This is a pilot chapter, to see if this interests anyone! Please comment if you want me to continue, as I'm unsure if people will be interested.
*SPOILER CONCEPT*:
It is 2017, Stephanie is 22 years old. She learns about magic through the Dead Men, who she befriends. Those Dead Men are in a poly relationship, Erskine Ravel died long before it started, Hopeless and Larrikin are alive. Over time, Tanith and Valkyrie join them and they all fall in love. There is some detective type plot, but it's mostly about the Dead Men and co slowly learning to love each other.
Other changes:
- Ghastly is mixed and trans.
- Larrikin is alive and intersex (exactly how this affects him is undecided), identifies as a man. He is a teleporter.
- Hopeless is alive and a full shapeshifter (as opposed to just their face) pronouns are they/him. He's half-Irish, half-English.
- Fletcher is going to be canon age because that's funny.
- Tanith's mother is a quarter Italian, and Tanith takes this seriously but only when it comes to joking about food.
- Many canon things such as Serpine have been dealt with, as all that happened in the last ten years.
Valkyrie changes:
- *Trigger warning* Valkyrie has been sexually assaulted in the past, pushing her to leave Haggard and join the army at 16, and stayed until she was 22. This will not be said in detail but will be in a talking hurt/comfort angst type of way. She is 95% healed from it.
- I haven't decided if Valkyrie will get the same name, as she is ten years older.
Note:
I am well aware this doesn't fit a lot of headcanons and not many people like Valkyrie at any age with any of the Dead Men, this is just my story. There will be triggering content, and I am considering only posting the sex on Wattsapp and Ao3, to fit with the guidelines and allow people to have a sex-free version.
Do message me or comment, so I can see what the interest is!
Chapter 1
Gordon Edgley's death wasn't much of a shock – except, perhaps, to himself. One moment he was in his study, some hundred words into the manuscript of a book he'd just begun, something that may or may not have ever seen his publisher depending on how that evening went, and the next... he was gone.
The funeral was attended by family and acquaintances but not many friends. Gordon hadn't been a well-liked figure in the publishing world, for although the books he wrote – tales of horror and magic and wonder - regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists, he had the disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it, then laughing at their shock.
It was at Gordon's funeral, however, that Stephanie Edgley first caught sight of the gentleman in the tan overcoat. He was standing under the shade of a large tree, away from the crowd, the coat buttoned up all the way despite the warmth of the afternoon. He was good-looking, with a small smile on his lips as he looked on at the casket being lowered into the hole.
She watched him, intrigued by his appearance. His eyes flickered to hers, he turned and walked back through the rows of headstones, and disappeared from sight.
After the service, Stephanie and her parents travelled back to her dead uncle's house in separate cars, over a humpbacked bridge and along a narrow road that carved its way through thick woodland. The gates were heavy and grand and stood open, welcoming them into the estate. The grounds were vast and the old house itself was ridiculously big. When she got there, after her parents as she had been stuck in some traffic light behind a large family car that had pulled out in front of her, the bookcase door was open. It nearly put a tear in her eye, the first since she'd heard the news. It was one thing for her beloved uncle to be gone, quite another for her childhood play space to be opened up to the world like that.
She got herself a cup of tea from the kitchen, avoiding Beryl and the twins who were chattering with her incredibly old great-aunt who somehow, despite all odds, was still living, and made her way up the stairs to the study to sit in silence.
The corridors of her uncle's house were long and lined with paintings. The floor beneath Stephanie's feet was wooden, polished to a gleam, and the house smelled of age. Not musty exactly but... experienced. These walls and these floors had seen a lot in their time, and Stephanie was nothing but a faint whisper to them. Here one instant, gone the next.
Gordon had been a good uncle. Arrogant and irresponsible, yes, but also childish and enormous fun, with a light in his eyes, a glint of mischief. When everyone else was taking him seriously, Stephanie was privy to the winks and the nods and the half-smiles that he would shoot her way when they weren't looking, even after she'd grown up. He had visited her last a month or so before his death, arriving at her apartment without notice and Chinese takeout. In the last few years, he'd stopped going out so much, gaining more weight, and now here she was, standing in his office where he'd died of a heart attack. They'd both made jokes that day about his bad eating habits. He'd claimed he'd made up for it by working out that day, and they'd both laughed at the clear lie.
