“Statement ends.” Martin lowered the paper to the desk and held up his right hand in front of his face with a slight frown. It trembled slightly, in a way that usually only happened when he’d been in the tunnels for too long, or when he’d gone too long without eating. Never after reading a true statement. If anything, it was usually the opposite. “…Huh.”
He stared for a second longer, then shook his head minutely, took a deep breath, and flipped over the page with the research. Melanie’s handwriting. “Uh. We’ve been unable to make contact with Mr. Skinner, which is…disturbing, since this statement is barely more than two years old. His plumbing business is completely shuttered, his phone has been disconnected, and nobody seems to know where to find him. He is, or was, a real person, but he seems to have vanished off the face of the Earth immediately after giving his statement. And considering Gertrude was off on one of her ubiquitous trips at the time this statement was made, she probably never met him. Nothing in the folder indicates she was able to follow up with him either.”
He moved on to the next part of the research. “The woman identified only as ‘Megan’…well, she could be anybody, I guess, but Tim recalled that one of the victims of what we’re calling the ‘Anglerfish’ was named Megan Shaw. And considering two other names who went missing in the Old Fishmarket Close—Sarah Baldwin and Daniel Rawlings—have come up in other statements that belong to the Stranger, it’s a pretty good bet that this Megan is the same one. Obviously, the description of the other woman was so vague that there’s no real way to track her down, but from the sound of it, she’s not of the Stranger. In fact, I’d venture to say she was probably—hello, what’s this?”
In shifting the page to put it back in the file, he had dislodged a small scrap of paper. It wasn’t a sticky note, but it had obviously stuck to the back of the page; from the white flecks, he guessed it had somehow been brushed with correction fluid and adhered briefly to the research. It was still Melanie’s handwriting…and it had a name, a phone number, and a scribbled note that wouldn’t have made a lot of sense to most people. Martin, however, knew the cipher well because he’d helped Melanie come up with it almost twenty years previously.
He read it quickly, then blinked hard. Slowly, he said, “There…is one more possible lead we can track down on this one. I have a name and number of someone who…might have some additional information, and I’m going to meet with them as soon as I can, but for now, I think we’ve covered everything there is to cover. I just hope I never get the details of what happened to Mr. Skinner.”
He turned off the recorder and sat back in Jon’s chair, staring at the scrap of paper for a long moment. There was a prickling under his skin and behind his eyes he was very familiar with—a desire to know, to understand. And there were two ways he could satisfy that need. One was to go out into the Archives, figure out where Melanie was right now, put the note in front of her, and badger her into telling him what the fuck she was on about and why she hadn’t included it in the official research.
That would almost certainly put a serious strain on his relationship with his sister and make for an incredibly toxic work environment, so instead, Martin reached for his phone.
After making an appointment and concluding the call, Martin stared at the assortment of files on the desk in front of him. Most of them went beyond the Discredited section and well into the Crackpot realm—he didn’t even really need to read them to know that—and Mr. Skinner’s statement had been his one allotted real statement for the day. Part of him was tempted to go out and find another one to read. They didn’t even have to be finished with the research. Maybe he could grab one from the 1800s section, the ones that were too old to do any serious research into anyway, and get it on recording, just to…just to get the shaking under control. He didn’t exactly like recording the real statements, but they calmed him down a bit. Steadied his nerves, he supposed. Maybe they just gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his trauma and anxieties.
It hit him all at once that the line of logic he’d just trotted out was exactly the same one Gerry had used at age fifteen when Martin had challenged him about his smoking. With that in mind, he decided to see if it was low blood sugar after all and get something for lunch.
Food helped a little, but not much, and he knew he was a little tired and listless most of the afternoon. Still, he powered through the stack of statements to record. He was aware he wasn’t giving them as much care as he gave the real ones, or even that he usually gave this type of statement, but he hoped they were at least clear enough that they wouldn’t need to be redone later. And that someone wouldn’t fuss at him about them.
“Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0051612, statement of…oh, for fuck’s sake,” Martin sighed as his eyes fell on the part filled out by the statement-giver and recognized the handwriting, although not the name. “Statement of Private Rock Dunsel, given sixteenth December, 2005. Statement—”
The door opened just then and Tim poked his head in. “Oops, sorry, didn’t realize you were still recording.”
“It’s fine. It’s fake. Not even a good fake.” Martin flapped the statement in Tim’s direction. “I know this handwriting, it’s my brother’s. What’s up?”
Tim’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but his eyes were worried. “You okay, buddy? You look like you’re coming down with something.”
“I’m fine,” Martin lied. He wasn’t fine. Maybe he was coming down with something, but…he was pretty sure it was a bit more serious than that. He was pretty sure the statements were satisfying a hunger in him he hadn’t realized was there, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He kept that to himself for the moment, though.
“We didn’t give you another Buried statement, did we?”
“No, it’s Stranger for sure. Maybe the Desolation got involved too? It’s the one about the Gwydir Forest.”
“Oh, yeah, that one.” Tim scanned Martin’s face for a moment. “I really don’t think you’re well, Martin. Look, it’s been a long week—hell, it’s been a long couple of months. There are three of us now, and you’ve already done the juicy one. The rest of these can wait. Take an early day. Go home and get some rest, yeah?”
Martin hesitated. He’d been planning to duck out early for his appointment anyway, had just been trying to figure out how and if to bring it up with the others, but…“I’ve gone home sick more often than the rest of you these last few weeks.”
Tim snorted. “I was in Venice for a week, remember? And I’m pretty sure Sasha’s been coming in later and later in the mornings. What’s Elias going to do, fire you?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Don’t make me get Melanie involved.”
“What am I getting involved in?” Melanie’s voice floated from the direction of the desks.
“Nothing, Melanie,” Martin called back before Tim could answer. He leaned over and shut off the laptop. “Okay. Look, maybe I just…need some air or something. I’ve been down here all day, I guess I could use the break. I’m going to go take a walk, and if I still feel…wibbly, I’ll go home and make myself some soup, okay?”
Tim nodded. “I’ll call you later to see how you’re feeling. Or you call me. Either way, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Martin managed a smile. “Sure. Thanks, Tim.”
He shrugged into his jacket, bumped his hip against Melanie’s shoulder, and said goodbye to Sasha, then stepped out into the chilly April afternoon.
The fresh air did help, a little—at the very least, it made his head a bit cooler—but Martin didn’t stay out in it long. He walked the length of the Thames for about twenty minutes, gave brief contemplation to skipping out of his appointment entirely, and knew he wasn’t going to do that. Instead, he turned and headed for the nearest Tube station.
It was a very straight shot from the Institute to his destination on the District line, but it did at least give him an opportunity to think. He wanted to consider what he was going to say, what exactly he wanted out of this interview, but instead he found himself asking, again, if he was sure this was a good idea.
Actually, screw that. He knew it was an objectively terrible idea. The actual question that needed to be answered was, which was the worse option—going through with it, or walking away?
Going through with it, said a voice in his mind that sounded very much like Gerry’s. Martin knew it was right. Gerry could—and did—resist his…patron or master or, or whatever Terminus was to him. It punished him for it, sometimes severely, but he still did it, he still walked away. Martin wasn’t quite that far along yet. If he walked away now…it wouldn’t be pleasant, probably, but it beat falling further into the clutches of the Eye. Even if he wasn’t going to use his powers, he was still seeking knowledge, of something probably better left alone, and just like when he’d poked into Carlos Vittery—or more accurately into the basement of the building, since he’d known even then it didn’t have anything to do with the statement—the consequences would be bad for him, and probably for everyone around him. Walking away would be the best option for him, no matter how much it hurt.
