Coming back here would be a lot worse if he didn’t have Tim and Martin with him, Jon thinks as he looks uncertainly around the room. It’s not just the wax figures everywhere, which are creepy enough. There are cobwebs hanging in every corner, draped over half the waxworks, and it’s…it’s a lot.
He takes a deep, ragged breath and steps back slightly, bumping into Martin, who rubs his back soothingly. “It’s okay, Jon. They’re just cobwebs.”
“It’s never just cobwebs,” Jon hisses back.
Martin doesn’t rise to the bait. “Cobwebs mean the spiders are long gone. It’s okay.”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Jon tries to calm down. It’s not really working, though. “Is this it?”
“Yeah,” Basira replied. “We plant the last of it here, and this whole place goes up nice.”
“Remember, we need all of it. This place is bigger than it looks,” Martin says.
Daisy unzips the bag of explosives with unnecessary force. “I heard you.”
“Okay, okay! I’m just saying.”
Jon tunes out the conversation and steps away from Martin, studying the waxworks uneasily. They’re just…they’re just waxworks, he’s pretty sure, just plain, ordinary, creepy mannequins, but…
“So where is everyone?” Basira asks, evidently done with the bickering.
“Preparing, I guess,” Jon says, uncertainly. “I haven’t seen any of them since the last of—w-whatever the hell that was went inside.”
Basira frowns. “It’s too quiet.”
“It could be a trap,” Jon says and immediately regrets it.
Daisy straightens up from where she’s standing. “And? If it is, I give this a squeeze”—she holds up the detonator—“no more trap.”
“And no more us,” Basira points out. Daisy grunts, not really in assent or denial, just acknowledging, Jon thinks.
“Don’t sweat it. At least we’re not alone,” Tim says, false brightness in his voice. He steps up next to Jon and points at one of the mannequins. “Look! It’s Prince Charles! You know, if he was in a horrible accident. Oh, and here’s the Beatles, if they were all in separate accidents. Like if Ringo was in a horrible fire, and Paul was in a car crash, that’s a classic—”
“Yes, Tim, I know,” Jon snaps, more testily than he wants. He swallows and consciously softens his voice. “I saw them.”
The facade of levity drops from Tim’s face, and Martin’s eyes brim with sympathy. It hurts and Jon has to look away. Martin speaks softly. “This is where they kept you, isn’t it.” It’s not a question.
“I-I—yes,” Jon says. A chill settles on his shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to step into Tim and Martin’s arms for them to ward it off, but it isn’t safe, this isn’t the time. Time for that when they’re clear of this place. “They tended to—th-there’s a room, right over there. It’s nominally a workshop, but…well, I suppose technically they were…working on me.”
“Oh, God.” Martin draws in a sharp breath and turns away briefly, and Jon sees his hand curl into a fist. Under his breath, he mutters, “Don’t open any doors.”
“Who told you that, anyway?” Basira demands. “What’s behind them?”
“The Primes. They said we don’t need to know what’s behind those doors, and—” Martin swallows hard and looks at one of the other doors. “We can’t save them.”
There’s a moment of horrible silence as all of them realize, in the same instant, what that means. Tim’s face goes ashen, and he stares at the same door Martin is looking at. Jon’s breath catches in his throat; he knows what Tim is thinking, because he’s thinking it too.
“Tim, no.” Martin reaches out and catches his arm, pale as a sheet. “Tim, we can’t—we can’t let them know we’re here. You open that door, it puts the whole thing at risk.”
Tim backs off, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Jon can’t blame him. He turns to Daisy. “How much longer?”
“I don’t know,” Daisy grits out.
Jon knows he shouldn’t say anything, but he can’t help it. “The others didn’t take this long.”
“The others had obvious structural weaknesses. This one doesn’t.”
“Seriously?” Tim hisses, sounding even more tense than before. “How hard is it to blow up a building? All this stuff—”
“I’m trying to be careful,” Daisy retorts. “I was told to avoid damage to the surrounding structures if I could—”
“Okay, let’s all stop distracting Daisy and get this over with,” Martin says, but even his normally soothing voice has an edge to it. He’s not angry, Jon thinks, just more scared than he’s letting on.
They all are. This is the worst idea Jon’s had since he took the Archivist job, which is saying something. He should have sent Daisy in alone. Shouldn’t have insisted on all of them coming along. He, Tim, and Martin have all been marked by the Stranger, they’re going to attract attention even if Orsinov and the others can’t smell the Eye on them. And the longer it takes Daisy to set the last of the charges, the more tempting opening those doors is.
