“Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Sasha disconnects the call and stares at her cell phone for a long moment. She’s worked at the Magnus Institute for almost seven years now, been in the Archives for almost two. She honestly thought she’d lost the ability to be afraid of anything the mundane world could dish up anymore.
But that phone call…
“You okay, Sash?” Melanie’s voice seems to be coming from a long distance away.
With difficulty, Sasha pulls herself together and looks up. It’s just the two of them in the Archives right now, since Martin and Tim are both at lunch; Melanie’s already taken hers, and Sasha will go as soon as one of the others gets back. She’s not really hungry anymore, though.
“I’m fine,” she lies, then stops. They’re trying, they’re all making the effort not to lie to one another or downplay when things are bad. Tim and Martin both know her well enough to call her on it when she does it, and they’re also connected to the Eye well enough to be able to at least get a sense when she does. Melanie doesn’t and isn’t, and it’s not fair to her to keep her in the dark. “It’s my uncle.”
Something in Melanie’s face shifts, and she half-closes her laptop. “Is he sick?”
“No—I don’t know. He just said he has something he needs to talk to me about in person. They’re making an exception for me to come see him today.” Sasha rubs her forehead. “That’s not normal, Mel.”
“O…kay,” Melanie says slowly. “You usually…can’t visit him whenever you want? What, is it a prison or something?”
Sasha winces, remembering that Melanie wasn’t part of the team when she told them. “Yes, actually. He’s in HMP Pentonville.”
Melanie covers her mouth with a hand. “Oh, God, Sasha, why didn’t you shut me up? My big mouth—”
“It’s fine. You didn’t know.” Sasha manages a smile. “But yeah. I don’t know what he’s in for, but if he wants to see me today, and they’re letting me…whatever’s going on can’t be good.”
“Can you, like—” Melanie wiggles her fingers in the universal gesture of mystical bullshit. “—Know what it is?”
“I mean…maybe? I’m trying really hard not to use that outside of…you know, work. I don’t want to risk falling too deeply into it, or—or hurting myself, or someone else.” Sasha sighs. “I think it might be too far away, though. Honestly, I think the only way to find out what’s going on is to go out there myself.”
“Go out where?”
The voice makes both Sasha and Melanie jump. She looks up quickly to see Martin coming towards them, a bag of leftovers dangling from one hand. He looks about like he’s looked since Jon left—tired, worried, and faintly stressed. “Martin, Jesus. Heard from Jon yet?”
“Yeah, did you not see the text?” Martin frowns at her slightly. “I thought he sent it to the group chat.”
Now that she thinks about it, Sasha remembers hearing a slight beep while she was on her phone call, but she didn’t think about it twice. She checks her phone and sees two new texts—one from Jon saying he was changing buses, one from Tim asking what he was changing them into. Rolling her eyes fondly, she sets it down. “No, I—I was on the phone. My uncle called. He wants to see me today.”
“Oh.” Martin’s expression is one of mingled sympathy and concern. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we were talking about. I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t want to…you know.” Sasha makes the same gesture Melanie made a few moments ago.
Martin nods in understanding. “Did you have anything time-sensitive you were doing today?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I don’t think Jon would mind you taking the rest of the day off. I know you won’t be able to get to Pentonville and back in the span of your lunch break, and this seems…kind of important.” Martin reaches over and squeezes Sasha’s hand gently. “Let us know if you need anything.”
Sasha smiles and squeezes back. “Thanks, Martin. I’ll keep you all posted.”
An hour later, she’s seated in a room at the prison, jiggling her foot nervously and waiting. It’s one of the small, private rooms usually set aside for attorneys to consult with their clients, which is unusual; normally she has to conduct her visits in a loud, noisy room with a Plexiglas divider between them. A private conversation, on a weekday, out of the clear blue sky? Either something has gone terribly wrong or she’s been lied to.
There’s a familiar whirring sound, and Sasha reaches into her pocket to pull out the tape recorder. She very most definitely did not have this with her when she left; she shut it in her desk drawer before heading out, and it hadn’t been in her pocket when they searched her. She hopes she won’t get in trouble for having it.
As the thought crosses her mind, the door opens and, with a clank of chains, a figure is escorted in. A gruff voice instructs her to buzz for help if there’s an issue, and then the door closes and leaves the two of them alone together.
There’s another clank as the man leans forward, smiling hopefully. “Sasha.”
