It was significantly colder in Newcastle than it was in London, and Jon hadn’t prepared for it. The jumper was warm enough for the few blocks between Sloane Square and the Institute, or for exploring the tunnels—although they weren’t doing that so much anymore, not with the Not-Them trapped in their depths—but only helped a little on streets three degrees above freezing while the wind blew in odd little eddies that curled around buildings to catch them off-guard. He’d loosed his hair from the half-topknot he’d pulled it back in that morning in the hopes that it would make his neck warmer at least, but he still found himself trying not to shiver, or at least trying not to make it obvious he was shivering. He failed at both.
“Here.” Martin stepped closer to him and held his jacket open to one side. “You’re going to get pneumonia or something. I told you to bring a scarf.”
“You didn’t,” Jon grumbled, but he didn’t hesitate to tuck himself against Martin’s side.
“No, but I wore a jacket.” Martin let the side of the jacket fall and wrapped his arm around Jon as he pulled it closed, trapping him in the warmth. The scent of new leather—a Christmas gift from Gerry—mingled with the odor of lanolin from his jumper and the usual mint and cherry smell that always clung to Martin, and Jon felt a tension he hadn’t even known was knotting him up bleed away. “And I’m a Northerner by birth, remember? Just because I’ve lived in London since I was seven doesn’t mean I’ve completely forgotten.”
Jon sighed and leaned against Martin for a moment, as ill advised as that was while they were trying to walk. “Thank you. For coming with me. I’d have asked Melanie rather than come alone if you’d said no, but…I’m glad you came.”
“I’m glad I came, too. And not just because Melanie doesn’t have enough body fat to stand between you and hypothermia.”
“Also because Melanie and I are more likely to do something stupid?”
“Maybe a little.” Martin smiled down at Jon, that smile of his that always sent warmth flooding all the way to his toes. “Mostly because I’m enjoying spending time with you away from the Institute, even if it is work-related.”
Jon felt his cheeks heat up a little, and he ducked his head to avoid Martin’s gaze. “I like that, too,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t the first time since Jon’s return to the Institute that they’d spent time away from it together, of course, but it was definitely the furthest they’d ever gone. Aside from the previous week’s gathering at Cinnamon Rose Books, they’d spent two separate evenings at the small pub Martin and his siblings preferred (Nancy had taken to Jon at once, for a wonder, and the second night they’d stayed long enough for the singing to start, leaving Jon enchanted when Martin was persuaded to take the lead in a song). Jon had lost his flat during his weeks in hiding, not that he minded all that much, so he was still staying with Melanie until he found a place of his own, but he’d gone over to Martin’s a couple times for dinner. Both times he’d accidentally fallen asleep and woken up on Martin’s sofa with a blanket tucked around him and Martin sitting nearby humming softly.
It felt…easy, being with Martin. Right. Jon wanted to say that what they were doing was dating; it certainly felt like it. But since he hadn’t even admitted out loud that he was in love with Martin, and obviously Martin hadn’t said anything, he supposed they were simply…hanging out. Keeping company, as it were. Which was…fine. It was fine. Jon would take it, would take any excuse to be around Martin.
Which was why he’d made the suggestion to Martin that they head to Newcastle together after finding the reference in the latest statement from Elias. When Breekon and Hope had first come up, nearly two years ago now, Sasha had done some research into the company and found that the Nottingham depot mentioned in the statement had long ago been converted to luxury flats, but none of them had known there was also a depot in Newcastle. But the reference in the statement Elias had given him, to “help clarify his next move”, had given Jon a starting point. He still wasn’t sure how closely they were aligned with the Stranger, but there might be a clue in Newcastle. It was something, at least. So Jon had proposed to Martin that they make a day of it, and Martin had smiled and bought their train tickets.
“It should be just around here,” Martin murmured, looking back and forth as they came to an intersection. “Maybe six blocks that way.”
“Had you ever heard of them?” Jon asked, looking up at Martin for a moment and nearly stumbling over his feet before righting himself. It was only natural for him to slide his arm around Martin’s waist; it made it less awkward to walk tucked inside his jacket as he was. “Breekon and Hope, I mean. Before, before they turned up in the statements.”
