Hey everyone! Sorry for the little delay. I wrote this chapter, realized I hated it, and then rewrote the whole thing.

Feel free to leave suggestions/comments on my writing! To answer an anon question: I plotted the whole story out, and it looks like it'll be twenty or so chapters, give or take some. Without further ado. . . enjoy!

Stephen woke in time for lunch. I made ham sandwiches and we ate them quietly, stewing in our own thoughts. Afterwards, he stood, paced about the living room, and sat back down. He did this a few more times before stopping to stare outside. I could see the gears in his head turning. There was a deliberateness in his manner now, a method to his madness.

I stood too, instantly feeling more productive. Maybe there was something to this pacing thing. Following him to his place at the windows, I looked out into the neighboring courtyard. It wasn't much of a view. There was a pool, which was covered, and frosty looking chairs that were stacked a few feet away. Patches of sidewalk met closely cropped grass, exuding an amount of bleakness that only summertime shopping malls could rival. I mean, at least this place was cheap.

Stephen bit his lip. His eyes were untrained on some unknown spot in the distance, assessing and reassessing information that he hadn't yet found the courtesy to share with me. That was fine. I watched him bite his lip some more before sitting back down, stepping over and around the papers littered on everything to get to the couch.

He tore his eyes away to glance at me for a moment. I glanced back. This was all he needed to start pacing again, walking from one end of the room to another. Whatever it was that he was contemplating, it was pretty serious. He rubbed his neck. His temples. Ran a hand through his hair. In the matter of a minute, he went through about every hand movement conceivable to man, moving to the tempo of Kesha's Tik Tok all the while. I've seen him think before, but this was different. It was concentrated, and intense, and very therapeutic to watch. I waited for him to explain, but his focus stayed on whatever currently occupied his mind. Directing my attention elsewhere, I focused on the mess around me. I would tidy this up. Shuffling all of the papers together was a lot like trying to shuffle an Uno deck, I learned, except the cards were much bigger, and covered every possible surface in the room.

Stephen and I worked out a little dance- he'd walk, and I'd climb around him, picking up stray papers as I went. When that was said and done, I sorted everything into stacks. The whole process took approximately twenty minutes. I didn't know if that was enough time for him to sort his thoughts out, but I was getting antsy.

"Hey?" I said from my seat on the couch. He kept walking, rubbing his forearms. Talking wasn't going to cut it. I had never seen anyone this submerged in their thoughts before. Attempting to get his attention, I moved into his path and forced his hands to his sides.

"Hi," I tried again, "what's going on with you?"

He stared at me blankly, like he couldn't quite process what I was saying. My hands lingered on his. The skin there felt warm. Alive. Adrenaline dropped into my gut like a stone, like the feeling you get right before boarding a roller coaster. I released his arms and backed away. This earned a few blinks from him, and then a bit more as he zoned back into reality. He straightened his glasses.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

"About?"

"The twins," he said, stepping forward. "How they. . ." he paused. Backtracked. "Sid said they would see you again. The bugger was smug about it. The two of them have a plan involving you, and have had it since before they did that ritual in 1973. That has to be it- they didn't have time before they woke last week to plot one."

His eyebrows were furrowed, and I could see his eyes going fuzzy again. This was obviously a topic of great contemplation. "They are interested in you, Rory, in your abilities, but why? What do they need you for? But not you. . ."

He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. I looked up at him, into his eyes, trying to piece together what he was saying. It didn't make any sense. He put his glasses back on and started over.

"They've had a plan since 1973, right?" His gaze leveled with mine. I nodded. "That's why they even bothered with the rites. No plan, no purpose. Sid said last week that he would see you again, which means that he had-"

"You guys aren't reading?"

Freddie stood in the hall entry, her hair poofier than usual. Stephen stopped talking. He backed up a respectable few steps and cleared his throat. Something about that irked me. I tried to understand where he was coming from with all of the theory stuff, but my brain felt fried. The pieces wouldn't fit into a coherent puzzle.

It didn't really make any sense for him either, I don't think. The pacing gave it away. We were grasping at straws, desperate to find a lead, trying too hard to make things make sense. It felt gross. Like that ice cream cone you try really hard to finish before it melts into a puddle of goop, except we started with the goop, and were trying to make it into ice cream with our pure force of will.

Freddie pushed the couches aside and sorted the books into stacks. Stephen went into the kitchen and started messing with the kettle. Deciding to look productive too, I sort of aimlessly leafed through his notes, hoping to find some important yet overlooked detail. Last year, back in Louisiana, I took a U.S. History class. My teacher had a weird thing for Nicolas Cage, so she'd play National Treasure whenever we had time to burn. This kind of reminded me of that. Papers everywhere, government stuff, things with historical significance, that unique brand of cinematic urgency. Unlike the movie, I didn't uncover a centuries-old secret by reading stuff. I uncovered nothing.

