Because I Could Not Stop For Death | Lockwood & Co.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗

— 𝖎 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 — 𝖒𝖆𝖞 𝖇𝖊 𝖆 𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖘

𝐒𝐎, 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃 & 𝐂𝐎. 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 victorious. They'd managed to seal the Changer's Source, escape through the window, and corner the Evanses in their kitchen. Subduing them, they were able to contact the proper authorities and end the horrors at the Lavender Lodge once and for all, two days before. Their main motivation for those murders? Robbery. And the agents that stopped them? They'd come out as unscathed as they could with a few bumps and bruises along the way.

There was a write up in the Times about it, but it wasn't up to Anthony's standards of what it should have been.

"And that's it," Anthony stated with disgust in his voice as he laid the newspaper he was reading from on his thigh. "That's all the Times gives us for our trouble. There's more about the scuffle in the kitchen than there is about the Changer. Doesn't exactly focus on the important stuff, does it?"

"It's the 'unscathed' bit that I object to," George piped up, pointing to his face vaguely. "That old cow gave me a right old whack. See this horrible red blob?"

Eden turned her head, looking over at him in his chair. "Hm, I thought your nose always looked like that," she teased.

George rolled his eyes. "No, here," he corrected, moving his hand to point toward the area just above his glass, "on my forehead. This bruise."

There was a splotch of angry red that was fading into a cooler purple on the top of his forehead. It did look quite painful and Eden frowned sympathetically. Anthony hummed, somewhat dismissively, eyes turned down to the newspaper on his leg. "Yes, dreadful," he muttered. Eden's lips pulled into a frown as she shared a look with George. "What really bothers me is that we only made page seven. No one's going to notice that. The massive Chelsea outbreak is dominating the news again. All our stuff's getting lost."

Though it was late morning, it could have very well been late in the evening. Outside 35 Portland Row, a nasty November storm rallied around the street. Rain slashed the window panes, trees danced in the wind. The sky was dark with angry clouds. Despite how cold and dreary it was outside, the fire was kindling in the library, where the three were seated. George was off by himself in his own chair, reading a comic book. Anthony had settled down in the other, and Eden was squished into his side. Her legs were thrown over his lap, his arm around her shoulders, allowing her to lean her head against his own. His fingers trailed a soothing pattern up and down her arm.

"It is a shame they don't talk more about the actual case," George stated. "The way the Changer created its own little cluster of other ghosts was fascinating. It's how the Problem spreads, some say—strong Visitors causing violent deaths, which lead to secondary hauntings. I would have loved to study it in more detail."

Eden frowned, biting the inside of her cheek. "I just felt sorry for all those poor ghost-touched men," she said after a moment. "I . . . I could feel their sadness." She shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was at memory, the drafts that managed to sneak into Portland Row, or the feel of Anthony's fingers on her skin. "And even that Changer . . . yes, it was terrifying, but it was unhappy, too. I could feel its pain. If I'd had more time to try to connect with it properly—"