Martin hummed in negation. “Them turning up to deliver the table was the first time I ever actually met anyone aligned with the Stranger.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m pretty well steeped in the Eye, Jon. Have been for a long time.” A sad note crept into Martin’s voice. “I was eight when I found my first Leitner, and, well, there was no going back for me after that. By the time I was old enough that…things started poking around me, I was at a point where the Stranger avoided me as much as possible. Didn’t even see my first Stranger-aligned Leitner until I was…thirteen, maybe?”
“That’s still so young,” Jon said, completely ignoring the fact that he, too, had been eight when he found his first Leitner, or when it had found him. He paused, then added, “Did…did you burn it?”
“No,” Martin said, a bit regretfully. “Not then. We didn’t start burning them until…God, almost ten years ago now? Mm, closer to nine. We burnt our first one just before Aunt Mary did her ritual.”
Jon shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. “Were those two facts connected?” he asked, mostly joking but not entirely.
Martin surprised him by answering absently, “Probably. Gerry was looking at ways to get away from her entirely, and maybe get me away from the Institute too, and burning the books was our first step at freedom. I think she sensed that and did what she had to in order to keep him controlled…oh, look, there it is.”
It took Jon a second to realize that Martin was talking about the depot and not…anything else they’d been discussing. Sure enough, a few meters away from them was a shipping depot with a faded sign that still said BREEKON & HOPE clear enough. “Right. Let’s go.”
As they approached, it became clear that the building was deserted. It was still intact, but the windows were caked with years of dust and grime, and weeds poked up through cracks in the driveway. Sat in the driveway was a delivery van; Jon didn’t know car models, but it seemed like the sorts of vans he used to see trundling about when he was a child. There was what might have been a field out back, which would probably be quite beautiful in the spring but was currently brown and barren.
Still. The depot was here. And it might have a clue that could help with their next move.
Jon—reluctantly—slipped out of the depths of Martin’s jacket and tested the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He stepped back for a moment and studied the door, the windows surrounding it, and the building itself. “It seems a shame to break one of these.”
“No need.” Martin reached into an inner pocket and produced what looked like a canvas pencil case, or possibly an oversize wallet. “Say hello to my little friends.”
Jon blinked. “What—what are those?”
For an answer, Martin unzipped the case and opened it, displaying a number of odd metal bits that at first glance looked like the tools Jon was accustomed to seeing on the tray at the dentist’s office. He got down on one knee, the case propped on his outstretched leg, and peered at the lock. After a moment, he shook his head. “No good. This one’s a lever lock, I don’t have the right tools for that. Come on, let’s see if there’s another door round the back.”
“You can pick locks?” Jon asked, which was a ridiculously stupid question to be asking.
Martin got to his feet and gave him a crooked smirk. “Taught myself when I was fifteen or so.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“Probably not.” Martin started around the side of the building.
Jon hurried to catch up to him. “Martin.”
“You’ve been to the bookstore, Jon. How many ways in or out are there?” Martin studied the building as he spoke. “I figured I could jimmy open a window and sneak in to see Gerry without going through the store while Aunt Mary was in there, or without having to ring the bell. I did, too. And I’ve picked my fair share of locks trying to get at Leitners or get us out of jams…hmm, this looks promising.”
The window Martin had stopped at looked like every other window to Jon, but he was hardly an expert in the lock picking side of breaking and entering. “If you say so. What do you need me to do?”
“Keep watch. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Unless it’s alarmed.”
“Judging by the tires on that delivery van? Not bloody likely.” Martin studied the latch in the window, then opened his case again and selected two bits of metal. “The company went into liquidation, remember? Any other buildings got sold, which is why the one up in Nottingham got converted to luxury flats, but for some reason, this one escaped new ownership. Maybe no one wanted the property. But something like an alarm system would need to pay a monthly premium, and once that stopped getting paid, the company would shut it off pretty damn quick. Not to mention the fact that there’s probably no electricity coming in anymore…ha.”
While he had been talking, Martin had been manipulating the tools into the lock of the window’s latch, with some difficulty with his off hand, which was still bandaged and recovering from the burn inflicted by Jude Perry. Now he twisted it to one side, then replaced the tools before shoving the window upward. It protested, as windows unopened for several years were wont to do, but after a few moments it was open enough to allow them both access. Martin gave Jon an exaggerated bow. “After you.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Jon drawled. He hoisted himself onto the sill, then swung his legs over to the inside and dropped to the floor.
