Chapter Text
Jonathan woke long past nightfall, hours after the sun set, and the mansion was silent.
How very odd.
He sat up and tapped into his extrasensory vision, but there was no trace of the vital flow that represented McCullum, not even when he extended his search to the courtyard, nor further, to the open space beyond the thrumming lines of Connally's solid wards. Surely McCullum was not fool enough to walk off alone, even in his improved condition. But the only sound Jonathan could pick up was the faint unsynced ticking of the clocks throughout the building, and the occasional faint unrest of the wind requesting its constant denied entry.
He immediately feared the worst. But the wards seemed to be intact; even his novice eyes would be able to pick up a disturbance now that he understood what he was looking at. Connally had seemed certain of it. 'Your blood is old as dirt,' he had dismissed Jonathan's worries. 'Believe me, you'll be as a scenthound if the time comes that something wanders by with enough strength to disturb my work.'
A scenthound for whom the trail was growing ever colder. Jonathan rose and quickly dressed, donning his weapons as he descended the stairs. He gave the mansion a final cursory inspection, but of course McCullum was still nowhere in evidence.
What was in evidence, however, was McCullum's Mauser, lying abandoned on the table by the settee, atop a journal with a pen tucked haphazardly into the pages. Jonathan moved the pistol aside and impulsively opened the small book, hoping against hope there might be some form of clue—
The beginning of a truncated sentence, pen lifted from page as though jerked away by force. The rest of McCullum's writing had been neat, definitive, even though it was clearly written as an unplanned stream of consciousness. But this:
it’s her
It's her. No punctuation, the half-script r swerving off in an explosive arc of motion. He could hear the two words in McCullum's voice, clipped, tense, a precursor to leaping up and giving chase, for some reason leaving his sidearm inside of doors rather than secure in its holster around his shoulders.
And he knew as immediately and completely as any fact he'd ever known that her meant Cynthia Marsh.
===
Jonathan did not make it to the courtyard door before he felt a strange shimmer at the edge of the wards, like a ripple tumbling across an expanse of water. He cast about for the source. It was Connally and Tomlinson, walking at exactly the correct distance apart to portray an air of casual companionship. Then again, given that Connally had been downright furious with Tomlinson— and not unfairly, Jonathan privately thought— perhaps casual companionship was a sign of healing and not of irreparable distance. He raised a hand in greeting.
“Reid,” Connally called, and even from that distance Jonathan could see those striking eyes narrow. “Is Geoffrey awake?”
“He must be,” Jonathan affirmed. “He is not inside. I was hoping to find him here.”
Tomlinson and Connally exchanged uneasy glances. Jonathan awaited their approach.
“There's more, isn't there,” Tomlinson said grimly by way of salutation.
“Perhaps you ought to come in and see for yourselves,” Jonathan agreed with equal enthusiasm, leading the way back inside.
Dr Connally's prognosis was immediate and brooked no room for a second opinion: “Jesus fucking Christ.” He flipped back and forth a few pages, but it was clear the hasty scrawl was unrelated to any of the other contents. “His bloody Mauser is still here. And just where the hell were you, Reid?”
“Asleep,” Jonathan said, grateful the word came out neutral, rather than defensive. He was already very aware that as far as being in Connally’s good graces was concerned, he was perched precariously atop a razor-wire fence and the breeze was not mild.
“Having a lie-in? Oughtn’t you have been up at the hoot of the first owl?”
“My biology does not follow some mythical time-table.” Jonathan frowned and adjusted his collar.
“Tommy? Thoughts?” Connally tossed the notebook to his husband, who caught it deftly and flipped through to the relevant page.
“Well,” Tomlinson said, frowning thoughtfully, “it’s absolutely his handwriting. But there’s no way she knocked on the bloody window with the wards so strong.”
“Even Reid would have noticed the disturbance,” Connally agreed, “no offence. But ‘her’— Tommy, it’s… it’s got to be.”
Tomlinson gravely nodded. “Ms Marsh.”
Connally flinched as though slapped. “Don't say her name.”
“Its name, surely,” Jonathan interjected.
