Gerard slumps, exhausted, in the shadow of the bridge. His hands are shaking, his knees feel like jelly, and his chest is on fire. He meant to drag himself just a few more blocks, but he’s spent. He can’t.
Actually, if he’s being honest, it’s not physical weakness stopping him going any further, although his lungs are definitely protesting the headlong flight. It’s fear. The book she wanted, the book he’s not only failed to burn but failed to even get, couldn’t be more obviously of the Buried if it had been called I Will Cover You In Sixteen Tons of Dirt instead of Bulletproof Cardboard. Which means it’s going to be after him, is probably chasing him now—he might have out run it, but he’s not sure, won’t be sure for ages. And if he leads it over this bridge…
He can’t risk it. Not after what happened at the Mermaid Inn. Martin took the brunt of that, he always tries to take the brunt of everything, and if it gets too close to him again he might not recover from it. Gerard can’t, won’t lose him like that. Thank God Melanie is off filming in Doncaster, so she’s well out of it, but Martin…
No. No, it’s best Gerard stay on this side of the river until he’s sure whatever’s after him…isn’t. Maybe his mother will have faded away a bit then, too, so they can have a couple days uninterrupted to figure out what the fuck to do next.
Gerard mentally grasps for that hope with both hands, but it’s like trying to hold onto a soaped-up string in a hurricane and pull himself out of the ocean. The only thing that’s kept him going since the first time he saw his mother’s manifestation has been Martin—Martin and Melanie, and the brief moments of freedom they’re able to steal when his mother isn’t powerful enough to manifest—but it’s getting harder and harder to sustain him. He doesn’t want to give in, he doesn’t, but it’s beginning to look like there’s only going to be one way to be free of her.
If she’ll even let him die.
The thought weighs heavily on his shoulders. The Book—his mother’s book, the one she’s bound to—is one of Terminus’ books. Her ritual may have been incomplete, imperfectly done—or maybe she did it perfectly, maybe this is what it was always meant to do and she was just too stupid to see it—but it’s been enough to tie her to the End. There’s every chance she can prevent him from dying no matter what he tries. Not that he wants to be dead, but he’s long suspected that that’s going to be the only way he can escape.
Still panting a little, he leans back against the stone pillar and closes his eyes for a few moments. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t be this close to where Martin works. The Magnus Institute might be set up to study the supernatural and paranormal, but it’s not really set up to defend against it, and if whatever that…thing…was that took the Leitner from him is still after him, it could go straight past him and straight for the Institute. And the workday is ending soon.
At least—Gerard sucks in a breath and leans forward, burying his face in his hands for a moment. At least it isn’t the Hunt. It might have got bored, or dropped off. Cutting through Battersea Park is probably one of the smarter ideas he’s had today; a creature of the Buried isn’t likely to follow him through an open space like that. And without the instincts of the Hunt, it’s quite likely to have wandered off in search of something a bit easier to catch.
Just so it doesn’t go after Martin. The second any of these things twig onto the fact that Gerard cares about Martin and Melanie’s safety more than his own, all bets are off. He still hasn’t forgotten the look on Martin’s face when he told him about the threats from the man who’d wanted that Spiral book—God, it’s been more than ten years, hasn’t it? Fucking astonishing they’ve survived this long.
Gerard straightens up and reaches under his coat. His hands are still shaking, and he’s not sure if it’s exhaustion or adrenaline, but he’s banking on the latter. He fishes out the pack of Woodbines, taps one out, and sticks it in his mouth, then pulls out his beloved lighter and flicks it on, waiting for the end to catch. The first draw of nicotine into his lungs settles a lot of the shaking, and he holds it for a moment before exhaling in a slow blue cloud.
“Could I borrow your lighter?”
The voice comes out of nowhere and almost makes Gerard drop his cigarette. He manages to hold onto it…somehow…and looks up to see an old woman in a duffel coat and woolen skirt, her hair pulled back into a thick knot. Everything about her is shades of grey—her hair, her clothes, what little of her skin is visible—all save her eyes, which are a piercing, intense green. She’s holding a slim brown cigarette between two fingers and watching him studiously.
Gerard doesn’t normally let strangers touch his lighter, less out of superstition and more out of sentiment, but he figures if this woman tries to steal it he can take her down, and if she throws it in the Thames and he has to go after it, it’ll at least give him a chance to see if he can even drown. He fishes it back out and holds it out to the woman.