Martin followed a moment later, with a bit more difficulty, then slid the window shut and relocked it. In response to Jon’s look, he shrugged. “I don’t really want someone following us in here if we can help it. We can go out the front door—we should be able to unlock it from the inside.”
“Good point,” Jon admitted. He let Martin pull him to his feet—then froze. “What’s that?”
Martin turned to follow his gaze. “It looks like a shoe. And judging from the angle, I’m guessing it’s not an empty one.”
“Someone sleeping? A homeless person?” Jon asked, without much hope.
“Since when has our luck ever been that good?” Martin made his way over to the desk and looked behind it. “Yep. Dead body. Or, well, what’s left of one.”
Jon shivered and started to come closer. “I…I assume it’s been here longer than Gertrude.”
Martin held up a hand to stop Jon from advancing. “Don’t. It’s not pretty…yeah, it’s been here at least a decade, maybe longer. There’s not much left of it. Big guy, older, I think. What’s left of a business suit. Looks like he’s been…chewed a bit. There’s, um, there’s what’s left of a box here, too. I think whatever killed him came out of it.”
Despite Martin’s words, Jon came over anyway. The body was exactly as Martin had described, but what interested Jon was the box. He hesitated, then bent down and picked it up. A standard cardboard box, rather ill-fitting and somewhat desiccated. The label on top had been heavily redacted; the only words visible were in a viciously precise handwriting: Return to Sender.
“What do you think this is? Or was?” he asked Martin.
Martin stared at the box, his eyes going slightly unfocused. There was a faint, a very faint, crackle of static that died almost instantly. “Whatever it was, it came from the Stranger.”
“I was afraid of that.” Jon sighed and gingerly set the box on the edge of the desk.
They spent a few minutes exploring the office. There wasn’t much of interest—certainly no book of plans for the Unknowing, or instructions on how to stop them—but one of the log books caught Jon’s attention. It looked a bit newer than the others, and when he pulled it off and flipped to the back, a frown crossed his face.
“Martin—look.” He showed Martin the book, finger pointing to the last entry.
“March 2013,” Martin murmured, a frown creasing his forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense, the company went into liquidation in 2009.” His frown deepened as he skimmed the entries on the spread before him. “At least half of these involve the Trophy Room. Big surprise.”
Jon shuddered at the mention of the taxidermy shop. “You think it—it has something to do with the Stranger.”
“I don’t think, Jon. I know. Daniel Rawlings was one of the Anglerfish’s victims. I knew Scaplethorpe’s statement was a Stranger one before we’d even started digging into it. It’s why I was so adamant that Tim not be the one to look into it.” Martin took the log book and began turning pages back slowly. “And you said Nikola Orsinov wanted you to find the gorilla skin—look, that’s the last thing that was actually delivered to the Trophy Room by Breekon and Hope: Gorilla skin (ancient). That place is bound up in the Stranger as tightly as the Institute is bound up in the Beholding.”
“Great,” Jon muttered. “Next question, then. Why was someone still logging deliveries four years after the company’s assets—save, apparently, this building and a single delivery van—were sold off?”
Martin turned back a few more pages. “It was Breekon and Hope.”
“I mean…yes? That is the name of the company…”
“No, the delivery drivers. I’m pretty sure they took their names from the company, not the other way around. And they definitely did…huh. Most of these entries?” Martin kept going, then stopped and pointed. “There, look. See those two entries?”
Jon looked where Martin indicated. One entry showed a delivery of two dozen bowls (clay) to a location in Glasgow. The other showed a deliver of one coffin (wooden, locked) to an address in Bournemouth. It had to be the delivery Joshua Gillespe had taken, so obviously had been their Breekon and Hope, but he honestly didn’t understand why Martin was pointing it out. “I see them,” he said.
Martin gave him that crooked smile again. “The handwriting’s off. Not much, not enough to be obvious. Just enough that whoever wrote the rest of these entries would think they maybe wrote them and just don’t remember it. Honestly, I think I can mostly see it just because it has the hint of the Stranger clinging to the edges.”
“Ah.” Jon peered at the handwriting a little more closely. Now that Martin had pointed it out, he could spot a couple of tiny, tiny imperfections, small inconsistencies that could easily be explained by the writer being tired or rushed or upset. “That seems more Spiral than Stranger to me.”
“Like I said, the damn things overlap.” Martin handed the log back to Jon. “Do you want to take it with you?”
Jon considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything useful in it. Unless you think where they made deliveries is helpful.”
