An Unexpected Visitor

The man at the door was white, probably in his mid-forties, and almost half a head taller than me. He wore a scuffed pinstriped suit. Although the piece had clearly seen better days, it was undoubtedly tailor-made. His dark coat had definitely seen more Decembers than this. He smiled at me, with the kind of smile handsome guys have practice and perfectioned since their teen years. It matched to the rest of his appearance, apart from the suit. Tanned skin, backfitted, dark hair and a grin that hold the power to open the door of any producer in the film or advertising industry in a hurry... or, in this case, the door of the Folly.

"Hi", I said, fearing that I had been staring at him for a second too long. "Can I help you, sir?"

Normally, I would wait for the person who rings our doorbell at half past ten on Sunday morning – more specifically the second Advent - to speak first but the man didn't make any attempts after a few seconds and if there is anything I hate more than being awaken by the doorbell in the morning it's awkward silence caused by the person waking me. We usually don't get unannounced visitors at the Folly or any visitors at all (most recently my mom, who was in the area last month and wanted to check out her son's workplace, although I'm almost certain she wanted to make sure how conscientiously Molly is doing the cleaning). We receive deliveries from the grocery store through the service entrance, as the parking situation on Russell Square was a nightmare and since the incident where Nightingale almost got himself a repair for the non-existing Wi-Fi-router, we refuse to open the door to people who claimed to be T-Mobile UK employees with more to say than "Thanks, no need."

Despite from the fact that I would totally buy something from this guy on a door-to-door sale the real reason why I didn't immediately slam the door in his face on the polite English way was because he seemed oddly familiar. I must admit that I should have added one and one together by now, because usually I was pretty good at remembering faces. Especially this face should have already got itself a special space in my mind to activate all alarm bells for me to realize, that the shit has hit the fan.

But all I did was staring at him, lying in wait for him to finally speak a word with the blindness of the unknowing.

In my defence, however, my memory seemed to abandon me in my current hungover state. If you alone make a half of a Metropolitan Police department, it does not only bring the potential risks of using magic with it (glamour, explosions, and death by brain shrinkage for an example), but also a lot of paperwork. As if all this isn`t bad enough paperwork is - in my world - often associated with dead languages. Knowing that, it is no big surprise nights like the previous one, for an example, where you and your boss are rolling books from the 17th century for hours to learn more about cursed cutlery, were not too rare and often only bearable with lots of alcohol.

Unfortunately, the scotch only made me notice more and more things about Nightingale, like the fact that my boss gets little dimples when he smiles, which didn't really help me to focus on my Latin translations at all.

In the certain morning, with a roaring headache and almost no sleep, you can't blame me for not realizing what kind of abstrusities my life once again gave me. Before the strange mix of James Dean and George Clooney could finally speak, a familiar hiss sounded behind me. As I turned around, I saw Molly standing motionless in the hallway. Staring at him with braided teeth.

If you live with Molly for a while, you will quickly learn that she communicated with her looks. Most of the ones she has for me are either the mischievous toothy grin she gets when she had managed to frighten me once again by appearing randomly or a bloodthirsty stare when I forgot to walk Toby. I had also experienced the expression she was wearing now, though it was in a much more harmless form, when I bought a sandwich maker that I got for sale at Tesco's and wanted to test it in the kitchen. It means something like: Get this thing out of my house right now.

"Hello, Molly", the stranger said and met my shocked look with an even wider smile.

"Peter Grant", I introduced myself, as my brain finally woke up and classified the guy in front of me as Falcon-relevant. I reached out to him. He squeezed my hand hard, still smiling.

"Nice to meet you, young man. I would be pleased if you'd be so kind to tell me today's date? I actually have some questions…" He fell silent and his smile faded. "My name is David, David Mellenby."

Oh, shit, I thought.

Molly served her homemade bourbon chocolate biscuits with the tea, which made me realize she was still in the mood to cut our "guest" into many small pieces.

Don't get me wrong, every biscuit that comes out of Molly's kitchen would have bring tears to the jury of The Great British Bake-Off, but like every good baker, Molly knows where her strengths and weaknesses lay. Taking care of an unannounced guest at 10 am might have upset some people, but not Molly. The absence of shortbread biscuits and the way David Mellenby's cup clanged loudly on the table were the only indications that the presence of the stranger took her out of the concept. Mellenby, who was seated in one of the chairs in the atrium, opened his mouth to say something to her, but a hiss interrupted him immediately. Molly swirled around and looked at me piercingly.

First of all, you have to understand that I was usually the one who felt Molly's anger. It's not that she hated me or anything, but sometimes she was mad at me when I spent too much time in the Tech Cave blocking the only access to the internet. Although I hadn't figured out exactly what she is doing on my computer I spent enough time with Molly to know what she was trying to tell me by serving me the wrong kind of spoons or ginger instead of lemon biscuits. In such a condition, however, I had only experienced her once. In the night Nightingale was shot.

She wasn't angry, she was scared.