She flicks it twice before she lets the flame truly catch, the same way Martin always does, then holds it to the end of what Gerard now realizes is a cigarillo. Once the tip is aglow, she closes the lighter and looks at it before handing it back. “Interesting choice of design.”
Gerard grunts noncommittally and slips the lighter back into his inner pocket. To his mild surprise, the woman sits down next to him. She tucks her legs to one side, knees together, like a proper old-fashioned lady, a gesture that would be belied by the smoking anyway but is definitely pushed aside by the air of competence and slight menace coming off of her. Whatever this woman may be, a proper lady isn’t it.
“Did you choose it?” she asks after taking a pull on her cigarillo and exhaling a cloud of a sweeter-smelling smoke than produced by Gerard’s cigarette. “Or did it choose you?”
Well, that explains the aura of menace. She’s not the Hunt, that he would be able to tell without much effort, and she’s not actively trying to hurt him at the moment, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s harmless. Gerard gives the question a good deal of consideration. He doesn’t think she’s asking about the lighter specifically.
“It was chosen for me,” he says at last.
The woman gives a soft, humorless laugh. “You’re not alone in that. There are always those with power, small or otherwise, that take a kind of twisted delight in trapping the unprepared.” She transfers the cigarillo to her left hand and holds out her right. “Gertrude Robinson.”
“The Archivist.” Gerard is hesitant to shake her hand, but honestly, to hell with it. At least if she kills him Martin won’t blame himself for not noticing Gerard was ready to do it himself. “I’m Gerard Keay.”
There’s a flicker of interest in Gertrude’s eyes, and Gerard resigns himself to the inevitable. She knows who he is—maybe from his activities, maybe because of his mother’s murder trial—and she’s going to bring up one of those. To his surprise, though, she says, “Eric Delano’s boy.”
“You knew my dad?” Gerard knows it’s dangerous to give people leverage, especially people bound up in one of the Fourteen, but he can’t help it. His mother never talked—talks—about his father, and he can only just remember him. And he never got the chance to ask Martin’s grandfather for many stories about him.
“Yes, I knew Eric quite well. He was one of my assistants when I first took the job as Archivist.” Gertrude studies Gerard. “You favor him somewhat. The shape of your face, your build…your coloring. Eric’s hair wasn’t so dark, though.”
“It’s dyed,” Gerard admits. It also isn’t the same color as his father’s, unless he dyed it too. “Red hair stands out a bit.”
Gertrude smiles, but like her laugh, there’s no humor in it. “You get that from your mother, I’m afraid.”
Gerard coughs. His mother’s hair went grey sometime before he hit his teens, and he honestly has no idea how long it was grey before that, considering the first time he dyed his own hair had been with a bottle he’d pilfered from her stash. “She used to dye hers, too…wait, how did you know my mum?”
“Did she not ever tell you that she worked for the Institute as well, once upon a time? She was in Research.” Gertrude took another puff on her cigarillo and blew out a perfect smoke ring. Gerard has always wished he could do that. “She left before she married your father, though. Always had a bit of disdain for the place.”
Gerard isn’t surprised, and he’s suspected for a few years that that’s part of why Martin decided to apply to the Institute—a little bit of a middle finger to both their mothers—but doesn’t say that. “Explains why I’ve always hated my hair, anyway. If I got it from her.”
“Mmm…I didn’t think you were particularly close to her, considering…the accusations made against you. I doubt they would have made it as far as an arrest if you’d had a loving relationship.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never seen Psycho,” Gerard says dryly. His hands are shaking again, and he tries to cover it with a drag on the cigarette. “I didn’t kill my mother. I didn’t. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do what she wanted.”
Gertrude raises an eyebrow. “Did your mother want you to kill her?”
Every single one of Gerard’s joints flares with pain, and only long practice keeps him from flinching, even as he answers automatically. “No, she wanted me to help her transcend death. She had a ritual to put herself in her book and she wanted me to help her finish, but I refused.” He shakes his head as the pain fades and gives Gertrude what he hopes is a proper glare and not a wounded puppy look. “You didn’t have to do that. I’d have told you the truth anyway.”
To her credit, Gertrude does look slightly ashamed. “I—yes, quite.” She clears her throat and speaks in a careful voice, obviously trying to keep the Eye out of her voice. “What do you mean, put herself in her book?”