Soon, the three of us were seated criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor. Going through the books was a dull, boring process, but I was just thankful that we ditched notes. By three my brain felt like Thanksgiving mashed potatoes. Wexford made me an expert book-skimmer, but the sheer density of this text made me want to crawl into Stephen's bed and go to sleep. That was a thought I came back to a lot when things seemed dull.

I looked at Stephen during the most boring patches. He was laid out on his back next to me, thumbing through each page with a focused precision. I adopted his attitude and started flipping through the rest of my book, skimming for words that seemed relevant. The hours seemed to go by quicker this way, and by six, we had gone through a fourth of the pile. It was six-thirty before one of us actually spoke.

"Guys," said Freddie. "There's mention of the Shadow Cabinet here."

Stephen and I both looked up from our books, and I crawled over to where Freddie perched in the corner. The sound of my cracking bones was deafening. I hadn't moved in hours. Physical activity wasn't my favorite thing to partake in, but it felt pretty good just then. Freddie read out loud as I approached. On her lap laid a large, heavy tome with thick black text that looked unnervingly similar to comic sans.

"Cabinet of Shadow. . . stones. . . things we already know," she trailed off. "Here," she pointed. "The Cabinet came about in a time of great spiritual upheaval, and with it, the freedom of all people from evil. It is believed by many to have reached peak popularity with the Rosicrucianism movement. This may have been when it became formally established, but the concept is commonly believed by conspirators to be as old as the Prehistoric Sahara. It has since fallen from modern awareness."

"So it's not really a lead," Freddie said, "but it could be something. I'll look through this book closely and see if there's anything else on the Cabinet."

Stephen flipped onto his elbows. There was a lot of information to unpack here, and I figured he would be all about that. Apparently not. He seemed mildly perturbed, but his usual curiosity was not there. Something was off. Our earlier conversation threw him off-kilter, and seemingly enough so that his undying urge to explain things to me went quiet.

"Freddie," he said, "I know that it's interesting to read about, but that organization is complete and utterly bogus. I don't think it will help us find the twins."

"I know. It's just that this is the only quasi-relevant thing I've seen in all of the books I've checked."

"There are still more books left, you know."

Freddie responded with a noise that made me think of a sad puppy. She sat in thought for a moment before flipping to something at the back of the book. Stephen was probably right about the Shadow Cabinet, but Freddie wasn't wrong to be intrigued. I patted Freddie's book to get her attention.

"The Cabinet is just a bunch of rumors, yet the creator of those rumors acknowledged ghosts, didn't they? There could be more, real information like that hidden in this book that you accidentally skimmed over."

Freddie nodded. She took a long, deep swig of her tea and leaned into me.

"That's what I thought about them being right about the stones. But now I don't think so. At least as far as this book is concerned," she said. "There's nothing here about the Shadow Cabinet. Besides the little section I read, obviously, but nothing elsewhere."

I craned my head to see the cover from under her hand. It was the same book that Boo had picked up earlier. The cover was prune purple, torn, and missing its dust jacket. A dark, fine spray coated the surface, and I hoped for Freddie's sake that it was someone's coffee. Overall, it gave me bad mojo.

"You're sure?" I asked.

"This book actually has an index," she said. "I just read it, and found only one reference to something important: that page."

"What if the organization used to exist? But doesn't anymore?"

She shook her head, curls a-bouncing.

"If there was a society that's task was as vital as keeping London out of danger, then it wouldn't just disappear."

This was probably true. I had no other ideas. Seeing my blank expression, some of Freddie's excitement fizzled out.

"You're going to find nothing but dead ends," Stephen broke in. "Trust me. I've been there."

He went back to reading. Freddie gave me a look that conveyed an alarming amount of irritation and set the book aside with a loud thump. She reached for another one. I gave her an awkward half-smile and went back to where I was sitting before, careful not to knock my tea over.

I felt Stephen's gaze on me. I couldn't decide if that made me happy or nervous. Maybe both? He was eyeing me a bit dolefully, in the kind of way you might look at someone if they don't know you're looking. I feigned a sneeze to glance back at him, but I was terrible at it, so he focused back on his work. I watched him anyway. He adjusted his glasses, and as he did so, the world turned a sludgy grey, white, and blue, like my head was dipped in liquid Antarctica.

I couldn't breathe. I was trying, but the sludge was in my lungs, in my chest, and I saw⎯ Stephen.

