AN: This is the start of a collection of various bits and pieces of writing set in the world of the Rivers of London that don't quite lend themselves to a story in their own right. I love the relationship between Peter and Nightingale so a lot of these will explore that, and some, but certainly not all, will be Peter/Nightingale. I hope you enjoy!

Shaken

Nightingale reacts when he learns Peter has traded himself for Nicole Lacey.

I was actually crossing the Atrium with the keys to Jag in my hand when my cellular phone rang—a cheerful jingle meant to imitate the ring of a real telephone. Peter assured me I could change it to sound like anything I liked, but I didn't have the faintest idea how and I wasn't quite ready ask for his assistance yet. I fished the device out of my jacket pocket and checked the screen, which informed me the caller was "unidentified." I tapped little telephone icon and raised the blasted thing to my ear.

"Hello?"

"DCI Nightingale?" A man's voice, Midlands accent overlain with anxiety.

"This is he."

"This is DC Dominic Croft, out of Leominster—"

Leominster, where Peter was. Oh, God, I thought. Please not Peter, not him, too—

"Constable Grant and I have been working closely together on Operation Manticore," Croft continued, unaware his words were stripping the ground from beneath my feet. "About an hour there was a development." He took a deep breath, obviously bracing himself. "Peter made a hostage exchange with the, uh, fairies responsible for the kidnapping of Nicole Lacey and Hannah Marstowe. He swapped himself for Nicole and the, uh, fairy changeling, and they—the fairies—took him into Pokehouse Wood. He said we should contact you," Croft finished weakly.

I actually swayed slightly and rested my hand against the plinth holding the bust of Newton to steady myself. Not dead, not dead, not Peter.

Not yet. A hostage exchange meant Peter was likely still alive, but I couldn't count on that situation to last. And the longer he remained in the clutches of these fae—whoever and whatever they were—the harder it would be to find them.

"Sir?"

I realized I'd been quiet for too long. "I think you'd best tell me everything," I said. "From the beginning."

And he did. I listened with the phone pressed to my ear as I gathered Varvara and Toby and got us all into the Jag. I couldn't leave Varvara alone in the Folly—or anywhere else, for that matter—and I had the idea Toby might be useful in tracking Peter, if it came to that. Bloodhound he was not, but Toby had proved remarkably sensitive to vestigia, and that might come in handy.

I was on the A40 before Croft finished. I told him to continue searching for Peter, to use extreme caution if they located his abductors, and that I would be there as soon as possible. Then I hung up. It wasn't very useful advice, but there was nothing more I could say and anyway I could imagine what Peter would say about me driving and speaking on the phone at the same time. He has very strong opinions on these things, and I prayed he would have many future opportunities to express them to me.

Varvara tried to question me, but after I gave her a few terse non-answers she figured out I wasn't interested in conversation and turned her face to look out the window. That suited me perfectly, as I was lost in thought. Brooding, Peter would no doubt say, though probably not to my face.

The thought brought a stab of pain to my chest. Peter had insinuated himself so smoothly and completely into my life it was impossible to imagine living without him. Which, when I considered it, sounded more like the kind of sentiment expressed by a lovesick schoolgirl than a century-old wizard and police inspector. But there it was: I needed him. Sometimes I suspected I needed him far more than he needed me.

For decades I had allowed myself to molder away in the Folly with no one but Molly for company. After it became clear magic was not going away as we had all believed I had tried to have more contact with my fellow police officers, and of course there was Abdul, but nothing had shaken me from my self-imposed reclusion. Until Peter.

And God, had he shaken me. Beyond the new technological wonders he brought into the Folly's coach house, beyond the modern methods he brought to our policework, he brought a burning curiosity and fierce idealism that made me feel truly alive for the first time in longer than I could remember. He was nothing like the apprentices in the old days, nothing like the officers I'd once had under my command, nothing, in short, like I had expected my apprentice to be—whenever I had imagined having one. And yet, he was everything I could possibly want in an apprentice—smart, tough, brave. Loyal.

A friend.

God, I thought. I had to get him back.