Sasha smiles back, genuinely pleased but worried at the same time. “Hello, Uncle Wade.”
The family resemblance between them is obvious. Both of them have the same facial structure, the same shape to their eyes, the same skin tone. They’d looked enough alike once to switch places, when Sasha was eighteen and going through a phase and shaved her head. Now, though, after almost a decade in prison, Wade Copper looks old enough to be her father—gaunt, thin, his once-dark hair almost solid grey despite the fact that he’s only in his mid-forties. Every time she’s seen him, he’s tried to smile for her, tried to stay cheerful as he asks about her work, tried to convince her things aren’t so bad for him, but she knows. She can see the weight of imprisonment bearing him down.
Today, though, is different. Today his eyes are sparkling, his smile seems real, and he seems to be barely keeping something contained. She has no idea what it is, but it seems like he’s…excited.
Sudden panic strikes her, and she very quickly throws up those mental blocks Jon Prime has been teaching them. The absolute last thing she wants is to take the surprise away from the man who’s had so few to give her over the years.
“Is everything okay?” she asks instead. “You said we needed to talk and—”
“No, no, everything’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Wade assures her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just had some news for you. It could have—are you on your lunch break? Do we need to—”
“I took the afternoon off. My boss is out of town at the moment, so the three—well, the four of us, we’ve got a new coworker—we’re sort of running things ourselves. When the others found out you wanted to talk to me, they suggested I just call it a day. We’ve got all the time in the world.” Sasha smiles. “What’s going on?”
Wade’s smile broadens. “I’m coming home.”
It takes Sasha a second to process that, and then she sits up straighter. “You’re getting released?”
“I heard back from the parole board this morning. I didn’t tell you I was going up because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I had the hearing a few weeks ago. Today I got word that they’ve decided I’m a good candidate for release.”
“That’s—that’s wonderful!” Sasha says.
Wade’s smile slips, just a little. “You don’t sound so sure about that. What’s the matter, Puddle-Duck?”
It’s been forever and a day since he called her that—an old family nickname bestowed on her after her favorite bedtime story, the one she used to beg to be read over and over. She’d trailed after her Uncle Wade “like a little duckling” from the time she could walk, and the “duckling” nickname had eventually morphed into Puddle-Duck. He hasn’t used it since she was about twelve, though, and hearing it now almost makes her cry.
“Nothing,” she says, unconvincingly. “It’s just—there’s a lot going on. That’s all.”
“I won’t be an imposition,” Wade says earnestly. “I’ve managed to save up a bit while I’ve been in here from the work I’ve been doing in the prison library. I should be able to get a place. I won’t be in your way—”
“No, it’s not that at all!” Sasha feels horribly guilty. “I’d be happy to have you stay with me. Of course I would. I’ve got loads of space and—and I’ve missed you so much. It’s just that…”
It’s just that the world might end in a year if they can’t stop it. It’s just that she’s trying to figure out a way to pretend to stop a ritual that she knows won’t succeed even if they do nothing without letting the man who does have a ritual that will work know she knows it. It’s just that she’s developing incredibly invasive psychic powers and doesn’t know if she can live with another person who doesn’t know about it. It’s just that the world is objectively terrifying and she doesn’t know if she can lie about it to the only family she has left or let him believe he’s safe.
“It’s just that there’s been a lot going on in the world since you’ve been in here,” she finally says. “I—I worry that you might—that it might be a lot for you to adjust to.”
“Hey, I raised you, didn’t I?” Wade teases. “If I can handle losing my sister and my parents in one fell swoop, especially to…that, and then turn a six-year-old into a relatively functional adult despite barely having passed my A-levels when I started, I think I can handle anything the world thinks it can throw at me. Bring it on.”
Sasha’s whole body tingles. She clasps her hands together tightly to hide the shaking and focuses very hard on that mental block. There’s something there. A secret. A story. Something in the way he said that has the Eye’s attention and it wants to use her. She can’t let it, she can’t…
“Sasha? Sasha, what’s wrong? Are you—Christ, I’m sorry.” Wade reaches for her hands, manacles jangling, then grunts as the chain binding him to the table stops them halfway. “I shouldn’t have brought that up, I shouldn’t have—are you still having that nightmare?”
Sasha can’t help the slightly brittle laugh that escapes her lips. “I don’t have room for my own nightmares anymore, Uncle Wade. Especially ones in red-on-black binary.”