On the other hand…
Martin pulled out the scrap of paper again and studied it. The cipher naturally expanded and unfolded itself before his eyes so that he could read it as easily as if it was straightforward English. Still in Havering. Involved in Unknowing or just helping out? No connection to Trophy Room or Edinburgh.
If Melanie was looking into this, if she had this kind of information…then if Martin didn’t go, she would, or Jon would. Jon was in enough trouble as it was, and Melanie was still limping a bit from her trip to India. Setting aside the very high probability that one or both of them would get injured, again, if they acted on this information, the Ceaseless Watcher would deepen its hold on whichever of them went. Damn the consequences to himself. If the alternative was one or both of the people he cared about most in the world getting hurt, Martin would take the hit.
The train slowed down for his stop. Martin took a deep breath, tucked the paper back into his pocket, and exited onto the platform.
They had agreed to meet at a café a few blocks from the station. Martin glanced through the window, but didn’t see anyone meeting the description of the person he was supposed to see. That didn’t necessarily mean anything; she could have been hidden, or she could be in the back. For all he knew, she worked here. He was about to go in when he stopped and stepped to one side. He couldn’t walk away, but he didn’t have to be completely stupid.
Pulling out his phone, he hit one of the numbers on his speed dial and kept one eye on the street while he waited for his call to be picked up.
“Hey, Freckles, everything okay?” Tim’s voice sounded as cheerful as usual, but Martin caught the tiny note of worry.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Martin assured him. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either. “Um, listen, I just…wanted to let you know. I’m meeting with someone mentioned in one of the statements—I made the appointment this morning. I, uh, I wasn’t going to say anything, but…”
“But you’ve decided not to be a total moron? I appreciate that. I take it it’s one of the real ones.”
Martin laughed, which surprised him. “It is, yeah. The one I recorded earlier today, actually. I should be done in an hour. If you haven’t heard from me by then, do me a favor and tell Melanie I’m following up on her lead. She should have some idea of where to storm looking for me.”
There was a long silence from the other end. “Okay. I won’t tell her what you’re up to until I’ve got your okay, either.”
“Thank you.”
“But you should.” Tim hung up before Martin could come up with a proper response to that.
Martin swore under his breath, put his phone back in his pocket, and headed inside to meet his appointment. She still wasn’t there, so he went to the counter to order, then sat down to wait.
It didn’t take long. It was as though she really had been hidden somewhere waiting for him, or maybe she’d just expected him to be late and would be startled to find him. Either way, he smelled her before he saw her—the scent of fire, but not like a bonfire or a candle or even a cigarette—not so much the smell of the smoke as of whatever was burning. Nobody else seemed to react, and it was gone quickly enough, but he turned his head and saw a short, squat woman with close-cropped dark hair push through the door and look around. Despite the chill of the early spring air, she wore a sleeveless top and didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes, too, were black, but even from where he sat, Martin could see the spark dancing in them, like smoldering coals.
And from the smirk that curled at her lips when she met his gaze, she knew him for what he was, too.
He didn’t bother standing as she approached. No amount of politeness was going to help him here, and no stretch of the imagination would have them on the same side. The best they could hope for was a cease—a temporary truce to have this conversation. “Jude Perry, I presume.”
Jude Perry, for there was no doubting who she was, stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. Her smirk deepened. “Well. You don’t look like much. So you’re the Archivist, are you?”
“I never said that. I only said I was from the Archives at the Magnus Institute.” Martin gestured to the seat opposite him. “I’m Martin Blackwood, I’m one of the assistants. Have a seat.”
Jude chuckled as she sat down, leaning back slightly and staring at him with those fire-filled eyes. She was obviously highly amused. Martin lifted an eyebrow briefly. “Something funny, Ms. Perry?”
At that, she cackled harder. “Uh, yeah.”
“Mmm. Well, I’m glad you’re amused,” Martin said dryly. He knew exactly what she thought was so funny, and he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Two could play at that game. He nodded at the cup across from him. “Took the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Ah, and what is it? Hemlock tea?” Jude sneered, still laughing as she picked up the cup. The challenge in her face was clear, as was the triumph: whatever he had done, it seemed to say, it wouldn’t hurt her. She was beyond mundane means of death.
