a struck link // christopher lightwood {3}

twelve // nightmares (necropolis)

{ night. }

Alan Lochlyn woke to some sudden, silent disturbance, blinked and looked up and saw Brigitte sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wild, gasping for air.

"Brigitte? Britta—are you alright?" He sat up hastily and pulled her against him. She shook in his arms, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "What is it?"

"We need to go back to London." Brigitte's voice came out very small. "Quickly. As quickly as possible."

"Why? What's—"

"Just—just go and contact Pluto. Make sure xe's okay. Make sure and then we need to get a Portal. We need to go back to London. Something happened."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I didn't hear it well enough this time. Just—" she shoved at Alan's shoulder. "Just—go. Make sure xe's okay. Go!"

< & >

Pluto was in the midst of a hot bath when their right ear started ringing. Xe shrugged it off at first as delayed side-effects of dunking their head under to wash their hair, but then it went on and on for a while and wouldn't quit, and Pluto began to wonder if maybe wearing earbuds too much, or too many of Christopher's explosions, had messed up their hearing. Or maybe a high pressure weather system was coming in. Or maybe it was just colder and windier in London than xe'd thought, and xe was just getting old.

Xe poked at their ear, trying to get out any water that might still be in there, leaned back against the lip of the tub, and stared at the far wall. The soothing rhythm of the pendulum clock in the room beyond threatened to send them back to sleep. It was nearly five thirty. The sun was just barely starting to smudge the sky with pink. Xe put the soap away and wrapped up the bath, pulled the plug and reached for a towel.

They returned to their attached bedroom to find a fire message waiting for them on their desk. It had to be from their father. He was the only person in this decade who knew how to send one yet, other than Dash and themself. And they wouldn't be receiving anything from Dash. Or would they? Pluto wasn't entirely sure when the debt from their crimes would be paid off.

No, the handwriting was definitely Da's. Pluto picked up the letter and leaned against the desk to read it, working their hands through their hair as they did, starting to form it back into its usual side part.

Pluto, the note read, we're very worried, and we'd like a response back as soon as possible, so we know you're well. Brigitte had a nightmare or a vision or something. She's too shaken up to talk much about it, but she insists we return to London, so we should be here either later today or sometime tomorrow. Love, Da.

Pluto sat down, grabbed for a pencil, and scribbled down something xe hoped was legible. Da, I'm alright, I'm alive and I'm in one piece and my rooms are locked and warded so I should be that way for a while. No idea what's going on. I hope Brigitte's okay. Take care of her for me, you hear? I love you.

— Pluto.

Xe sent it away with a flick of xyr fingers. Then, shaken, xe reached for a notebook, meaning to lose xyrself in daydreams for a while.

< & >

Ian kicked his way out of another nightmare of silk and lace, white, all of it white, tangling his limbs and strangling him, suffocating him, dragging him down, down, into black and grey. He had not understood why mundane women married in white until Mexico City. Then he realized that for many mundane women, marriage was a kind of death, one that sometimes lead them to kill. He still remembered that cold, dead hand, covering his mouth—