“Might tell us where the Unknowing is. If they’ve been making a lot of…strange deliveries to the same place.”
“Good point.” Jon tucked the log under his arm. “Right. Let’s see what else is here.”
There wasn’t much. Some dry-rotted boxes, rolls of tape that had fused solid or lost all adhesive, shipping labels, a roll of postage stamps commemorating the Ruby Jubilee, and something Jon at first couldn’t identify but that Martin said was a postage scale. Not a lot to show for however long the place had been in business.
In the front of the building, where the door Martin hadn’t been able to pick was, they found a pile of mail two feet high that would have impeded their attempts to open it anyway. Lying on top, as though it had just been shoved through the mail slot, was a crisp brown envelope far newer than any other in the pile. The name typed, not printed, across the front was easy enough to read from where they stood: ARCHIVIST.
“Who…?” Jon began. He reached for the envelope, then hesitated. It could be a trap. His curiosity was burning, but…Martin was there. If he opened it and brought something horrific down on their heads…
Martin’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, not restraining him, just letting him know he was there, and Jon leaned back into him. He heard that faint burst of static again, and then Martin sighed, sounding more exasperated than anything. “Elias.”
“You’re sure?” Jon asked, twisting his head to look up at Martin.
“Pretty sure. It’s got traces of the Eye on it, not much, but enough to tell me it’s from ‘our lot’, as Jude Perry put it.”
Jon stared at the envelope. “Do you think he followed us?”
Martin sighed. “No, but you did have me expense our tickets back to the Institute, so it’s not like he didn’t know we’d be up here.”
“Oh. Right.” Jon winced. “What’s in it?”
“Only one way to find out.” Martin stepped around Jon and picked up the envelope. He raised an eyebrow. “May I?”
“Please.”
Martin worked a finger under the flap of the envelope and pried it open. Two sheets of paper fell out, on official Institute stationery, and Jon instantly recognized them. “A statement. He’s sent us a statement.”
“Yep.” Martin skimmed it quickly, then sighed and sat on the counter next to the door. To Jon’s mild surprise, he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a tape recorder, which he clicked on without even looking at it. “Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 9961505, statement of Alfred Breekon, given fifteenth May 1996. Statement begins.”
Jon leaned against a shelf and listened to the rise and fall of Martin’s voice as he dictated the statement into the recorder. The statement confirmed several things—that Breekon and Hope were not the ersatz delivery men’s real names, he supposed, and that they were affiliated with the Stranger—but it didn’t seem to have all that much useful information in it, all things considered. If that was all they were getting out of it…well, it had at least been a pleasant excuse for a day out.
“Statement ends.” Martin lowered the statement but not the recorder. His eyes had taken on that vacant look again, but for all that they seemed…bright. Intense. “We found Mr. Breekon. The original one. It’s funny, for all he talks of worrying that what’s in the box will get him, all the bite marks seemed to be coming from the inside going out.”
Jon hadn’t made that connection, actually. He was about to say so when Martin continued. “I have to say I’m not thrilled about the parallels here. Sleeping in a cot in your office, afraid to go home in case something malevolent and dangerous follows you there, constantly threatened in your workplace without actually being harmed…seems the Corruption took a tip or two from the Stranger. There’s something there, but I can’t put my finger on it. Anyway, this statement does confirm Breekon and Hope didn’t own the company, not really, and that they’re connected to the Stranger. From the vague descriptions the original Mr. Breekon gave of some of the deliveries they took, and the statements we’ve had in the past—not to mention their delivery to the Institute—we know that Breekon and Hope will deliver for any of the Fears, not just the Stranger, but their connection to this person ‘dressed as a circus ringmaster’ ties them pretty thoroughly to the Stranger, as does the description of ‘hands where the skin feels wrong’ and that their so-called friends have faces that are hard to recall afterwards. Wherever Mr. Breekon is now, I hope he can take some comfort in knowing that he wasn’t targeted for a reason, or chosen because of anything he did; it was just his own rotten luck. The other useful thing we found here is one of the old log books, which lists deliveries for four years after the company technically ceased to exist. We’ll need to go over it in more detail, but…not here. This place is done with its story. We’ve found all that was left to find, and now it’s just…empty.”
Click! The recorder shut itself off, despite Martin’s finger not being near the button. He flinched and blinked hard, shaking his head slightly. “Um, sorry, that—that just…happened.”