Even as a child she'd felt she understood him better than most. She liked his intelligence and his wit, and the way he didn't care what people thought of him. He'd been a good uncle to have. He'd taught her a lot. He'd been the first person she'd come out to when she was nineteen and kissed a girl she'd vaguely known at a club, and the one she'd called while she had her first panic attack. He'd been there for her when she did things she didn't think her parents would want to know about – not that they didn't support her coming out or anything like that. There're just some stories people don't want to tell their parents.
Stephanie pushed open the door to Gordon's study and stepped inside. The walls were filled with the framed covers from his bestsellers and shared space with all manner of awards. One entire wall was made up of shelves, jammed with books. There were biographies and historical novels and science texts and psychology tomes, and there were battered little paperbacks stuck in between. A lower shelf had magazines, literary reviews and quarterlies. Stephanie passed the shelves which housed the first editions of Gordon's novels and approached the desk. She looked at the chair where he'd died, trying to imagine him there, how he must have slumped.
She heard a whisper of a noise, the movement of fabric, and sighed deeply. She didn't want to deal with people right now.
And then, a voice so smooth it could have been made of velvet, "At least he died doing what he loved."
She froze for only a moment before turning, surprised, to see the man from the funeral in the overcoat and hat standing in the doorway. The coat was unbuttoned, revealing a stunningly well-made suit, all black except the white shirt. His face was thin, cheekbones high, light brown eyes and golden-brown curls. He was handsome, perhaps in his early thirties and she was very much attracted to him.
"The best way to go, I suppose," she remarked, leaning back against the desk. She was suddenly glad her mother had made her get new black smart clothes for the funeral. Her only other option had been a sexy little black dress. She'd gotten herself a suit of her own, though the black trousers, white shirt and black blazer were not nearly the same quality. "You were a friend of his? Another writer?"
"A writer? No, I wouldn't know where to start. But I got to live out my writer fantasies through Gordon. We were good friends. You, on the other hand, must be one of his nieces. You're not stealing anything, you're not breaking anything, so I'd guess your Stephanie."
She raised an eyebrow at him. "You know me?"
"Gordon used to talk about you all the time, boast about his little niece. He was an individual of character, your uncle. It seems that you are too."
"Little, hu?" She asked, standing up. "I'm six foot."
"Well, I met him before your parents did, so most of his stories involved a much smaller depiction," he grinned.
She liked his smile but not the words. A scowl fell over her features. "And there I was, thinking I had a chance asking you out."
He blinked in surprise. She liked that too. "Ask me out?"
She shrugged, long since learnt that asking men out tended to work for her. Or women. Or anyone, really, they just seemed to like her confidence. "Is that not allowed?"
"No, I just wasn't expecting it. Though, I suppose it isn't out of character," he mused, leaning against the doorframe. "I got to hear some of your wilder escapades."
She internally rolled her eyes. At least cursing Gordon was a welcome change to mourning him. "Any favourites?"
"Probably the one where you punched the boy in the throat," he grinned broadly.
She groaned and threw her head up. "That was so embarrassing."
"You? Embarrassed? I didn't think that was possible," he joked.
"You know me too well to say that, and it's all Gordon's fault."
"If it helps, Gordon wrote books based on things I've done, so you know some about me, in a respect."
That distracted her. "He did? What character were you?"
"Oh, it was more little references to things I said and things I did. I'm a detective, you know." He straightened proudly.
"Are you any good?"
"Quite good at it, actually. I'm told you're alright at detecting too."
She shrugged. "Tracking my friend's runaway ex-boyfriend down isn't the same as being an actual detective."
"On the contrary, tracking people down is half my job. By all accounts, you'd be rather good at it."
"You don't know me that well. I could be a shitty person for all you know."
"Strong-willed, intelligent, sharp-tongued, doesn't suffer fools gladly... remind you of anyone?"