“One black coffee.” Martin took a sip of his own coffee—he rarely drank the stuff, but one look at this place and he’d known he wouldn’t trust the tea. “With room for milk.”
That fast, the smile dropped off Jude’s face, and the anger rose in her eyes. Had she been anyone else, the temperature would have dropped several degrees; as it was, it rose to an almost uncomfortable level. Martin kept his face neutral through long practice. “Tell me, have you had one since Agnes died?”
“Don’t you fucking mention her,” Jude snarled.
“Please. I’ve heard that before. And from things much scarier than you,” Martin shot back. “But sure, I’ll leave her out of this. I just have a few questions for you. You can answer them, or you can leave now, no harm done. Your call.”
“And if I choose to do neither?” Jude said softly. “If I set you and this whole place on fire?”
“You think I chose this place on accident? It’s a chain. One of six owned by the same man, a big shot who lives in a three point two million pound house in Kent. And it’s the least profitable of the six. You burn this place down and the owner gets a nice, fat insurance payoff for it. The barista’s been pulling doubles because she’s the only employee willing to work weekdays, she’s one bad shift away from a complete breakdown, so even if she doesn’t get injured on the job she still gets paid while the place is closed and has a chance to rest. The man closest to the door is at the lowest point he’s ever been. The woman over there hasn’t worked in three months and is about to be evicted. The couple in the back is on the verge of a breakup, and the person at the counter has been in the same nothing position at the same nothing company going nowhere fast for the last ten years. Your god won’t give a damn about any of this if you try to give it to him as an offering.” Martin took a quick breath, hoping it would look like he was stopping for air and not like he was trying to figure out where the fuck that had come from. “And killing me won’t do you any good, either. Gerard Keay calls me brother. So unless you want to find out what one of Terminus’ agents can do to you—and I think they’re the only ones beside the Hunt who might be able to do something to you—I suggest you chill.”
Jude growled. “That’s not funny.”
“I know.” Martin stared her down like he had nothing to lose. “So, do we have a truce?”
There was a long moment of silence, during which Martin could hear the liquid in Jude’s cup—and his own—start to boil. Finally, she growled, “Fine. Ask your questions.”
Martin set down his coffee. Thermodynamics meant it would probably cool down eventually, but laws of nature meant very little around the Fourteen, so he wasn’t going to risk it right now. “Did you burn down a section of Gwydir Forest last year?”
“Not alone, but yes.” Jude’s smirk returned, seemingly involuntarily. “You should have seen how devastated they were, such a loss.”
“I’ll bet. Why?”
Jude recoiled. “Stop that!” she snarled, although Martin wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done. “And it was because Nikola Orsinov asked us to. She was done with the place, and we’re always happy to help…when that help is destroying something someone loves.”
Martin knew that didn’t just involve places. Or people. “And of course you know exactly what that feels like.”
“I told you to leave her out of this.”
“Did I say a name? Did I say anyone’s name. I just said you know what that feels like.” Martin matched Jude’s glare with one of his own. “You don’t get as deep into this as you are without sacrificing something. Or having it taken from you. And really, if you thought It would let you keep anything you loved more than it, you’re even stupider than I thought.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from you,” Jude said.
“Yeah, I know, I’m an idiot, I walked right into your cunning trap, I work for the weakest and most powerless of the Fears, blah blah blah. Tell me something I haven’t heard a million times.” Martin threw up his hands, slightly exasperated. “Fine, whatever. I’m completely at your mercy. If you’re going to kill me, just…kill me already. Nobody actually knows where I am, and you’ve got—” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Forty-seven minutes before anyone even starts worrying about where I am. If it’s so easy, and you’re just going to waste my time, just kill me.”
Jude actually looked impressed. Or maybe just pleased. “Now you’re starting to sound like an Archivist.”