Wade frowns at her in evident confusion. “What do you mean? Who else’s nightmares would you have?”
Shit, Sasha thinks. “It’s a long story. And I don’t think you’d believe it.”
“It’s you, Sash. I’d believe you if you said the sky was green. Anyway, after what I’ve seen, trust me, there’s not much that’s unbelievable.”
Sasha looks hard at her uncle, then glances at the recorder, spinning away. She should have known. Should have realized that if it’s turning on, there’s something he’s seen. He’s been touched by one of the Fears. And she can’t—she can’t—
“It’s got to do with work,” she finally says. “Part of the Archive job—when I, when I listen to people tell me about something they’ve encountered or seen or, or done, if it’s something that really happened…I end up dreaming about it. I’ve only got a couple, but…it does mean I haven’t had any dreams of my own since I started doing that.”
Wade blinks at her. Softly, he says, “So it is real. I knew it.”
“What, the paranormal?”
“Not just that.” Wade hesitates. “I never—I never told you how I wound up here, did I?”
“No, just—you said it was something to do with you hacking into something you shouldn’t have,” Sasha says slowly. “You never explained.”
“Truthfully, I never fully understood it much beyond what I told you. I don’t even know exactly what I did hack into,” Wade says, a bit ruefully. “I suppose it was the culmination of a project, in a sense, but—it wasn’t intentional.”
“What do you mean?”
Wade takes a deep breath. “The short version? I was hunting a computer virus, trying to trace where it came from. I suppose the path led through something I shouldn’t have been looking at and I got arrested. It fell enough under the Official Secrets Act that they could justify locking me up for it. But I swear, Sash, just like I’ve been telling everyone for years, I wasn’t hacking for secrets. I was trying to save lives.”
“I believe you,” Sasha says, because she does. If there’s anyone in the world she trusts completely, it’s her uncle. And really, this is the most mundane thing she’s been asked to believe in ages. “I just don’t—I don’t understand how tracing a computer virus can save lives. Unless it was infecting hospital computers or something like that.”
“No, that would have made sense.” Wade sighs. “Computer viruses aren’t supposed to be able to infect humans, but…this one did. O-or something like that. I honestly don’t know how to explain it, but…well, if working at that institute of yours is giving you other people’s nightmares, maybe you’ll know better than I do.” He ponders for a moment. “That’s probably a big part of why I got locked up, honestly. I couldn’t explain why I was hunting the computer virus without sounding insane, so I didn’t try. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘Yes, Your Honor, I wasn’t even aware of what system I was in, I was just looking for the origin of a bit of coding that killed my entire family’?”
Sasha freezes. The static in her mind gets louder and more insistent. “I don’t understand,” she says with difficulty, rather afraid that she does. He’s right, computer viruses aren’t supposed to infect humans, so if one did…it must belong to one of the Fears. She just can’t imagine which one.
Wade hesitates. “I—I don’t—Sasha, Puddle-Duck, if you don’t—you don’t remember what happened, do you?”
“To Mum and Dad? No.” The doctor said it was to be expected; she was six years old at the time, and it had been a rough experience. She had blacked out most of it, and honestly a lot of her memories from before that point as well. She remembers huddling in a closet with her teddy bear clutched tightly to her chest, hearing her uncle screaming her name, clinging to him tightly after he found her, both of them sobbing as he promised over and over that he would protect her, that he would never leave her, but for the life of her, she can’t remember what she was hiding from. The nightmare she had for years, one that made her wake up screaming almost until she left for uni, hadn’t been specific. She just remembers strings of ones and zeros in constantly shifting columns, blood-red on a black background, scrolling past her vision, but something in the code is terrifying and wrong…
“I don’t want you to have those nightmares.” Wade reaches for her hands again, looking conflicted. “You deserve to know, but…but if your job means that if people tell you those stories, you’ll dream about them too—I’ve had to train myself out of waking up screaming. It’s bad. I don’t want to do that to you, too.”
“It’s not—it’s not exactly like that.” Sasha wonders how to phrase it, then decides, to hell with it. He says he’ll believe her. She might as well tell the truth. It’s not like they’re being recorded by anything other than the spooling tapes, and there aren’t exactly eyes around for Elias to watch through, as far as she knows. She takes her uncle’s hands. “There’s a being…a thing that thrives on fear. I mean, there are a lot of them, but there’s one in particular that lives off of the fear of—of knowledge and secrets being exposed and being watched and all that.”