Her hands trembled as she tried to hide it by clutching the tray so tightly that her ankles came out and the look, she gave me contained a clear cry for help. I tried to form a "call him" with my lips as long as her back was blocking Mellenby's view of me, but I think I failed, because Molly just seemed to get more upset, as she braided her teeth, turned on the heel, and left me with our problem.

It's one thing if your boss was born around the turn of the century (and by that I mean 1900), fought in World War II and started aging backwards since the 1960s, but it's a whole other situation if the colleague and perhaps lover of said boss locked himself in the basement lab after the war to shoot himself. You can talk to one of them while the other was obviously dead.

But Mellenby was here drinking his tea. There was no brain swelling out of the back of his head and messing up the carpet. No proof thar he ever died… If he noticed my tense countenance, he didn't give me hints.

"It tastes just as I remember it", Mellenby muttered and put down the cup.

Well, keep it up, I thought, as a plan formed in my head. I'd just let him talk.

At the time I had some theories about what the thing before me was. I had almost discarded the first one, because if Mellenby was a ghost, then he had to be a kind completely unknown to us. Once I had asked Nightingale how many ghosts are "living" in the Folly, and I regretted it almost instantly, because his face became absent and in his grey eyes lied the sadness he falls in when he thinks of the past. A past that is for almost every other person nowadays just black and white movies and history lessons.

"I'm not sure how many there are", he had answered after some time. "For me, sometimes there is no difference between a ghost and a memory."

Is that what Mellenby was? A memory? But why now since almost 75 years passed after his suicide?

Ghosts depend on vestigia and there were enough protection mechanisms in the Folly to prevent us from finding half London's ghostkind in the kitchen one morning. Also, the thing in front of me had most likely not manifested right outside our front door, which meant that the magic source was outside the Folly, which in turn would mean that the ghost in front of me would not look so lifelike.

There is also a kind of ghost that possesses their victims and forces them to do things, but I immediately discarded that option when I was able to assign a name to the face.

There are a few places in the Folly to hide things. One of them is a drawer in the library's filing cabinet. There are almost only flashcards there that were enough to scare me off for a while, but at some point, I found this box full of old photos and stuff that Nightingale must have hidden there. One of them was an army photo and showed my boss and David Mellenby as a note on the back explained. When I first found the box, I was a Nightingale apprentice for only a month and only stared at nameless faces. The second time I opened it, my best friend had tasered me in the back and left Nightingale and me with only broken pieces and whatever was hidden in the Black Library.

Today, I was pretty sure that this watch that Nightingale had given me for Christmas a few years ago had once belonged to Mellenby. The thing sat heavy on my wrist while I counted every second and prayed that Molly had called Nightingale.

"Mr. Mellenby", I began without knowing what I was going to say.

He was startled and looked at me as if he saw me for the first time.

"How... er... how did you get here?"

I almost asked him how old he really was, even though I wanted to avoid the subject of time. I was pretty sure the guy knew that Folly and Russell Square weren't what he once knew, but if I told him right away, that this is the 21st centenary there was a high chance that he would run away.

"I don't know...", Mellenby stammered, staring into the void.

He became visibly pale, and I realized that wasn't a good question either. After five seconds of wrestling with the decision of fight or flight, I found that Mellenby was still staring into the void, so repulsive that I feared he would no longer hear me.

Maybe it was a big step for Nightingale to give me Mellenby's old watch.

I thought of the pictures in the box and Hugh Oswald, who once told me that Nightingale had given his own seat on the return glider to Mellenby when they fought in Ettersberg. Maybe the gift was a small step to let the past rest. Which led me to another theory. Whatever was sitting in front of me was designed to harm Nightingale.

I had once read of a kind of glamour that wood nymphs used to turn into people that are familiar to their victims. If someone – let's say the Faceless Man – wanted to hurt my boss in a targeted way, letting a dead friend and possibly lover show up at the Folly's front door would be a brilliant move and cruel enough to match to the way he is doing things. As terrible as it was, at first, I thought it wasn't plausible. The Folly had a lot of protection mechanisms, and the Faceless Man was certainly not stupid enough to let his pawn - or whoever was sitting across from me - drink tea without making sure that there were no obligations involved.

But then I remembered Molly's fear and Nightingale's panic when he checked the Black Library after Lesley's betrayal.

I'd like to say that I would never let somebody hurt Nightingale in such a cruel way, but apparently I was just in the position to wait for him so that thing wouldn't harm me either. Then, after years have passed since, I suddenly had to think about Simone and our short relationship and imagined that someone would use an illusion of her ringing my doorbell in the morning.

Screw it, I thought, and got up to look down on Mellenby. If I could keep that bastard on his toes right now, he'd show his true face eventually when Nightingale arrives... in the worst case, I could still run.

Mellenby's gaze became clearer as he returned to the present and looked up at me confused.

"Tell me who you really are", I said, still considering what I would do next.

"But I did, young man..."

"Sir, this is identity fraud, you're committing a crime."