"Yes. Gordon."
"Interesting," said the man. "Because those are the exact words he used to describe you."
She smirked. "I suppose you can tell me a bit more about myself over a few drinks then, hm? I know all the secret ways out, we won't be missed."
"I'm afraid I won't be able to, on account of meeting with my partners in the next half an hour," he said, dipping his long fingers into his waistcoat and bringing out an ornate pocket watch on a delicate gold chain.
"Like Sherlock and Watson?" She smirked.
"Something like that." He put it away. "Good luck in whatever you decide to do with your life."
He turned and was gone before she could even fathom what he'd said. Damn it. She felt like she was close to getting laid for a moment, and now she was just alone in her dead uncle's office wishing she was getting laid on the day of his funeral.
She sighed and went down to find her mother and save her from whatever relative had drawn her into awful conversation.
Some days later was the reading of the will, which she couldn't attend on account of attending a job interview she desperately needed. Her roommates, two other women with boyfriends that regularly stayed over, were under no circumstances getting told she was inheriting her uncle's money and mansion home. She loved them dearly, but they'd sooner convince her to spend it all on drinks and take away than consider the fact she'd rather work for her money than accept this stupidly large gift.
Not that she had rejected it. Gordon had told her about it when she was seventeen, so she was at least prepared.
Finding out he'd left his brother a rubbish little broach, purely so he couldn't take her to court to sue for a bigger share, had been incredibly funny though. Fergus hadn't been invited to the funeral, though it hadn't stopped him or his wife from attending, after reacting very badly to her coming out to the family. Gordon had taken great pleasure in punching his younger brother, and apparently cutting him out of the fortunes he'd acquired over his lifetime.
Sighing, Stephanie turned into the long driveway, coming to a stop in front of the large house. She was done mourning, and was ready to enjoy this, especially after the long week she'd had. She'd gotten a hold of her new money yesterday, and a new mattress and bed sheets had arrived this morning, laying at the front of the house for her to take inside. She'd pick out a room, order a takeaway, set up the bed and fall asleep on a mattress that didn't leave her feeling like she'd be stabbed if she turned the wrong way too quickly.
The plan went perfectly – some hours later, she was snuggled up in bed reading one of Gordon's old books and wondering about how Gordon could have taken some probably long and boring, drawn-out police case and turned it into a horror story about monsters and magic with her phone next to her. She'd eaten more than she and her two flatmates usually shared, and was so full she was nearly sick, but it had been very much worth it.
Her phone began to vibrate with an unknown number. She ignored it and went back to reading.
It went again, and she put it on Do Not Disturb, only to flash up a moment later with a text.
'Answer your phone.'
She sighed and texted back, 'Who is this?'
A few seconds and the phone lit up. Rolling her eyes, she assumed one of her friends had gotten a new phone and answered it. "Hello?"
"Who is this?"
Stephanie made a face. "You called me. Who are you, I don't recognise your voice?"
"I need to know your name."
"No thanks," she said, pulling the phone away to hang up.
"What are you doing in Edgley's house? Why are you in his house?"
That made her blood run cold. She looked around the room nervously. "What do you mean?"
"You're in his house, why?"
"That's none of your business," she snapped, not daring to let him hear her nervousness. "How do you know where I am?"
He chuckled. "I'm outside."
Downstairs, someone banged on the door.
"Let me in!" Said the man through her phone, and she quickly hung up.
She swore to herself and dove into the hallway in time to hear the front door get smashed down. Instead of running to one of the secret passages she could hide in, she screamed and ran back into her new room, slamming the door closed. There wasn't a lock. There wasn't a bathroom, under the bed was solid frame, and there wasn't a wardrobe in there because she'd pulled it out earlier to switch it with another only for food to arrive, so she'd enjoyed her evening instead – she was screwed.
She grabbed at her phone and tried unlocking it as she laid down on the other side of the bed where he wouldn't be able to see her, failing to unlock it. Sweat started beading on her forehead as she desperately tried to get the stupid thing to work.
Downstairs, she could hear the man calling, "Oh, girly! Come out, come out wherever you are!"