Especially since he can hear movement behind them.
“So,” Basira says, jerking her head at the mannequin nearest her. “Would you say this is supposed to be Churchill or Alfred Hitchcock?”
Jon appreciates the distraction. “Jowls like that, could be either. I mean, the distinction is a bit—” He wobbles his hand, well aware of the fact that it’s shaking.
“It’s Hitchcock. Churchill’s face was more square,” Martin says absently. He’s fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves in a way Jon’s never seen Martin do before—but, he realizes, is the way he often plays with his cuffs when he’s nervous or anxious or scared. God, how long have they been picking up on one another’s habits and mannerisms?
Tim’s eyes wander over to something in the corner, and his whole body stiffens. Jon, too, goes tense. “What? What’s over there?”
“Nothing,” Tim mutters, cutting his eyes away quickly and looking at the door again.
Jon doesn’t believe him. He comes over to Tim’s side and looks—and his stomach lurches when he sees what’s there. It’s a solid chair with flaked, cheaply done gilding clinging to the badly-done carvings on the back and curved arms. A couple of twisted nylon ropes still lie around the feet and across the seat, and even from here in the dim light, he can see that one of them is still faintly stained with blood.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice weak even to his own ears. “It—it wasn’t as bad as it looks.”
Tim gives Jon a look so filthy he’s tempted to scrub its mouth out with carbolic soap. “I saw you when you got back, Jon. I know how bad it was.”
Basira speaks up in her I-don’t-want-to-deal-with-this-so-I-am-changing-the-subject voice. “How big is this auditorium thing, anyway?”
“I don’t know! Big!” Jon flaps his hands in irritation.
“I mean, it’s not a huge building.” Basira eyes the corners where Daisy is prowling and prodding.
“Jon Prime said it was bigger than it looks,” Martin says firmly. “They’ve done this before. I trust them. If they say we need all of it, we need all of it.”
Basira looks unimpressed. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“I am. This is definitely where they kept me.” Jon points at the chair for emphasis just as Daisy stalks in front of it. “Although I don’t remember quite this many waxworks.”
“All right. I just don’t want to get this far and find out we’re in a—” Basira begins.
She’s cut off by a sound from the door that keeps drawing Tim and Martin’s attention—faint, haunting, hollow-sounding music. All of them freeze, listening. Jon’s never been one for circuses, but he knows a calliope when he hears one.
Be still, for there is strange music.
Jon exhales shakily. “This is the place.”
“We need to see what’s going on in there,” Tim mutters. His eyes have gone slightly unfocused, and Jon can feel the faint prickle of static. Tim is Looking at the door, as if he’s trying to see through it.
Jon grabs his arm more roughly than he should, but he has to startle him. “Leave it. We have a job to do,” he orders.
“Jesus,” Basira hisses.
“What?” Jon, Tim and Martin all ask in unison, in almost the exact same tone of voice, as they pivot to stare at her.
Basira is staring at one of the waxworks intently, her hand on her hip, probably where she once carried a gun. “It moved.”
No. No, this is not happening, it’s too soon—Jon swallows down the panic. “Right, okay, if they’re starting to, ah—we’ve got to go.”
“No, it’s just—” Basira looked equal parts intent and horrified. “Like—it was just a flicker in its eyes. Look at it—”
“Don’t—look, if the waxworks are coming alive, we need to go,” Jon insists. He cannot, will not risk Tim and Martin. Whatever charges are set will have to be enough.
“Just shut up and look,” Basira snaps.
Jon crosses over to Basira’s side and looks. He’s prepared to either brush her off or hurry her along when he sees it, too—a flicker in the eyes of the statue in front of them. He looks more intently…
Those aren’t glass.
The realization hits him a second before the thing locks eyes with him, an expression of total panic. Of human panic, frantically pleading with him. A sick look passes over Basira’s face, but all she says is, “Huh.”
“Oh, God—oh, God, they’re not waxworks,” Jon chokes out.
Martin goes pale. “What are you—” he begins, then takes a closer look at the “waxwork” closest to him and recoils. “Christ!”
“Tim, I—I think we need to see what’s going on in there,” Jon says. People. There are people in there. Trapped and afraid and—
"Yeah.” Tim reaches for the doorknob.