“Easy for you to say. Things are a bit more complex when you knew them in life, when they… when they were what they were to you. When they did what they did to you.” Connally's eyes were suddenly so very far away, some other time, some other, darker place.
“Conny.” Tomlinson's voice was a soothing rumble. He placed one broad hand on Connally's shoulder— the one with his wedding band.
“Don't touch me,” Connally quietly returned, shrugging off the offered comfort. “She— it was supposed to be dead. And stay dead, Tom…”
“I know,” Tomlinson said. “I know. I'm sorry.”
“You haven't the faintest idea of how sorry you should be.” Connally visibly took a moment to compose himself. “I suppose he saw her through the window and took off into the night, fool that he is— though why he left his pistol here is beyond me.”
“His sword is missing,” Jonathan offered. “As is his crossbow.”
“Takes his bloody crossbow,” Connally huffed, “and leaves the white phosphorus bullets behind. Typical Geoff. He has issues when it comes to settling scores; it's close quarters or nothing with him.”
Jonathan smiled thinly. “I well remember.”
“As do I. I'm the one that had to patch him up. I had half a mind to bill Pembroke for the supplies. As it stands, I still had to pilfer blood out of your storeroom so he didn’t bleed out.” The statement was as matter-of-fact as yesterday it rained. Jonathan, who had stayed his hand during their fight in every way possible, attempting only to avoid his own demise, deflated. He had not known McCullum had been so gravely injured— or perhaps he had not desired to know, blinded by his unwanted mission as he was.
And what if McCullum had bled out, there in the Pembroke’s attic?
What would one more body to bury have meant in the grand scheme of things, during a pandemic, after a war that tore apart the world?
Everything.
It would have meant everything, at least to the three of them.
Tomlinson cleared his throat uncomfortably. “All right then, lads. Ideas?”
Connally frowned, silent for a moment— the most still Jonathan had ever seen him. His glowing eyes were fixed on the journal as though it could speak. “The wards simply aren’t broken. He walked out of here on his own. Physically, at least. Emotionally…”
“It doesn’t take much to set Geoff off. I doubt she’d’ve knocked. He obviously saw her, probably up and ran out the back door like the short-sighted arsehole he is…” Tommy stared up at the ceiling, trying to work out a reasonable order of events. “All right. He sees her, grabs his sword and crossbow, and leaves. Keeps the sword in the sheath, so he’s got the whole thing tucked under his arm, straps on his crossbow—”
“Not the crossbow first?” Jonathan frowned.
Tomlinson all but rolled his eyes in Jonathan’s direction. “No. He says he needs two hands for the sword-belt. He can get the crossbow strapped on one-handed.”
“Ah,” Jonathan said drily, “a tactical decision.”
“Naturally,” Tomlinson agreed. “Probably had both on by the time he hit the back end of the courtyard. And she knows where Priwen is, so she wouldn’t have led him in that direction…”
Connally nodded. “It’s coming together. Once outside the wards, she would have had the freedom to do whatever she decided.”
“You think she could have mesmerised him?”
Connally wearily sighed. “Ordinarily, I'd say no. He's always had one hell of a constitution, despite all. But in this state, and with that bite still open… anything is possible. I’d plan for the worst, but I always do. Either way, we should get moving. The night’s not getting any younger. Tom, you stay here in case the impossible happens and that fool finds his way back here.”
Tomlinson blanched. “Me?”
“Yes. Reid and I will canvass the city. Surely you don't think it should be I that stays behind.”
“No, but—” Though Tomlinson fell silent, the glance he risked between Jonathan and his husband made his issue clear: while he was willing to entrust his own safety to Jonathan, and to an unavoidable extent McCullum's as well, he was much more cautious regarding Connally.
“Well, Tom, if you wanted room to barter over this,” Connally said, “you were free to come to me with the truth at any time.” He dismissed Tomlinson without a second look by sweeping past him to the door, leaving Jonathan scrambling in his wake.
Tomlinson did not acknowledge Jonathan’s searching gaze as the pair of them left. He kept his eyes fixed over the hearth, on the opulent painting of Jonathan’s parents as a younger couple: as yet childless, solemn but joyful, their whole lives ahead of them.