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more_magicThe 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.
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Date: 2020-07-30 03:19 am (UTC)"Ah. I've overstepped, I apologize." He doesn't think Darlington seems offended, exactly, but the crisp politeness gives Eliot pause all the same. "I'm still used to this being the sort of thing that is my business, but I understand." And if he's being honest with himself, he's not sure he really wants to get involved, if whatever happened with this ghost business has Darlington so guarded. If it's personal, it's bound to be messy, and Eliot's life is enough of a mess on its own already.
He clears his throat and stands, going to retrieve the pages from the printer. "Good to know I don't need to reinforce my wards just yet, then." Eliot smiles as he hands them over. "I will say, Darrow seems to have an abundance of ghosts but if that's due to the...physics of this world I don't think anyone's found that out yet. You might be the one to crack it; let us know if you make any breakthroughs, maybe?" He'd love to have more hard data on this sort of thing. If he ends up dying in a version of New Jersey he'd hate to be trapped here for all eternity.
no subject
Date: 2020-07-30 02:30 pm (UTC)The printer whirrs, spitting out a sheaf of pages dense with ink and hopefully enough information that he can find something usable in it. He nods his thanks when Eliot hands them over, his expression shifting briefly to one of more pointed interest at the subject of wards. "It could very well be," he agrees. "Whatever brings the rest of us here, from what seems like a myriad of different places, could make the Veil thinner here. More permeable, or attractive to different kinds of spirits. It's worth looking into."
He pauses, but his resistance only holds out so long. "Speaking of questions it's not quite my place to ask here...how do you set up your wards? The ones I learned are fairly specific to a given circumstance, again mostly to prevent spirit interference, but I've gotten rudimentary practice in others. Closing portals, preventing theft, that kind of thing."