“Do you want to stay?” Jon asks from the darkness of the guest bedroom, so quietly Martin almost doesn’t hear him even though he’s spooned right up against him.
It’s late, although not terribly so. They had lunch at a kosher deli in a town called Cactus Park, then went back to Night Vale for Esteban (and Charlie) to take their afternoon naps while Cecil went to the station for his show. Somehow, Martin wasn’t surprised that he dedicated the show to Hephzibah McLean’s story. After dinner, they played Sternhalma—complete with an impromptu history lesson slash animated ramble from Jon about the history of the game, its antecedents, and why the United States rebranded it as Chinese checkers despite it being neither—and then turned in for the night. Jon’s in the middle tonight, and up until this point, Martin would have said the atmosphere was relaxed and comfortable.
Now, though…now the air in the room suddenly seems charged. Jon’s question carries a lot of weight, and Martin isn’t sure why it suddenly fills his heart with dread.
He tightens his arm around Jon’s waist, and he’s about to reply when Tim beats him to it, rolling over with a creak of bedsprings and a ruffle of counterpane. “What do you mean, Jon?”
“It’s only—the, the ghosts, and the dog park, and the mysterious hooded figures, and—the-there’s a lot here,” Jon says. “A lot of…fascinating things. Especially for you. And you just seem so…comfortable with all of it, in a way even I’m not. I…wondered if you would rather stay. In Night Vale.”
“Oh, God, no,” Tim says immediately. “In the first place, Charlie’s got his friends back home, and I wouldn’t transplant him—or you two—permanently and without warning on a whim. And I’m not leaving you. I promised. But on a more…paranormal level, I guess? More to the meat of what you’re saying. Even if I wanted to stay forever, which I genuinely don’t, I can’t. I know what it looks like, but there really isn’t enough fear here to sustain two of us for long. Not with as closed off as this town is. Between Cecil and me, we’d drain the town dry before Blood Stone Day.”
That should be reassuring. And there’s a tiny part of Martin that is comforted, the part of him that didn’t realize before Jon brought it up that he, too, was afraid Tim would decide Night Vale was better…hunting grounds, for lack of a better word, than London and want to stay, with or without them. But a bigger part of him is more worried than he was a moment ago.
It’s that part of him that speaks, hesitantly. “When is Blood Stone Day?” Left unspoken is the second half of that: What is Blood Stone Day?
Tim pauses, then gives an exasperated sigh. “Oh, goddammit.”
“Tim?” Jon prompts.
“Sorry. Just forgot that wasn’t something Carlos and Cecil mentioned earlier. Blood Stone Day is in December. It’s the major holiday in Night Vale.” There’s a rustle of fabric, and then Martin feels Tim’s thum caress his cheek in a gentle movement that’s their your face is too far away to reach with my lips replacement for a kiss. “Get some sleep, both of you. I promise. I’m not staying and I’m not abandoning you.”
Martin sighs as most, not all, of the tension leaves him. He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about Tim’s Knowing abilities. It’s something they all have—had—to one degree or another, and they’ve all seen how much stronger it is for Tim since he woke up after the Unknowing. But somehow, the idea of him just Knowing things about Night Vale bothers Martin, at least a little. Still, the comfort of Tim’s promise is enough to relax him to the point that he closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep.
It returns tenfold in the morning when he wakes up to find Tim gone.
He stares across Jon’s still sleeping form at the empty space and tries to tell himself not to be silly. It’s not like they all lie around in bed of a morning waiting for the others to wake up. Usually one of them gets up to take a shower, or make breakfast, or check on Charlie. It’s hardly uncommon, and there’s surely nothing suspicious about it.
But he can’t help but remember the hungry look on Tim’s face when he looks at certain parts of the town. The comfortable way he sits with things that make even Jon and Martin nervous or confused. The expression on his face as he regarded—and baited—Steve Carlsburg. And, on a note that puts slightly less of the blame for his fear on Tim himself, the fact that Leann Hart is steeped in the Slaughter. She’s not likely to break into Cecil and Carlos’ house, of course…presumably…but there are other things that might.