Wade gives a bitter laugh. “It must love prisons then.”
“In fact, the Institute is built over the remains of the old Millbank Prison, probably right where Smirke was testing out the panopticon design. And that’s the thing. The Institute…kind of belongs to that being. Which means I do, too.” Sasha takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I can—I can tell secrets without trying. I’m not right now,” she adds hastily. “I’ve been working on not…accidentally reading people’s minds or whatever. But the other part of it is the statements. When people tell us their stories and we dream about them? We’re not taking the place of the person dreaming about them. We’re…watching, I guess. Observing. We’re just…there.” She squeezes Wade’s hands. “So if you tell me, Uncle Wade, and I do end up sharing your nightmares, maybe it’ll be better. Because then you won’t have to look at them alone.”
Wade stares at her for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll tell you. You need to know, anyway.”
Sasha smiles, as reassuringly as she can, and glances at the tape recorder. “Do you want to make this…official? I can do, um, I can do the whole spiel we do at the Institute. Put it on the record. We can do some research, maybe.”
“Will it help?”
“It might.”
“Then…okay. Lay it on me.”
Sasha puts the tape recorder between them and takes her uncle’s hands again. Clearly, she says, “Statement of Wade Copper, regarding a murderous computer virus. Recorded direct from subject, twenty-first March, 2017.” She nods at her uncle. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Wade swallows. “Right. Well, you know I’ve always been into computers. I loved coding and programming and seeing what I could do. One of my favorite things to code up were the games, especially interactive fiction. I subscribed to a couple magazines where people would publish the codes for games they’d developed, and I would put them in and play them. I owned a couple that I bought commercially, too. One of the ones I had that I was most excited about was The Hound of Shadows. The story sounded right up my alley—a proper creepy one—but it turned out to have one of the worst parsers I’ve ever seen, and I struggled to finish it. I was crushed.
“I was looking around for something that was like that but…better? Tried my hand at coding it myself, but you know me, I’ve never been all that at coming up with a story of my own. Did a couple reasonably decent games based on a few of the stories I liked, but it wasn’t the same. Around the time I was finishing up my A-levels, some classmates and I were talking about interactive fiction, and I was complaining about Hound. That’s when one of my mates told me about a game he’d recently come across. He said he couldn’t finish it because it was too scary for him, but he thought I’d like it. It was called The Conqueror Worm.”
As he talks, Wade’s eyes go vacant and his shoulders slack; it’s like the words are pouring out of him independent of his will. Sasha never takes her eyes off him. The story fills her the same way Basira’s did, the same way Tim and Martin’s tale of the Not-Them did, the same way that man with the dog’s story did last week. She’s just aware enough of the situation to feel guilty about it, but she can’t stop him now if she tries.
“I managed to get my hands on a copy,” Wade continues. “As soon as I’d finished my exams, but while I was still waiting for the results to come back, I loaded it up on our computer. My friend was right—it was exactly what I was looking for. Interactive fiction. According to the cover, it was ‘loosely’ based on the Edgar Allan Poe poem, which I’d never heard at that point, but if it was Poe I knew it’d be spooky. The story was wonderful, the parser was the best I’d ever seen. Sometimes it was like talking to a real person—like that one Sergey Ushanka bot you and I spent the evening with when you were eight, you remember?” Sasha nods. “Anyway, I was really into it. The idea was that you were the manager of a theater that was putting on a new play, but something was trying to sabotage it, something inhuman and unholy. Started off normal enough, got creepy right fast. I had this constant sense of creeping dread. I loved it.
“The weird thing about this one, though, was that every so often you’d start to do something and suddenly three pixels would turn red. Always three, two in one row and one in between them in the row immediately above or below, and then they’d switch places a few times before disappearing. At first I thought it was a glitch. Then I realized it was intentional, that it was something to do with commands. I finally figured out that if the pixels appeared, you’d done something right.
“I started tracking the commands and decisions that got the wiggling pixels to appear, then started doing them more. Better. Started getting two, three, four at a time. I was sure it meant I was going to win. By the time I got to ‘opening night’ of the play, I could generally make upwards of ten appear every time I made the right choices. The thing is that ‘opening night’ was the big climax of the game, and there was only one command you could type: ‘The Show Must Go On’. Once you typed that, the play started and you watched to see if you got it right. You wanted to see the ‘play’, but I knew it was a horror game, so I told you to let me watch it first, and if it wasn’t too scary, you and I would play on Saturday. You pretended to accept that, but I knew you were angry. I could hear you yelling halfway across the house. At the time, I kind of thought it was funny, actually.”
