"Lockwood and Co, an agency recognized for such cases as the Screaming Staircase of Combe-Carey Hall, the Battle of the Cemetery and the Fittes House debacle have spent the past six weeks battling the spreading spirits in Paris and the surrounding area. Most notably, their recent escape from a burning orphanage, St. Lavaline's Home for Children. The establishment was burned down by order of the French government, the match being struck while Agent Lucy Carlyle was still inside. A thick-headed decision on her part or brilliant publicity scheme by company head Anthony Lockwood? Our sources would say the former, as a budding relationship had formed between Mr. Lockwood and his resident Listener. Facing life and death situations every day can certainly bring a couple together but one can't help but wonder if Ms. Carlyle actually as talented as her reputation leads us to believe or is Mr. Lockwood's emotions making all the hiring choices for him?"

I growled angrily, crumpling up the magazine page and correlating photo, a shot of Lockwood carrying me out of the flaming skeleton of St. Lavaline's like some sort of damsel.

"What did that paper ever do to you?" Lockwood asked.

"Oh nothing," I grumbled. Just some journalist and her impressions of me." I tossed the paper out of the iron circle, wishing to burn it to ashes with only the glare from my eyes.

"Did she have something nasty to say?"

"Well, long story short, she seems to think you hired me only because you were attracted to me."

Lockwood leaned back on his elbows, stretching out as much as he could inside of our protective circle. "Well, there goes my big secret."

I glared at him.

"I'm kidding Luce!" he said, sounding hurt. I tossed my gloves at his face.

"Well, at least I know that you didn't try to woo me to use my talents for some nefarious purpose."

Anthony chuckled. "They're only writing this because they don't have hauntings to cover by the thousands anymore. They're bored."

I pulled my afghan tighter around my lap as a chill started to creep in, shortly followed by skeletal fingers of fog. I felt sluggish as I tucked the magazine back into my knapsack and checked the temp. 15 ℃.

"Malaise is setting in," I said, opening up a thermos of tea and taking a sip.

Anthony nodded. "Temps dropping fast."

I looked around at the courtyard. Silence reign still but a buzzing in my ear told me it would break soon enough. Anthony and I had been tasked with making safe a park in southern Paris. The park had been rebuilt after World War Two, the area decimated in a bombing. A ragged form had been reported shuffling across the park and concentrating on a bridge that arched over a man-made river. The weather had been particularly dry, leaving the concrete underneath exposed, a rut in the otherwise picturesque gardens. A rut where we had made camp, offering a perfect view of the bridge. Chains set, rapiers laying by our side, we had settled in for the long haul. Anthony leaned against the concrete bank. "I missed this."

I hummed in agreement. Sitting beside him, a chill in the air, the possibility of a dangerous visitor: there was nothing like it.

"Anthony," I said softly, as the air around us shifted. The visitor would be visible soon, around us the night prepared for its arrival. "When we fix this, when we go home, what are you going to do?"

He tensed beside me, every fiber of his being frozen at my question. He seemed unsure of the answer. For so long he lived case to case, waiting for his death. He wasn't going to kill himself, he was going to get himself killed.

"DEPRAC is retracting to Scotland Yard again," he said, clenching his hands together. "Barnes was hinting at hiring me but it doesn't feel right."

"What does feel right?" I asked, watching as a storm spread across his face. A hurricane of emotions that raged in his eyes. Fingers tugged at the long forelock that drooped over his forehead as he spoke in a trembling voice. "This feels right."

A whisper rose from my backpack. "Oh, he's becoming conflicted." Simon cooed.

Brigette piped up with much enthusiasm. "He's awfully cute when he's going through a crisis. Does he look like this often Luce-goose?"

Ignoring my new nickname, I met Lockwood's gaze. "You know I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." His smile lit up the night and sent butterflies fluttering away in my chest.

"And we'll figure this out together." I gripped his hand with my own.

"Get a room!" one of the ghosts cried, I wasn't sure which. Another, this one I recognized as Simon shouted. "Heads up, you got a friend on the way!"