Jon straightened up. He felt slightly off-balance, and slightly achy, like he’d just had a bad bout of the ‘flu, but for the most part, he was concentrating on getting them out of there. He nudged the heap of mail to one side with his foot, then threw back the bolt on the door before taking Martin’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
They didn’t speak on the walk back to the train station. Jon bought their tickets, and they managed to just catch the train before it pulled out of the station. Martin was the one to break the silence, right after they passed out of Newcastle. “I really am sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to just…do the follow-up like that.”
“It’s…it’s fine.” It wasn’t, but not because of anything Martin had done per se; Jon just didn’t like that the Eye had seemingly given him all that information. He always worried for Martin when that happened. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Martin assured him. “That sort of thing’s honestly been happening for a while now.”
“You just…having information?”
“I was more referring to being able to do the summing up at the end of a statement without having to really think about it, but yeah, that too. But that’s been going on even longer.”
Jon sighed, a bit unhappily. That Martin was right didn’t make it any better. “I didn’t think about the parallels while you were reading, but now that you’ve pointed them out, I don’t like them either.”
Martin laughed. “Speaking of things about this situation I don’t like, it’s a weird coincidence, but this statement was given almost exactly halfway between when I met Gerry and when I met Neens.”
“Really?” Jon was intrigued. “I’ve been under the impression you and Melanie knew one another for ages before you met Gerry.”
“Nope, I met Gerry first. Mum had got wind of the Fourteen from somewhere and had a notion that it might help her get better, so she made an appointment at Pinhole Books and moved us to London after my dad left—I told you about that. My school hosted a support group for single parents, and Mum joined up. Roger started coming about six weeks later and that’s how we met Melanie.” Martin handed the envelope with the statement to Jon. “Here. Keep that with the log book. It’s all going in the same file, right?”
“Right. I suppose I’ll have to make a new one.” Jon carefully slid the envelope into the back of the book. “Elias probably destroyed the original one.” He looked up at Martin. “Can I ask you a question? K-kind of a personal one.”
“You can ask me anything, Jon. You know that.”
“If you and Melanie are siblings—even step-siblings—why do you keep calling her father ‘Roger’? A-and she calls your mother ‘Lily’, is that—why is that?”
“I mean…those are their names?”
“Right, but—you didn’t, um, you didn’t call him ‘Dad’? O-or Melanie call your mother ‘Mum’ or anything like that?”
“Oh.” Martin winced. “We used to, when we were younger, but we stopped when we got older.”
Jon studied Martin’s face. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
Martin bit his lip, just for a second. “Well…I mean, mostly it was because Roger had dementia. He usually remembered he cared about me, sort of, but he didn’t always remember me, and he got distressed and confused every time I called him ‘Dad’. So I stopped, so I wouldn’t upset him further. Then Melanie decided if I couldn’t call her dad ‘Dad,’ she’d stop calling my mum ‘Mum’. The habit just stuck.”
“That makes sense, I suppose. I just…wondered if it was something about loyalty to your birth parents.”
“No, I—I don’t really remember him well, but what I do remember, did back then, is that I called my birth father ‘Papa,’ not Dad. And Melanie called her mother ‘Mama.’ So using ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’ wasn’t disloyal to their memories, I guess? It made sense to us.”
“I understand.” Jon had never had step-parents himself, but he imagined he’d have wanted to call them something to distinguish them from his birth parents if he had. “I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet Roger King. He seems…from what you and Melanie have said, he seems like a good man.”
“He was. He was always kind to me.” Martin paused, then added, “That’s what the K is for.”
“King?”
“Yes. I—I didn’t want to change my name. I like Blackwood, it…it fits me, I think. Roger understood, and even when he legally adopted me, he somehow convinced Mum to leave my last name as it was. Got some funny questions when I handed in my birth certificate at college, but it was easy enough to explain.”
“So instead your name is Martin King Blackwood.”
Martin laughed. “You want the truth, Jon? No. Legally, my name is just Martin Blackwood. The K is just…I just added it as an initial for my poetry and the like. I liked the sound of it, and like I said, it was a tribute to Roger. Plus it means Melanie and I have the same initials, just mixed up—M.K.B. and M.B.K. We thought it was funny.”
Jon laughed, too. “Dare I ask what the B stands for?”
“Beatrice.”
“Of course. After her great-aunt, no doubt.”