Gerard tells her. He doesn’t see any reason to hold back. Even aside from the fact that she can compel the answer out of him without a moment’s thought—the protective charms don’t really do much to prevent a direct attack, especially not at close range—it’s kind of a relief to tell someone who believes him without having lived through it. The last time he told this story was to his public defender, who’d tried to get him to enter an insanity plea afterwards. He is thankful, though, that she isn’t compelling him, because he’s not sure if he’d be able to fight it enough to avoid mentioning that the first one to encounter Mary’s seething shade was Martin. He doesn’t care what she knows about him, but he’ll be damned if she learns a single thing about his brother or sister. She listens without saying a word, eyes fixed on him, moving only to raise or lower the cigarillo.
When he finishes, they sit in silence for a moment. Finally, Gertrude says, “What state is she in now? Fully manifested, or partially?”
“Fully. I think. It’s not…it doesn’t really wax and wane or anything like that. It’s more like…” Gerard considers. “You ever see a litter of kittens? I mean really little ones, when they’re still in the potato stage?”
Gertrude lifts an eyebrow. “I think I know what you mean.”
“Well, you know how they’ve got two modes—full speed ahead and total stop?” Gertrude nods, and Gerard continues, “It’s like that. She manifests, and she’s powerful…if erratic…right up until the point where she’s not. And I can never tell how long the—the fade is going to last. Might be just a night or two, might be a few days. Most it’s ever been was a couple of weeks.”
“And you’ve never tried to leave the country while she’s…faded?”
Gerard shakes his head. “People still come to the shop sometimes if they’ve found one of Leitner’s books.” He tries—and fails—to keep the acid out of his voice when he says Leitner’s name. “And when Mum’s manifesting, she interacts with them. I can’t let her get her hooks into anyone else. She still wants those books…to a point…and now she’s more or less dead, I can’t risk what she might do for them.”
Gertrude hums. “Yes…I can see how that would be a concern.” She blows another smoke ring and watches it sail across the river, then turns back to Gerard. The sun setting behind her catches her just right and outlines her in light like an avenging angel, or possibly a demon from hell. For a brief moment, Gerard wonders if this is how Avatars look to Martin. “I can help you.”
“Can you?” Gerard doesn’t believe her, or maybe he doesn’t want to. That’s a passing thought, though, because he realizes that he absolutely does want to. He so desperately wants to believe that there’s someone, anyone, who can help. It’s just…
It’s just that for so long, he hasn’t been able to rely on anyone but Melanie and Martin. It’s just that he’s never known anyone who knows a solution to a problem like this. It’s just that nobody in the world has ever given him something for nothing and he highly doubts she’s going to be an exception to that.
“I can.” There’s no hesitation, only calm self-assurance in Gertrude’s voice. “The next time she fades, bring the book to me. You know where the Institute is?”
“Yes.”
“On the west side of the building is a sunken courtyard. Find the grating and walk straight across the courtyard to the building. Make sure you’re at that exact spot, and knock three times.” Gertrude points the cigarillo at him. “I’ll take care of it from there.”
Gerard should doubt her. He should agree, and just never turn up. He should definitely insist on staying with the Book, on seeing what she does with it. She might be the Archivist, she might be bound to the Eye pretty inextricably, but that doesn’t mean she might not be curious enough to try to gain mastery of the Book, and if she teams up with his mother…
At the same time, he imagines getting to tell Martin and Melanie that she’s gone for good, that the Book has been destroyed. He imagines being able to spend time with them without worrying that she’ll call him home in the middle of it, or that one of them might put themselves in danger to try and protect him, something he’s been fighting for the last few years. He imagines that this time they might actually all be able to walk away, that maybe they can pivot to just selling books, maybe move out of London altogether.
And as long as you’re dreaming, maybe you can all ride off into the sunset together on matching unicorns, whispers the nasty little voice in the back of his brain.
Fuck off, Gerard tells it. Aloud, he says, “Deal. Is there a good time to come by?”
“I’m there more often than I’m not these days. Today is the first day in a long time I’ve actually left when the workday ends.” Gertrude flicks her cigarillo into the Thames and stands. “And I’m quite glad I did. I shall see you soon, Gerard.”
“Yeah,” Gerard says. That string of hope might still be thin and slippery, but at least the weather’s calmed down enough that he can grasp it again. “See you soon.”