We were in what looked like a park, but I couldn't feel the sun. Everything was blurry. Stephen was sitting next to me in his police uniform, sans hat, and his shirt looked damp. I struggled to make out the rest of the picture, as it was already fading, but couldn't grasp anything except the image of him and the knowledge that we were there, wherever there was. It was important. I was certain.

Air came rushing into my lungs so fast that I almost forgot I was suffocating. My throat felt raw. Everything was dark. I felt hands on my shoulders and face, floor below my back, and a wall beside me. There was a pounding on one side of my head, suggesting that I fell on it. I blinked my eyes open to see Stephen on top of me. He looked a good bit panicked too, which even in a near delirious state, managed to make me feel pretty good.

"Rory. Rory. Rory," he said, shaking me. He must have been saying my name this whole time. I heard Freddie from somewhere behind him.

"Do I need to do CPR?"

"No," I said scratchily. "I think I'm okay."

I looked straight up at Stephen. He paused a moment, then leaned back onto his knees and offered me a hand up. My own hand was shaking, but I took it and sat against the wall. He half straddled, half kneeled over me. It was a bit awkward, but in a good way, though he was only checking to make sure I wasn't going to die. When he was convinced that I would indeed live, he leaned back and apologized. I stared at him.

"What happened?"

Freddie shrugged. "I don't know. I just saw you drop."

Stephen actually turned around to look at her. I couldn't see his expression, but she shrugged an apology. At least he knew what it felt like to almost die.

"It looked like you starting choking," he said levelly. "And then you just- dropped. Only for a few seconds."

"I didn't make any noise? Because my throat feels raw. Like I was screaming."

They both shook their heads. In all honesty, it seemed kind of like a panic attack. I'd had only one; when we went into the sewer last week, but the feeling was already ingrained in my brain. This was similar, yet different. Too many things were happening. There was too much stress. My body was trying to do something about it, and I guess my subconscious was stupid enough to think that delusions and self-harm were the right way to go. I told Stephen and Freddie as much.

"Well, whatever it was, I hope it doesn't happen again," Stephen said. "Boo texted me a minute ago saying that she was on her way with takeout. Callum's on his way, too. We can tell them about it when they get here. For now, let's just. . . pick up the books. Is that alright?"

"Yeah. Hold on." I got to my feet and walked to the kitchen, rubbing the back of my head. Stephen watched me go before standing.

About two minutes later, the room was properly rearranged. I had an ice-pack. Things were better. Callum and Boo were going to help us tomorrow with all of the reading, or I was going to lose it for real. There was too much for just three people. The chances of us finding anything were slim anyways, but if Stephen could stick it out, I could too. I wondered what would happen if the twins just disappeared. Would we consider it a cold-case? Was this even a formal case? It was fronted by a bunch of teenagers, frankly, and a guy young enough for his gray hair to be considered premature. Like Anderson Cooper.

By the time Boo arrived with the food, I was nearly hungry enough to eat the crushed-to-bits crackers in Freddie's bag. Boo insisted we wait for Callum to get to the flat before digging in, but I grabbed a dish and filled it with spicy pork anyways. We were all gathered on the couches when he finally walked through the foyer.

"You eating without me?" Callum asked, shrugging off his coat. Boo smirked from her spot next to me and tossed a paper plate at him. He caught it and proceeded to attack the chow mein with a stray spoon.

"What are you doing?" Freddie asked him.

"Chowing down. I've had a long day. Good day, but long day."

Stephen, seated on my other side, looked up from his box of fried rice and raised both eyebrows.

"What, exactly, qualifies as a 'good day' to Callum?" He said, making a gesture with his chopsticks that made me wish I knew how to use them.

"Zapped a ghost," said Callum. "Full on zapped. Poof. Nutter was gone."

"Which ghost?"

"That crazy dancing arse at Liverpool Street station. The one Rory wouldn't terminate."

"What?" I said as he took a seat on the loveseat across from me. "It wasn't right. Plus I would've thrown up or something."

We were all quiet for a moment. I set my empty plate onto the coffee table.

"You know what?" I asked Callum. "We should have a field trip sometime. I have some unfinished business with that Resurrection Man."

Stephen choked on his rice. This was probably something I should have mentioned to him. Maybe I was tired, or maybe I had just stopped caring so much, but the thought of him getting upset about me meeting someone sounded ridiculous. I mean, he intentionally crashed his car. He could deal with this. It took a moment for him to recover, and once he did, I couldn't actually tell if he was upset or surprised. His usually expressive eyebrows gave no indication.

"What do you know about the Resurrection Man?"

I nudged my empty plate around with my knee as Stephen lowered his takeout box. Boo watched us and shoveled rice into her mouth.