“That’s the one.” Martin studied Jon. “I never asked—do you have a middle name?”
“Gilbert,” Jon admitted. “It was my grandfather’s name, apparently, but I’m damned if I can tell you which one.”
“Jonathan Gilbert Sims,” Martin repeated. “It suits you.”
“Thanks.”
They didn’t speak much on the rest of the three hours it took to get back to London, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Instead, Jon found himself resting his head against Martin’s shoulder. Martin wrapped an arm around him and began absently combing his fingers through his hair, humming softly. After a while, he began to sing, and Jon closed his eyes and let himself be soothed under the spell of the music. The next thing he knew, Martin was shaking him gently. “Jon. C’mon, wake up, we’re pulling into King’s Cross.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Jon lied, sitting up straighter and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Martin laughed at him with the utmost kindness and offered him a hand to stand up.
The South Kensington Underground stop was a bit farther from the Institute than Sloane Square, but both of them agreed they were rather tired of being on a train, and anyway it was a nice enough evening—nicer than in Newcastle, at any rate. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Jon to take Martin’s hand as they walked.
“I’m sorry not to take your right hand,” he said presently. “But I—I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “I’m doing much better than I was. But this is fine, too. Anyway, I don’t expect we’re going to need to mark chalk arrows on the buildings as we walk.”
Jon laughed. “True. Still…”
“Still,” Martin agreed. “There will be time to hold hands the other way round later.”
“I like the sound of that.” Jon smiled up at Martin. Martin smiled back.
They were just turning onto the street where the Institute stood when Martin suddenly tensed. His hand tightened briefly around Jon’s, then eased back. In a low voice, he said, “Jon. Run. Get to the Archives.”
“What?” Jon blinked up at Martin in surprise.
“Run!” Martin gave Jon a light shove in the direction of the Institute just as a delivery van came around the corner towards them. Jon noticed its age—at least thirty years old, possibly more—then noticed the two hulking shadowy figures in the front seats, then registered that the paint scheme matched that of the van that had been parked in front of the Newcastle depot.
He didn’t wait to be warned a third time. He ran.
“Go, go, go!” Martin shouted from behind him, and Jon ran faster than he had in years, even faster than he’d run in the scrap yard after being stabbed. There was no doubt in his mind, the van that was almost certainly trying to find a way to reverse or turn around belonged to Breekon and Hope, here to collect him for Nikola Orsinov, and he did not want them to get their hands on him.
The Slaughter ghost would only have killed him. This, he was sure, would be worse.
He half-sprinted, half-stumbled across the courtyard and threw his entire body weight, slight as it was, at the door. It opened easily, thank God, and he burst through so fast he lost his balance and tumbled headlong down the short flight of stairs. Log book and statement went flying. The floor in that part of the Archives was stone, not wood, and it tore at his hands and knees, but he almost welcomed the pain. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.
“Jon!” The voice made Jon flinch before recognition filtered through. Tim. “Are you okay?”
Jon shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t remotely okay. He still shook head to toe with adrenaline, his chest ached with exertion, and fuck that had been a close call.
A pair of scuffed brown Doc Martens appeared under his nose; Jon looked up and accepted Melanie’s outstretched hand, letting her pull him to his feet. She took his other hand and turned them both over, studying the scraped palms with a critical eye. “You’ll live. What was chasing you? What—” She suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, and her hands tightened around his. “Where’s Martin?”
Jon’s veins flooded with ice water. He whirled around to stare up at the door, but it had shut firmly behind him. Panicked, he almost cleared all three steps in a single bound and yanked the door open, dashing out into the courtyard, only dimly aware of Melanie on his heels. Tires squealed away into the distance, but by the time he reached the street itself, it was deserted, save a pair of fresh black skid marks, a stain on the sidewalk, and something small and broken lying in the gutter.
He ran to the curb anyway, looking desperately, but there was nothing—no sign of anything. Melanie, who had come up alongside him, knelt down and picked up the object, then stared at it for a long minute. She looked up at Jon and didn’t say a word, just held it up for his inspection. It lit up as she raised it, displaying on its cracked, shattered surface a picture of the Archives crew holding one another up as they attempted to balance on ice skates before it flickered and died.
Martin’s phone.
Jon’s head swam as all the blood rushed out of his face in advance of reality crashing down on him. He knew he was about to faint, and he didn’t care. “Oh, God.”