Sasha vaguely remembers this now. She was bitterly disappointed—Uncle Wade always let her “help” with his games—so she waited until she was out of the room, then stomped off to the living room where her parents and grandparents were playing a card game and loudly declared that he was the meanest meanie to ever mean. Her mother laughed and said he was always like that, and her grandfather swept her onto his lap and offered to let her be his partner, until…
“What happened then?” she asks.
Wade takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I typed in the command, and I watched. The ‘play’ started, and…there was a voice. Reciting a poem. I guess it was the Poe poem. The ‘actors’ were performing along to the words, but then I noticed the wiggling pixels. One by one, slowly at first, then more and more. They started in the corners, then gradually started moving inwards. But see, amid the mimic rout, a crawling shape intrude. While I was watching, the wiggling pixels crept in an ever-increasing wave towards the ‘stage.’ That’s when I realized it was all the ones I’d been rewarded with for making the right choices. The voice got louder and more desperate-sounding, and then the pixels—I finally realized they were supposed to be worms—swarmed the ‘actors’ and…the screen went red, and then it went black. All the while the voice was still talking. And then it was just the black screen, with the text in blood red, appearing as the voice spoke the words.”
He swallows hard. “I—I looked up the poem. Later. It’s a real poem, ‘The Conqueror Worm’. The plot does follow the…events of the final scene of the game, up to a point. It’s a play, and then a worm—or in the game’s case, many worms—shows up and eats all the actors. The last four lines are…chilling.” He closes his eyes and recites, “And the angels, all pallid and wan, / Uprising, unveiling, affirm / That the play is the tragedy ‘Man,’ / And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”
A chill runs up Sasha’s spine. “I know that poem. He used it in ‘Ligeia’.”
“Maybe. But what got me…what really spooked me at the time, was that the words on the screen weren’t…right. I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it odd. But the voice spoke them, exactly as they appeared on the screen. Instead of ‘The play is the tragedy “Man”’…it said, ‘The play is the tragedy “Guy Copper.”’ The voice even said Dad’s name. I remember thinking that was a creepy coincidence. And then…” Wade takes another deep breath, and there are tears in his eyes. “I heard a noise from another room, like someone shouting. I turned to look, and when I turned back, the words were changing, morphing almost. Computers didn’t work like that back then, Sash, the graphics weren’t—I know you know that. But it was like the name blurred. And then the voice said those four lines again, but with the new name. And the angels, all pallid and wan, / Uprising, unveiling, affirm / That the play is the tragedy ‘Mary Copper,’ / And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”
The memories are starting to come back. A red wash fills her mind, then the screaming, then her mother pushing her away…oh, God. “And the next name—the next name was ‘Marjorie James’?”
“Yes,” Wade whispers. “And that’s when the screaming started. I was screaming, too. I was—I was convinced it was the game, that it was—I kept hitting keys, backspacing over and over, typing EXIT and hitting the Escape key and—nothing worked. It shifted from Margie’s name to Hugh’s, and…I thought about how many worms had been on the screen, how many ‘successes’ I thought I’d had, and I was suddenly terrified. It started to change again, and I—I dove under the table and I pulled the plug. The sound died. The light died. The screaming stopped, all at once.
“I went running and—and I found them. Mum and Dad, Margie and Hugh, all sprawled around the card table. They were all dead. They were—they were full of worms, Sasha. Blood-red ones. I didn’t know if they’d been red before they…” Wade inhales shakily and looks away. The tears are rolling down his face now. “I called 999, I was trying to tell them what had happened, but—but then I realized I couldn’t find you. I shouted at the poor woman to hurry and I dropped the phone and went looking for you. I was terrified that I’d been too late…but there you were, hiding in my closet with your teddy bear. You had blood on your arms and chest, but you weren’t hurt, and I—oh, God, Sasha. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sasha whispers. “It’s not. I wish—I’m so sorry, Uncle Wade.”