She sucked in a painful breath and got the phone open. A few taps later, she was on the phone with the police.
"Police, what's your emergency?" A woman on the other side said.
"There's someone in my house," she whispered, barely holding the panic back. "A man."
"What's your address?"
"I don't know, I just got the place, it's the big mansion house in Wellingtonbridge, with the River Corock behind it. I inherited it, I don't know what it's called."
"Do you remember a street name?" The woman asked, typing quickly in the background.
She heard the man break something. "He's upstairs," she breathed.
"Do you know the street name, ma'am?"
"No, I know the street is off the R-seven-three-six."
"Can you get out of the building?"
"No. Upstairs. He's coming."
"Is it Grimwood Manor?"
"Yes," she breathed, going ridged.
The man shouted, "If you come out now, we can still do this the easy way! I don't want to rape or kill you, I'm just looking for something I'm only looking for something!"
"Not a chance," she thought to herself. "He's nearly here," she breathes, her voice shaking. She could feel a panic attack coming, desperately tried to keep it down. "Please."
"There're units on their way, can you hear how far away he is?" She asked, insanely calm.
She swallowed. Her heart was pounding out of her chest. "Close."
"Your name is Stephanie Edgley, correct?"
Her name would be on their system – this wasn't the first call she'd had to make in her life. "Yes."
"Where are you?"
"Bedroom. Not far from the stairs," she said. "He's getting closer."
"Please stay quiet and calm, police are on their way," she reassured her. "Only talk if you think it's safe."
Seconds went by so slowly she thought she'd fall into the panic attack at any moment, only some miracle keeping it back, perhaps some self-preservation instinct. In the background of her phone, she heard the woman talking to someone, and rapid typing. The man was shouting words that she couldn't hear as he got closer, blood rushing in her ears painfully. She was lightheaded. He was going to kill her. He was going to torture her to death, and there was nothing she could do. Perhaps he wanted her money – if she told him she needed to go in to give it to him, the millions held in bonds, perhaps she'd be able to get away, save herself enough time-
"Found you!" The man shouted, before the door exploded.
She screamed and covered her head. The phone fell, the woman speaking far away, and the man came rushing around the bed towards her faster than she could have ever expected.
"Where's the key?" The man shouted in her face.
She screamed, grabbing him by the arm and punching him in the throat. He choked for barely a fraction of a second before growling and throwing her on the bed.
"Stop!" Said another man, the sound of a gun's trigger pulling back.
The man looked up over her. "Detective," he growled, and then he burst into flames.
Stephanie screamed again, flailing to get away from the man as the other swore and threw himself at the flaming man. She watched in total horror as he was thrown bodily into the wall, and the new man – tall, in a suit, the man from the funeral two weeks ago – tried to shoot him.
The flaming man threw fire at the tall man, and she jumped off the bed and grabbed a lamp, yanking the wire from the wall.
"Stop!" She screamed. "You're on fire!"
The flaming man laughed and rushed her, and she was so shocked she dropped the lamp to curl into a ball before he smashed into her. They fell through the doorway, slamming into the corridor.
"Get off of me!" She screamed, and a fist hit her, her body burning.
The guy was gone just as fast, a growl and fighting, and then nothing – and the meaty thump of a person landing in the entry hall below.
Shivering, she smacked at her body, feeling as if she must be on fire herself. Her pyjamas were singed in some places, darkened by the flames in others, but she wasn't on fire. Only her skin had been burnt in some places, on her arms and chest for the most part.
She was breathing too quickly. Terrified, Stephanie turned to the man on the landing approaching her. It took a moment to realise it was the funeral man. The one with a gun, the detective who saved her.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
She backed up against the wall. She stared at him, trying to make sense of the impossible.
He indicated at the mess of her new bedroom door, where only one hinge was now in place and no actual door. "Well," he said, "turning into fire is a new one on me. Don't see that every day."
In the distance, she could hear police sirens. The man looked towards the front door.
Very carefully, she stood, as he tucked his gun away. She stepped closer to him. He turned back to her, and that's when she punched him in the skull.