Mellenby stood up and stared at me. I couldn't judge correctly if it was confused or thoughtful... I think my nerves were too thin for that. Now would be the perfect time to say "Haha, dumb joke!" (or "it's just a prank, bro!", as the kids are saying these days) or to apologize to get new tea or to grab my legs and run... but I was just standing there while Mellenby looked down at me and the air picked up. Nightingale would want me to wait, because one thing was certain: whoever had the ability to maintain such a spell was a number too big for me. But all of a sudden, I remembered the time when we found the strip club in Soho with the poor cat girls and Nightingale who didn't want me to see the back room. At that time, he had saved me from the pain. He didn't deserve to watch that thing posing as David Mellenby.

So, I took a deep breath and said:

"Sir, you're posing as a dead person, and I have to take you under arrest for that. You have the right to remain silent, but" –

I didn't get much further, because Mellenby's face changed from confused, to shocked, and then finally to determined, as he turned and ran. I didn't expect that, which is why I looked after him for what felt like an hour before my muscles started working again. Whoever pretended to be Mellenby was quick and didn't make the mistake of bumping into Molly. Apparently, her talent to show up suddenly behind a corner seems to fail her when she was afraid. I followed him through a corridor, but when I realized where he was going, I tried to throw an impello after him, which he dodged either effortlessly or accidentally, then he had already hurried through the door to the basement.

I had just reached the door to see his elbow disappear around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, then I finally heard him.

"Peter, what's going on?"

Nightingale rushed towards me, and I suggested him to follow me down the basement stairs with a wave of my hand.

"Wait", Nightingale said quietly as he caught up with me.

I was about to protest but then I realized the basement had only one exit.

"Is it Lesley?" Nightingale asked almost whispering.

I shook my head.

"He's pretending to be someone else, guv." I stopped when a hunch came over me. "I think... I think he's in the labs."

"Did you feel his signare?"

Nightingale grabbed is cane harder and went ahead without making a single sound. I followed him as I debated inwardly whether it was a spell or something he had learned as a soldier.

"No, sir, but…", I suddenly realized why it was a stupid idea to put Nightingale ahead of us when the guy was still wearing Mellenby's face.

"Wait" I just managed to stop him before he could open the lab door. "Don't go in there."

He looked at me, slight concern showed on his face.

"If you want, I'll go in alone…"

My mouth had decided to become independent, while I could just watch helplessly. I didn't want Nightingale to see that version of his former friend slash probably lover that some bastard used as a disguise... a trap for Nightingale. Suddenly, I didn't care that I just spent every second begging for his arrival a minute ago.

I didn't want to think about what Nightingale would feel if he saw Mellenby. Then I felt a warm hand on my forehead and couldn't think at all as I stared into Nightingale's eyes.

"Nothing…", he muttered, and I realized that he was probably checking if the person in front of him was really me.

A small werelight formed over our heads so that Nightingale could feel my signare.

"Focus, Peter."

And while I was still trying to find out if his tone seemed so gentle to me because he was whispering, Nightingale entered the labs. I stumbled after him as I realized what had happened. With more warnings, even an explanation in my head, but everything got stuck in my throat.

It was too late... I couldn't protect him.

We passed through the laboratory tables, while my werelight from earlier shone our way.

"Maybe he's in the locker", I whispered, but I must have been too loud.

At first, I felt a change in the air and although Nightingale's signare wrapped around us in the form of a protective shield, the impressions of somebody else hit me like a brick. There was a sound as if someone's laughter was being muffled by a piece of cloth, I smelled fresh coffee and recently printed paper and tasted a hint of peppermint. Mellenby's signare faded as fast as it came.

A click sounded from a corner and flickered the simple lighting of the lab. In the corner I saw the guy standing, his hand still resting on the light switch and a strange expression lied on the stolen face. I looked at Nightingale and found utter dismay in his face and suddenly had the absurd need to take his hand, but the fear that he would release one of his famous tiger tank destroyers any second held me back.

But Nightingale did nothing, he just stood there, with that shaken expression on his face.

I was on the verge of throwing a - compared to Nightingale's- rather modest but still effective fireball at the thing in the corner myself, but the confusion why Nightingale felt this easily into his trap held me back and I thought of how the unfamiliar signare disappeared as soon as he casted a shield...

Why would he stop attacking us? There was no reason for him unless… Unless they recognized each other's signare

"That can't be…", said Mellenby, expressing what I thought.

He was breathing heavily and for a moment I was sure he would faint. I caught a strange noise next to me and I turned to Nightingale again and found that he was about to burst into tears. His breathing was irregular and from his glassy look I could tell that he was no longer standing here next to me... not really. It was clear that Nightingale's memories haunted him once again. But I couldn't tell whether he was standing on a battlefield, surrounded by explosions or staring at the ground of this very lab to see Mellenby's body, motionless and cold. But he didn't cry.

His face closed with a blow, although a painfully defeated expression remained in his eyes.

"David." There was no emotion in Nightingale's voice. "You're alive."