“No!” Martin steps forward and physically puts himself between Tim and the door, drawn up to his full height. His skin is so white as to practically be translucent, worm scars and freckles alike practically floating above his face they’re so well-defined, and he looks both upset and determined. “We know what’s going on in there. We know it’s—bad. We know the room’s bigger than we think, and—we don’t need to look.”
“We need to know when they’re starting,” Tim argues.
It’s a good argument, but Martin doesn’t budge. “We’ll know they’re starting when the music changes. That? That’s probably the organist warming up. That door cannot be open when the song starts proper, Tim.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve read the statements! You know what—what that thing can do—”
“It’s not the same one! That one’s locked in Artifact Storage.”
Jon blinks. “He’s right. I didn’t—”
“It’s not, though,” Martin interrupts. “Remember? Melanie told us last week. She was talking to Sonia about it, and according to her, nobody’s seen it for a while and none of them can remember when they saw it last. I’m willing to bet that when Breekon and Hope delivered that table, they picked up the Calliophone too. And since their whole thing is being unrecognized and unremembered, probably nobody saw them take it, anymore than they saw them get it out of Leanne Deniken’s house the first time.”
Jon draws in a sharp breath. He remembers now. Melanie was trying to find any other circus-related artifacts up there. Sasha’s theory was that it was taken for use in the Unknowing.
Hearing that haunting melody, he suspects it’s right.
Tim subsides a little, but still puts up one last protest. “What if there’s someone in there we can save?”
“There isn’t. Even the ones that are already alive are basically dead.” Martin’s eyes brim with sympathy. “Tim. Remember the statement about Gwydir Forest? The one where Gertrude said at the end that she—she wouldn’t be surprised to see Mr. Skinner’s face at the Unknowing?”
“Yeah, so?” Tim shrugs a little.
“So, his isn’t the only face that’s going to be in there.” Martin’s own face softens, and he takes a half-step closer to Tim. “You don’t need to see that. If—if he’s in there, if he’s waiting for—for his turn at the dance…you don’t need to see that again.”
Tim turns grey, and his face tightens with obvious pain. With a jolt, Jon realizes what Martin is saying. He said it himself on tape the other day: Danny Stoker is probably in there.
Martin’s right. Tim doesn’t need to see that.
He reaches out to touch Tim’s arm, to offer what little comfort he can, when Daisy comes over to them. “Done.”
“What?” Jon says, a bit stupidly.
“It’s done. We’re good to go.” Daisy holds something out to Tim. “Here.”
Tim takes the object, and Jon realizes it’s the detonator. He hasn’t told Daisy they’re letting Tim blow the trigger, but from the way he nods at her, it’s clear they’ve discussed this already. He takes a deep breath. “Right. Let’s get out of here and blow this place to hell.”
“This way.” Basira turns towards the door they came in.
For as small as it is, the building is a maze. Jon would almost suspect it to be the work of the Spiral rather than the Stranger, except that the purpose isn’t to confuse, it’s to conceal. Basira’s studied the layout thoroughly, though, so he lets her and Daisy lead. Martin brings up the rear, probably to make sure neither Jon nor Tim cut back and try to do something stupid like look, or try to get someone out. Jon won’t lie, he considers it, if only because he desperately wants to know what’s going on—it’s a blind spot, no matter how he reaches for it—but there’s enough of him that’s terrified of what the Primes told him to keep him moving forward. Besides, he won’t leave Tim and Martin behind, and he won’t risk getting either of them hurt by taking them in there.
So. Forward it is.
They twist around a couple of odd corners, passing through several rooms they’ve already set charges in. Daisy taps Basira’s arm and points at a narrow corridor; Basira nods, and they slip down it. It’s small enough they have to go single file, and part of Jon wonders if Martin’s going to get stuck, but when he glances over his shoulder, Martin gives him a quick smile and a nod, like he knows what Jon’s thinking. Then again, he probably does. They know each other well enough by now.
A few dozen yards and the corridor opens up into what’s essentially a storage space, probably for, if not theatrical costumes, then clothes to dress the waxworks in. Jon doesn’t want to think about what else it might have been used for, but thankfully, the racks and hangers are all empty. Apart from the way in, there’s another door up a short ramp and a third down a small, hollowed-out space that looks something like an enclosed orchestra pit or a place to work special effects from below a stage. The strange music is just barely audible from above.
To Jon’s surprise, Daisy pulls up short and turns to look at Tim. “This is where we leave you.”
“Wait, what?” Martin says incredulously.