Martin takes a deep breath, then another, then quietly disentangles himself from Jon and goes to take a look around.
The guest bathroom is unoccupied. The living room is empty. Charlie and Esteban are both sound asleep and no one else is in their room. A rhythmic pounding and low growling from the kitchen suggests that Cecil is making coffee, and sure enough, Martin walks in to see him pounding the beans with a hammer and an expression of frustration and almost hatred on his face.
Martin waits him out until he lowers the hammer and his face relaxes. He looks up and nods. “Good morning, Martin. There’s tea in the cupboard.”
“Thanks.” Martin reaches for the cupboard and pulls down a yellow box with a red label. As casually as he can, he asks, “Have you seen Tim this morning?”
Cecil pauses and glances at Martin with an expression of honest puzzlement on his face. “Tim? No, you’re the only person I’ve seen. Other than Carlos, that is. He’s in the shower. I assumed Tim went out for a run.”
Martin stills in the act of setting the kettle on the stove. “Why do you say that?” he asks in a voice of forced calm.
“I noticed his shoes weren’t by the door,” Cecil says with a shrug. “You’re all so careful not to leave them anywhere else, so I assumed he was out somewhere.”
“Huh. Makes sense,” Martin says, even though it doesn’t at all. Tim’s not a runner, not really, and he certainly wouldn’t go through an unfamiliar subdivision alone. Still…
Carlos and Jon both come into the kitchen just as the kettle whistles and the coffee pot clicks off, both with damp hair and smelling of soap. Jon comes over to give Martin a hug and raises his face for a kiss, which Martin happily obliges him on, then looks around in obvious confusion. “Where’s Tim? I thought he was awake.”
“Cecil thinks he went out for a run,” Martin says. He manages to keep his voice from shaking as he does so.
Jon looks up at Martin with wide eyes. Before he can say anything, though, the front doorbell chimes and Carlos slaps his forehead. “Oh, gosh! Esteban and Charlie aren’t even up yet. Can you get the door, Jonny?”
Martin half follows Jon to the living room. There’s a part of him that’s hoping—or maybe fearing—that it’s going to be the Sheriff’s Secret Police bringing Tim back in handcuffs, or an EMT there to tell them there’s been an accident, or possibly—he thinks briefly as Jon fumbles with the latch and chain—Tim himself, having somehow got locked out after going for the run he literally under no circumstances would have gone on. Once Jon gets the door open, though, it exposes only Janice, wearing a hooded fleece with NVHS SCORPIONS splashed across it and grinning. “Hi, Uncle Jon! Are the kids ready to go?”
Despite himself, Martin has to grin at the flustered look on his face when Janice calls him Uncle Jon. “Ah—hello, Janice. Come on in…they, ah, they should be out in a moment.”
Cecil comes into the living room as Janice wheels herself in and gives her a hug. “Hey, Janice.”
“Hi, Uncle Cece. Steve says to tell you to make sure one of the pizzas has banana peppers on it.” Janice hugs her uncle tightly in reply. “Mom says to tell you she accidentally spilled the baking soda down the drain, but I’m actually supposed to tell you that after you get off work because she hasn’t done it yet, so sorry but Steve can’t make scones for tonight.”
“Oh, darn,” Cecil says with a perfectly straight face. “What a catastrophe. Never mind, scones and pizza don’t really go together anyway. Be careful if you go to the Botanical Gardens today, it’s feeding day for the Monstera.”
“It’s shedding season for the rosebushes anyway. The paths will be too slippery for me.” Janice makes a face. “I’m saving up for an all-terrain wheelchair, but not yet. Hi, Uncle Martin,” she adds, finally noticing Martin standing off to one side.
Martin’s a bit surprised at how the uncle moniker makes him feel. Charlie and his friends call the Primes uncle, but he’s never had anyone use it for him. Not yet, anyway. “Hi, Janice,” he says with an uncertain smile.