"Well, he does not resurrect people. But he is an ass. He locked me in a mausoleum. Made a very poor attempt to set me on fire. Also has this walking ball of human⎯

"Wait, he did what?"

"Rude things. Dangerous things."

"Well, I see that. He's bad news. I'm guessing you found him in my notes?"

"Yeah," I nodded. Stephen nodded too and stirred the remaining rice in his box.

"And how did you get yourself out of that one?"

"Me," Freddie piped up. "Well, me and Jerome. Do you know how Jerome and I met?"

"Well enough."

"Well, it was then that we basically followed her to the cemetery. She was yelling at the Resurrection Man- Jim? Or at something. If it makes you feel any better, Stephen, she wasn't actually on fire."

Callum snorted and shared a look with Boo. I chose to ignore them. As glad as I was that Stephen was back and the gang was together, the two of them had shared too many looks. Their business was their business, but Callum gave Boo enough eyebrow to smother a man. That should be, like, a federal offense.

"So," Boo said, "I found two new ghosts today. They're both on Craven Street, not far from Waterloo Bridge."

Stephen nodded in understanding. I pretended to know where that was. Boo started picking at her neon green press-ons, and I cleared my throat, not sure of how to start. I was a pretty gifted talker, but for once, words eluded me.

"So, I think I had another panic attack today?"

"Like, full on loony?" Boo asked after a beat. She looked up from her nails. Her penciled brows were furrowed into pointy, worried lines.

"No. More like. . . I choked on my own spit and then passed out."

"Are you alright?" Callum asked. "How long was it?"

"About five seconds," Stephen pitched in. "This wouldn't be as concerning if she hadn't choked and hit her head. If this happens again, who knows how long you'll be under without oxygen?"

He directed this last part at me for some reason. I wasn't sure how he wanted me to feel about this situation, but it surely wasn't anything nice. It wasn't like anything could be done to prevent it.

"Wait," Callum said, "you couldn't breathe? For how long?"

"Well, so, it wasn't really a panic attack. That's just the umbrella term I'm using because I don't know what it actually is. This happened last week too, when we were putting the stone in the sewer, remember? It felt different today though, like I was fully submerged into what I was seeing. I kind of choked too, I guess. It felt like there was sludge in my lungs-"

"You said you saw things?" Stephen cut in. He angled toward me. I looked down at my hands, aware of everyone watching me. I hadn't exactly meant for that piece of information to slip out, but there it was. Maybe I'd be put under house arrest now. Be asked to stay on the couch so they could watch me and make sure I didn't accidentally kill myself.

"Yeah," I said. "It wasn't real. I know that."

"But what was it?"

"I. . ." This was the last checkpoint. I could tell them what I saw and risk couch confinement, or I could lie and walk away.

"The Ripper. Newman. Pictures of him doing things. Things I couldn't possibly see, like him stalking his victims and stuff."

Stephen leaned back and exhaled audibly. I felt bad for pulling the Ripper card, but I knew from personal experience that whenever I brought it up, people stopped talking and nodded along to whatever I said.

"I hope it doesn't happen again," Freddie said. "I've only heard about him, but he didn't seem. . . nice."

"Yeah. He wasn't," Boo said. Freddie frowned.

"You've met him?"

"We all have," she replied matter-of-factly. It occurred to me that we never informed Freddie of this. "He threw me in front of a car."

Stephen raised his hand apprehensively.

"He injected me with a deadly dosage of insulin."

I took that it was my turn to say something.

"He stabbed me."

It seemed obvious after I said it, but Freddie nodded nonetheless. She seemed a bit taken aback. Callum kept quiet, and I remembered his guilt about hesitating to give Newman the terminus. I didn't entertain the thought for long; Freddie needed to know the full story. I explained it to her.

Dinner went much smoother after that. I learned that Callum's middle name was Bingsley- a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. There was a feeling in my chest, and for once, it wasn't bad. Everyone was alive. Everyone was together. We were sitting around a table, and eating takeout, and making fun of Callum. If this was my new life, it wasn't so bad.

Stephen made me help him clean up after dinner, which I didn't mind that much. He was in a good mood. I told him stories about my old cat Pow Pow, which he listened to courteously, and he told me stories about Regina. I found that I liked her. She made some bad decisions, and they led her to a dark place, but she also kind of reminded me of myself. Everyone made mistakes. Especially when you had parents like theirs.

I thought about that as I went to bed. Stephen turned out pretty good. He was good. His parents didn't deserve him, and Regina realized that. Ihoped she found peace. I hoped he'd find it too, and decided that if it came down to it, I'd fight for that.