Tim ignores him. “Five minutes?”
“Better make it ten,” Daisy says.
“Right.”
“Wait, wait, wait, no, no, we are not leaving Tim behind,” Martin says, his voice rising in pitch even as he keeps the volume low. “We’re not—that’s not part of the plan! It’s not—you didn’t add that when I wasn’t looking, did you?”
“No!” Jon hisses. “It’s not!”
Daisy growls in frustration. “The range on the detonator is good, but it’s not that good. The only way you can make it blow from outside and be sure of hitting all the charges is if you’re right outside, which is more dangerous.”
“Than blowing it up from the middle of the building?” Jon demands. His heart is pounding furiously.
“Under there, you’ve got a chance,” Daisy says, gesturing to the band shell. “Out there, you’ve got none.”
Martin sputters incoherently. Jon shakes his head. “No—no, that can’t—”
“It can, and it is,” Tim says. “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”
“Come on,” Basira says impatiently. “They’re going to get started soon. Can’t you hear it?”
Jon is starting to have trouble breathing. “Leaving you behind is not an option, Tim.”
“Tough! It’s the only way!” Tim snaps. “Stop being stubborn and go!”
Martin’s jaw clenches, and he turns abruptly to face Basira and Daisy. “Go on! We’ll catch up.”
“Martin—” Tim begins.
Jon interrupts him, waving at the other two. “Go!”
Daisy shrugs and turns for the door. Basira gives all three of them a long look, then follows.
Tim looks both annoyed and worried. “You two need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
“Then it’s not safe for you, either,” Martin retorts. “Tim, please, you can—as long as we get most of them, it’s fine. Th-the ritual can’t, it’s going to fail anyway, so even if we don’t completely destroy the building—”
“Then whoever investigates finds unexploded charges, and starts asking awkward questions,” Tim shoots back. “It’s going to be close as it is. Look, just—just go, damn it. Let me do this.”
“Tim, you can’t—” Jon eyes the utility room. “Even if the explosion somehow spares that room, you’ll be trapped under the rubble until—”
“Jon, I know,” Tim snaps. “Believe me, I’ve been over this already. I know what I’m doing.”
“I didn’t bring you along so you could kill yourself!” Jon snaps back, and then draws in a sharp breath and covers his mouth with one hand as he realizes what he just said. He wants to take the words back as soon as they’re out of his mouth, but at the same time…he realizes they’re true.
Before he can apologize, though, Tim says, “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” Martin asks. He’s got that same look he had when he barred the door from them upstairs. “Maybe you’re not going to do it yourself, but you don’t care if you live or die, do you?”
“Of course I care, but I’m not going to—” Tim makes a noise of frustration and exasperation. “Look, get out of here, both of you. Go. I’ll blow the building once you’re clear, and if I survive, you can yell at me later.”
“There is—” Jon realizes he’s starting to shout and brings his voice back down to a whisper with effort. “There is no if here, Timothy Stoker. Either you leave this building with us, or—”
“Or what?” Tim challenges. “You knew I might not make it out—”
“I knew none of us might make it out, and I am not going to let anyone die unnecessarily,” Jon says, stabbing a finger at Tim’s chest for emphasis.
“Then go!” Tim snaps. “Both of you. Go. For God’s sake, don’t make this for nothing. It’s worth it if it saves your lives.”
“Our lives aren’t worth you sacrificing yours!” Martin’s voice cracks with emotion.
“They are to me!” Tim all but shouts back.
Jon feels like he’s missing an important piece of the puzzle here, but they don’t have time for him to figure it out. He could compel the answer out of Tim, but even now, even when their lives might literally depend on the truth, he won’t do that to him. Not on purpose. To Tim or to Martin. He won’t betray their trust like that.
“If this is some…misguided attempt to martyr yourself to save the world, o-or—” he begins.
“Fuck the world!” Tim bursts out. “I don’t care about any of that right now. It’s you. It’s both of you. For God’s sake, I love you.” He draws in a sharp breath. “Not—not like I love Sasha. It’s not…I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with both of you for a long time. Maybe as long as I’ve known you, Martin, but—however long it’s been, doesn’t matter. I know you don’t feel the same way about me, but that’s what it is. I love you both, and I will do anything it takes to save you, because to me, it’s worth it as long as you both survive.”