Before anything else can be said, Carlos comes out from the back bedroom with Charlie trailing after him and Esteban in his arms. Charlie is wearing an old denim jacket of Jon’s sewn over with band patches, and his comb is sticking out of the pocket; Esteban is still rubbing at his eyes and yawning a bit, but he smiles and stretches out his arms when he sees Janice. “Dandan!”
“Esteban!” Janice holds out her arms and allows Carlos to tip him into them, then reaches out a hand towards Charlie with a grin. “Hi, Chuckles.”
Charlie gives a surprised little giggle. “Chuckles?”
“Well, you’re not a Chuckie, and Charles is too formal. Everybody deserves a cool nickname from someone who loves them, right?” Janice gives him a grin and grabs his hand. “Come on. The bus said he’d wait for us because it’s early, but the commuters get cranky if they’re held up for too long.”
Esteban settles himself onto Janice’s lap and hooks a hand into her fleece with a familiarity that says he’s done this before, and Charlie lets go of Janice’s hand so she can wheel herself around and head for the door. “Bye!” she calls over her shoulder. “Tell Uncle Tim I said hi!”
Charlie looks around briefly at that, but then the horn on the bus beeps three times and his head snaps back to the front as he rushes out the door with Janice.
The moment it closes behind them, Jon looks up at Martin, obviously worried. “The front door was locked.”
“The back door wasn’t,” Cecil says, then gets an odd look on his face. “I think.”
Carlos looks back and forth between Jon and Martin. “Are you worried something happened to him?”
“Or that he happened to someone,” Jon mutters. For once, he doesn’t back down in the face of the glare Martin levels in his direction. “You know it’s a possibility, Martin. He’s…”
“He just had a statement yesterday,” Martin says, frustrated and a little afraid and not willing to let on that he’s also worried about what Tim might do.
“He did have to share,” Cecil points out.
“You’re not helping, sweetie,” Carlos murmurs. He tilts his head at Jon. “Didn’t you say that sometimes you can just…know things about people? Can you know where he is?”
“A year and a half ago, maybe,” Jon says with a shake of his head. “If he wasn’t…doing something ill advised.”
“It’s okay, Jon, you can say ‘walking headlong into a Stranger threshold without telling anyone,’” Martin says flatly. “And to answer your question, Carlos, no. Tim’s…powerful. More powerful than either of us, somehow. We can’t get in his head if he doesn’t want us there.”
“Is there anyone who can?” Carlos asks, sensibly.
Martin and Jon look at each other. “Jon Prime?”
“Maybe,” Martin says slowly. “I, I don’t know how long of a distance he can…Know over, though. And Night Vale is so…so heavy on the Eye. It might be difficult for him to…See through.”
“He could try,” Jon argues.
“And Martin Prime could get mad at us for making him, if he hurts himself doing it.” Martin checks his watch. “Besides, it’s Thursday, and it’s around two in the afternoon in London. He’s got his weekly department meeting right now. We’ll have to wait.”
“Or,” says Cecil, “you could trust him. Trust your Tim, I mean. Come have breakfast, relax, and assume he knows what he’s doing. If he is doing something stupid, we’ll find out—and if he was putting my town in danger, I would know.”
His voice gets slightly dark on that last part, and Martin doesn’t miss the slight emphasis on my. Cecil in his way is as protective of Night Vale as Tim is of the Archives and those who work there, and it’s likely that he’s telling the truth. Whatever Tim is doing, it’s not a danger to Night Vale.
But what about to himself?
“You’re right,” Jon admits, reluctantly. “I don’t know if we can relax, but…”
“We’ll at least give him a few hours,” Martin completes. It’s not his first choice, but if it’s what Jon thinks is best, he’ll go along with it…for now. “If he hasn’t been in touch by noon, I’m calling him, and then I’m calling Jon Prime.”
“Fair enough,” Cecil agrees. “Come on. I’ll make us pancakes.”