I rose to my knees, holing up a hand for silence. My living and dead companions obliged me. I listened carefully, opening my inner ear to the sounds that lay just beneath the surface. It came so quickly that I nearly toppled backward. Shouting, bone-crushing explosions and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground hard and faintly, the cracks of bones breaking.

"Visual of something falling off the bridge. Oh, that's grisly." Lockwood said. "A pile of limbs. No one's body should look like that."

I reached for my rapier, the worn grip feeling soft within my palm giving me some sense of comfort. A foul taste had spread across my tongue, thick and rancid, slowly oozing down my throat as I saw the faintest glimmer of other light.

I stood, as did Lockwood.

We watched as the form glinted into existence, flitting between trees before slowly floating across the bridge. It made it halfway across before being blown over the side, falling into a heap of tangled limbs. Icy shards tabbed into my lungs, my throat tightening as the visitor's emotions flooded over me. Surprise, fear and most strongly, anger. It was bright as fire and destructive as the explosion that had killed him. The man who just wanted to go home.

"He's angry," I whispered. "He was going somewhere important. He was going to see someone important." my mouth lifted into a half-smile as I felt the apparition's bursting existence. "Someone he loved." My chest shook with the explosion. My bones ached with the crack.

Lockwood grabbed my arm, pulling me back to the beating and breathing. Back to him.

I took a deep breath filling my lungs with the freezing air as Lockwood pulled me close to him, looking down into my eyes.

"What did you hear Lucy?" He whispered. I could feel the ghost fog starting to spill around us as the ghost grew in strength.

"It was pulling me in, Anthony," I couldn't feel anything. My fingers were numb, the cold slowly setting into the rest of my body. "It was dragging me into its echo with its emotions. It was strong, I felt like I was drowning."

"Do you need to leave?" he asked, quickly. His brow furrowed in concern but I pulled away, shaking my head. "No. No, I'm fine now." I reminded myself we were in a park haunted by a ghost. We were here to do a job.

Anthony studied my face but was met with only my carefree smile as if nothing in the world was wrong. He frowned. "Let's take this slow then."

I nodded.

"We'll have to locate the Source but let's lace the ground with salt and filings to give us some breathing room."

I nodded again.

"I'll lead with the distraction. If it does anything you don't like…"

"Light him up with a flare." I finished, patting a canister at my belt.

"Spot on, as always." Lockwood kneeled down to check his bootlaces -don't want to trip when you've got an angry ghost after you- and I took the opportunity to peer into my knapsack. The two picture-children stared up at me, their faces gleeful. Well, Brigette's was. Simon was still a smear.

"Sit tight," I said. "We'll be home soon then I'll let you out."

"We aren't pets!" Simon blustered. "We're supernatural beings who cannot be-"

I zipped up the bag and turned back to Lockwood. "Ready?"

He nodded and stepped out of the iron circle. Dancing forward, his feet barely touched the ground.

The spirit, sensing his movement, heaved itself off the ground, the broken, shuffling thing advanced, pulling and sliding along the concrete. In my ears, I heard the rasp of its broken skin on the ground. The clicking of its fractured bones rattling inside its body.

Ectoplasm darted out in tendrils, vines of green ready to ensnare. Lockwood's blade flashed, green fizzing against silver. With every jab and slice, he drew it farther from its place of impact.

The ground there was scorched by the ectoplasm, blistering in the cold the visitor emanated. Quickly, I drew two packets of iron filings and salt and knelt by the scorched concrete. The icy temperatures seeped up through my leggings chilling my bones as I fumbled with the packets. I spread the contents out till the ground sparkled with the dull and crystalline reflections of iron and salt.

I watched as the visitor slowly shrank in size until only a pile of bones remained and even that disappeared in minutes.

"Nice work, Lucy. " Anthony gasped, sheathing his rapier. I blew a chunk of hair out of my eyes and gave him a rather bewildered smile. Standing, I said, "well, I've proved I'm worth more than just my pretty face, right Lockwood?"

"Yes, you've proved you can spread salt and iron on the ground."

A/N

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