“Which I’m not.”
She ignored him. “And now I’m obviously not going to kill you.”
Martin snorted. “Why, because I’m getting on your level?”
“Please.” Jude matched his snort with her own. “Consider it a favor.”
“Thanks,” Martin muttered.
“Not for you. For Elias.”
It was still warmer in the coffee shop—or at least this part of it—than it had any right to be, so the chill that ran down Martin’s spine probably wasn’t weather-related. “Why?”
“Rumor has it he killed Gertrude Robinson,” Jude said. “If so, I feel like I owe him. And he clearly wants you—excuse me, the new Archivist—alive, so…” She said that with a sneer.
Martin was about to ask, exasperated, why she seemed so convinced he was the Archivist, but then he stopped himself. If she believed it…it might keep Jon safe a little longer. At least from the Desolation. “Well…he did. Kill her, I mean.” He pursed his lips. “And I know she stopped your lot from bringing the Desolation through…but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Why did you—”
He broke off with a slight yelp as she half-leaned, half-lunged across the table, her finger hovering near enough to his mouth that if he’d had facial hair, it would have singed off. “Try to compel me again, and I’ll burn it out of your mouth.”
Shit. Had Martin…? No. No, that wasn’t his power, that—he couldn’t do that. Could he? It was suddenly hard for him to catch his breath, and he leaned back, feeling slightly dizzy as several recent events took on new context.
Jude, evidently satisfied, sat back and smiled cruelly. “Now you’re scared. Now you’re getting it. There’s no safety sitting on the sidelines watching. The audience is only safe when the story isn’t about them.”
“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve probably been involved in this at least as long as you have,” Martin said, forcing himself back to reality. “Maybe longer. So thanks, but no thanks for the advice. All I wanted to know was why you were allying yourself with the Stranger, and what you knew about their plans, but if it was just an excuse for you to burn something, this has been a waste of time.” He started to push back from the table. “Enjoy your coffee.”
Jude narrowed her eyes at him, seeming to calculate, then said suddenly, “Wait.”
Martin paused, half in and half out of his seat. “What?”
“Well. If you’re really keen to get information from people who want to kill you, I might know someone. We’re not on great terms, he’s closer to your lot than mine, but I know where he…exists.”
Slowly, Martin sat back down. A lead was a lead, and if it was a he, that narrowed it down a bit. Exists, though, definitely meant it was an avatar of some kind, so he’d have to be careful. “Who…what is he?”
“Calls himself Mike.”
Martin stared at Jude. “Mike. Not the Distortion?”
“The what? Don’t think so.” Jude shrugged. “Pale, weird, got a big scar. Smells of, um…” She gestured vaguely.
And there was that dread creeping down his spine again. “Ozone?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Hangs around with the Fairchilds sometimes.”
“Mike Crew.” They’d come across his name twice; Martin should have known they’d eventually cross paths with him.
Jude nodded once. “That’s him. I know where you can find him.”
“Mm-hm. And what do you want in exchange for that information?”
“Maybe I’m just a nice person.”
“Maybe I’m not actually as stupid as I look.” Martin crossed his arms over his chest and met her gaze as unflinchingly as he could. “How about this? You give me that information, and nobody from the Institute will ever bother you again. Better yet, you give me that information, and the minute I’m back in the Institute, I’ll burn Jack Baranabas’ statement. Paper, tape, and all. She won’t be one of our little stories any longer.”
Jude stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Deal.”
She held out her hand.
Martin knew he could probably, with a little effort, force her to give him the information. Doing so would bind him more to the Eye, but he could do it and ask Jon—and the others—for their forgiveness later. He could also walk away without it, turn the name over to the others, and try to figure a location out that way.
But he wouldn’t.
“Two seconds,” he said.
“Five,” Jude countered.
“Three. Take it or leave it.”
Jude snarled. “Fine.”
As he reached over to seal the bargain, Martin was extremely thankful that he was left-handed.