sense of what he'd learned, falling into research and pulling evidence out of the library; the Albemarle Book and the house itself might disapprove, along with Dawes, but Darlington could weather that scorn for the sake of finding a solution to a mystery he knows would threaten them all. Here, there's nothing, or as good as such. He's done his best, late nights of search after search on his laptop, a glass of scotch beside him and Kirby watching from the couch or curled at the foot of the bed. He'd even tried the Darrow Public Library, not that it led to much of anything other than frustration.
None of it is leading anywhere, until he recalls a fragment of his conversation with Luke at the festival. Like a big library full of scary stuff, he'd said, talking with an odd confidence about some Archive within the bounds of the city containing accounts and records, things that just maybe he'd be able to use. It feels ludicrous to be taking the word of a child, especially at a time like this, but right now Darlington's ready to try venturing down just about any avenue.
Another search turns up an address only a few blocks away, and the next day, Darlington leaves work and heads directly for it. The outside is...unassuming, to say the least, none of the ostentation of the tombs he's used to or even Il Bastone's quiet red-brick grandeur, but he pushes the front door open and steps inside. Whatever he might find, at least it's better than nothing.
