𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 | (adj.) "Otherworldly."
In an alternate version of present-day Britain, ghosts who are deadly to the touch have been rising from their graves for the past fifty years. Adults cannot sense the ghosts, but children can, so teenagers hav...
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"𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐊𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 like you much, does he?" Erin inquired of Anthony as the three left the Archives following their encounter with the Fittes Agency team.
"He's an irrelevant prick," Anthony glowered, setting his shoulders back as he strode down the sidewalk, flanked by George on his right and Erin on his left. "Ignore him."
"Oh, I planned to," Erin assured him, gathering her hair in her hands and pulling it off her neck, laying it over one shoulder. "Anyone who feels the need to bring my sister up in conversation lands on the top of my shit list. Number one if they compare us." She sighed, brushing her hands over her skirt, adding underneath her breath, "As if I'm not aware that she's objectively better at everything than I am."
Anthony turned to look at her, his brows creasing slightly as he heard the words she'd only meant to mumble to herself. Before he could say anything to her to have her think differently of herself, George spoke up. "We need to track down Hugo Blake," he insisted.
"There's something else I need to do first," Anthony responded as he shook his head. He reached into the pocket of his pants, pulling out his wallet. "Why don't you two grab dinner? My treat."
He pulled a few notes out of the pocket and handed them to Erin before moving around her and taking off without another word. That left Erin and George standing there awkwardly, eyeing each other just the same.
"You like Italian . . . right?" George asked, breaking the silence, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat.
Erin shoved the money into the pocket of her cardigan and nodded. "Well, I mean . . . if you mean pizza," she started, "because anything else is too—"
"Pizza's exactly what I mean, and I know a really good place," George interjected, already beginning to walk away from her.
Erin released a sigh as she followed, doing her best to keep up with him. When he wanted to, George could move very quickly and he was notorious for dodging people and cutting around corners. But at last, the two found themselves at a small, hole-in-the-wall pizzeria that had no indoor seating. They ordered one pie for the two of them and brought it outside, where a grated metal bench was fastened to the brick wall. George stood while Erin sat, realizing just how hungry she actually was. She couldn't remember the last time she actually ate, and though she probably could have eaten half of the pie on her own, she knew that that wasn't healthy.
In the midst of her second slice, she hummed, both appreciatively and teasingly. "This is the best Italian restaurant I've ever been to," she joked, but it was also partially the truth. Her mother had always said it best—if the place looked like it had a lot of code violations, it would be the best food you'd ever had.
George gave a thin-lipped smile. Erin placed her slice of pizza back into the box and wiped her hands, eyeing him curiously. She'd been living and working with him for about a year, but knew so little about him. Some of it was her own fault—she seldom asked people about their personal lives, simply because she wasn't entirely keen on talking about hers. But she would be lying if she said that she wasn't curious. She hadn't ever known why a Fittes agent would want to work with an agency like Lockwood & Co., and given that George would answer her questions, maybe she could curb that curiosity. "So . . . have you always lived here?"