And there it is—the piece Jon’s been missing. His heart drops into his stomach as he realizes that, in all the chaos of the two weeks since he got home from America, he’s never actually sat down and talked to Tim and Martin. He knows he had the revelation about the other two, he knows how he feels, but even when they had down time and some relative peace, he hasn’t said anything. He’s not sure how much of it is cowardice and how much of it is fear and how much of it is just genuinely not thinking about it.
“And just where do you get off pretending you know how we feel?” he demands. He’s angry, but not really at Tim—mostly at himself. “I-I may have taken a long time to realize it, but I love you. Both of you. I should have said something sooner, but God, I love you both. I wasn’t acting in Elias’ office when I said it wasn’t safe and I wanted you two to stay behind. I-it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I wanted you to be safe, damn it. I need you to be safe. I need you to be okay. I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard before trying again. “I can’t do this without you.”
There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the rumble of either pipes or the central air system and the faint hints of circus music filtering down from above. Suddenly, Martin steps forward, his expression a mixture of anger, pain, and fear. He grabs Tim’s face in both hands and kisses him, hard.
Tim makes a muffled sound of surprise, nearly dropping the detonator, then kisses him back. His shoulders relax slightly, and while he seems to have difficulty knowing what to do with his hands since one is in a cast and the other is clutching the detonator, he manages well enough.
The sight does something funny to Jon’s chest. He’s not sure if he should quantify it as jealousy or satisfaction or fear or what. Before he has time to consider it, though, Martin releases Tim, turns to Jon, cups his face, and kisses him, too.
Jon remembers the night they moved into their house, when he watched the Primes and wondered if he would feel differently about kissing if it’s Martin he’s kissing. He can now definitively answer that question with a resounding yes. Martin’s lips aren’t necessarily as soft as he might have expected—they’re cracked and split, probably from biting them in agitation and nerves—but the lipstick he’s taken to wearing more often because both Tim and Jon have complimented him on it smooths over the worst of it and tastes faintly of cherries. Despite the urgency of the kiss, it’s surprisingly tender, and Martin’s hands against his cheeks are gentle.
Warmth floods Jon’s body. It’s the same way he feels when he wakes up in Martin and Tim’s arms—safe, secure, and above all loved. In Martin’s kiss, he realizes that they’ve all been feeling this way for quite a while, that Tim has always thought of him as more than a friend, that Martin’s crush has deepened into real feelings, that he’s a right tit for not having said something sooner.
Martin pulls away from Jon as carefully as he went into the kiss. It still leaves Jon a bit off-balance and breathless.
“We are having a proper serious conversation about this when we get home,” Martin tells them both. “But for the record, I love you, too.”
Tim manages a shaky laugh. “I would hope you don’t go around kissing just anybody like that.”
“Shut up, Tim.” Martin looks from Tim to Jon and back. He still looks upset and scared, but he’s smiling slightly, too, and his cheeks are faintly pink. “Now what?”
Tim looks at the detonator in his hand. “I was serious before. I have to detonate it from down here or it won’t blow them all. And if they don’t all blow…there was no point in doing all this.”
The music shifts. Jon inhales quickly as a voice filters down from the stage above—he can’t make out the words from down here, but the voice is very clearly Nikola Orsinov’s. “Yes. And—we owe it to Danny. And to Gertrude,” he adds softly, looking at Martin.
Martin swallows hard and nods. “Right. You’re right. Okay, then.” He looks at Tim. “We’re still not leaving you behind.”
“Martin, it’s not safe for you two to be here,” Tim says again.
“Tough! Okay?” Martin says bluntly. “We’re not leaving without you. Especially not now. Together, or not at all.”
“That’s the deal,” Jon agrees. He won’t pretend he isn’t scared, but Martin’s right, they’re not leaving this place without Tim.
Tim stares at them both, then smiles, even as tears fill his eyes. “Okay, then. Together.”
They step together into the space. The music is louder here; Jon can feel it pulling him upwards, and he can hear thumps, taps, and creaks as the “dance” begins. He shivers and reaches for Tim and Martin on instinct. They both reach back. Even before this, Jon wouldn’t have expected otherwise, but now he no more doubts them than he doubts his own right arm. The three of them wrap arms around one another, and despite their differing heights, they manage to press their foreheads together.
“I love you,” Jon gasps out.
“I love you,” Martin murmurs.
“I love you,” Tim echoes. He meets Jon’s eyes. “Tell me when.”
Jon nods back and takes a deep breath. “Three…two…one…”
Tim pulls Jon and Martin down into a protective huddle and presses the detonator.