They both cling to each other’s hands for a moment, crying silently. Finally, Wade takes a deep breath and frees one hand to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, that’s…I couldn’t really explain it to people when they showed up. Just that I’d heard screaming and…the worms were gone by then, but it was obvious. I told a few lies about how old I was and managed to get them to let me take care of you instead of putting you in a home, and for a while everything was fine. Then…just after you left for uni, I was debugging a computer for someone who’d downloaded a game off an FTP server and picked up some sort of virus. When I went into the code, I discovered a secondary virus underneath the main one and went to dig it out. I thought it was a dead-man switch of some kind—you know, remove the main virus, trigger the second one—so I was going to take that one out first. But then I realized it was just some metadata. I would have just deleted it without a second thought, except that I recognized the words. It was those same four lines, the last lines of ‘The Conqueror Worm’, except that it had a name I didn’t know as the name of the ‘play’.”
Another chill runs up Sasha’s spine. “You’re sure you didn’t know it?”
“I didn’t, but my client did. I asked him about it when I gave him his computer back, and he said it was his girlfriend’s name, she was out of town on a trip. I told him to give her a call, and he looked at me kind of funny, but said he would.” Wade sighs. “I looked her up a couple times. Two days later her obituary popped up.”
“You’re saying—”
“I’m saying that once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. But I kept my eyes open, and a few months later, I saw the words again. Different computer, different name, same results,” Wade tells her. “I started tracing it. It’s a—well, it’s a worm, in the truest sense of the word, but I was sure if I could trace its path, figure out where it came from, I could stop it from spreading. Seven or eight years ago, though, I…guess I went through something I wasn’t supposed to, got caught, and wound up here.” He sighs heavily and sits back, blinking. “And…that’s it. I still call it the Conqueror Worm, but…I couldn’t stop it. It’s still out there.”
“I don’t think you can stop it,” Sasha says slowly. Several things slot into place in her mind. When Tim looked at all of them and described the colors he saw on them, he’d mentioned that Sasha had the same sick yellow-green as Martin and Jon Prime faintly woven over her upper torso, but she had just assumed it was from her encounter with Timothy Hodge, the first night she met Michael. Now she realizes the mark he described is too big to be from a single worm, and that the Corruption marked her much more thoroughly than that. She might have to get Tim to take a look at the tape now that she’s made it, but…she’s pretty sure she’s right. “I think this thing came from—from one of the other fear beings. I’d have to look in the Archives to see if there’s a way to destroy it. There might be, I don’t know. But I do know that you wouldn’t have been able to destroy it on your own. Not without succumbing to the power that it fuels.”
“Sash.” Wade grips her hand tightly. “Are you in danger? If you…belong to one of these powers. Will it hurt you?”
“Maybe. Probably,” Sasha admits. “Someday. I don’t know. It’s—it’s all a bit complicated. I don’t know for sure.” She pauses and reconsiders. “I don’t think it will actively hurt me. But I don’t think it cares if I live or die, in the long run.”
Wade’s face was a study in fear and sorrow. “And it’s from working at the Magnus Institute,” he says. It’s not really a question. “You never would have done that if it wasn’t for me. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sasha says. “Maybe. Maybe not. My project with the EPCC was shutting down anyway, so I don’t know where I would have ended up, but the Magnus Institute was hiring. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, maybe I’d have looked for another job outside of London eventually, but…honestly, Uncle Wade, as much as I’ve always loved snooping and ferreting out secrets? I think I would have ended up bound to it anyway. At least this way I kind of know what’s going on enough to mitigate the damage.”
Wade shakes his head slowly. “I just…don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” Sasha promises, even though she knows she can’t really promise that. But he’s all the family she has left, he gave up his future so that she could have one, and she’ll do anything she can to make sure she doesn’t waste that. “I’ll tell you everything when you come home. When will that be?”
“Two weeks. The first of April. Is that enough time for—I mean, will you be okay if I—”
“Yes,” Sasha interrupts him. “Of course. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it all set up.”
Wade smiles slowly, the hopeful look back in his eyes. He laces his fingers through hers and squeezes.
“We’ll be all right,” he tells her. “Family looks out for each other. I promise, Puddle-Duck, I will do anything I can to protect you.”
Sasha smiles back and returns the squeeze. She doesn’t tell her uncle that she’s grown up a little beyond his ability to protect her, or that she might need to be the one protecting him. Right about now, she really wants to let him wrap her in a blanket and a hug and promise her that everything will be all right again.
She might even let herself believe him.