The first thing Martin heard when he surfaced from unconsciousness was a high-pitched voice crying in evident delight, “Oh, it’s you!”
Martin groaned as the voice grated on the raw edges of his throbbing head. There was almost certainly a lump where Breekon or Hope had struck him, and his first addled thought was to wonder if Jon could be prevailed upon to bring him an icepack. Then awareness sludged through the pudding of his brain of something tight around his wrists and something unpleasant-tasting stuffed in his mouth.
He forced his eyes open and immediately wished he hadn’t. Someone had taken his glasses off, which was the opposite of helpful in his current situation, because his eyes immediately reached for the Ceaseless Watcher to compensate before his rational mind could get up to speed enough to stop them. A thousand glowing indigo eyes stared at him impassively and unblinkingly, and looming directly over him was a person-shaped flare of the same indigo light. Off to one side, he thought he could see something glowing brownish-tan, from which a low sort of humming came, indistinct and melodic but grating at the same time. None of it was as bright as he might have expected. The static that always seemed to hiss on the edge of his hearing when he used his powers sounded wrong, and it hurt, but he wasn’t in any kind of shape to force it back.
“Oh, fuck,” he said, or tried to. It came out as muffled upset.
“Now, that’s not good,” the voice said from the direction of the person-shaped blur in front of him. So an Avatar of the Stranger, then. “Where are my manners? Give him back his glasses.”
Rough, unkind hands shoved Martin’s glasses onto his face, forcing his head back and making him grunt as the sore spot impacted with something hard and wooden. Pain made his vision white out for a second. When it cleared, the indigo glow around him was gone, replaced with a sputtering light from a bare bulb dangling overhead that didn’t so much illuminate the area as give interesting edges to the shadows. It was, from what little he could see, a warehouse of some kind. He seemed to be sat on a chair, a wooden one, but sturdy; ropes bit into his wrists and ankles when he tried to move. There was some sort of foul-tasting cloth shoved into his mouth and tied in place. He was cold all over, and needed no more than a quick glance down to confirm that he was totally naked. Waxwork mannequins, not very well-done ones, crowded the space around him in near-regimental lines. Standing next to him was a tall, burly figure he almost recognized as one of the delivery men who had dropped off the table, arms folded over its chest and scowling; another, similar figure he almost recognized stood a few feet away, also scowling, and between them was a wooden box that Martin immediately hated very much. Directly in front of him was a mannequin of a different kind, this one plasticine, shiny and smooth and graceful, like the ones you saw in shop windows at the higher-quality department stores. It had slim, cruelly sharp fingers at the end of arms just slightly longer than normal, and it wore a red-and-gold jacket and matching top hat reminiscent of the one the ringmaster had worn the time Martin’s class had gone on a trip to the circus, but its face was smooth and blank, even more than shop mannequins usually wore. As he blinked the last of the spangles out of his eyes, though, the figure tied on a Venetian volto mask, a Pagliaccio, with its black tears stained red and its lips—most unusually for the style—parted, baring its teeth in a preternaturally sharp grin, and stared at him with its blank, hollow eyes that revealed nothing beneath.
Martin’s muffled exclamation this time was one of fear and panic. This had to be Nikola Orsinov.
Orsinov clapped its (her?) hands. The sculpted expression of the mask, of course, never so much as twitched, but the pleasure certainly seemed genuine enough. “So you’re Martin! You know, when Breekon and Hope told me they had brought me—how did they put it? Oh, yes—‘some fat schlub’—”
Martin couldn’t suppress a muffled bark of annoyance. He knew he was fat, but really, coming from those two…
“—instead of the Archivist, well, I was very unhappy,” Orsinov continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I was all set to just kill you and use you for spare parts. But imagine my surprise to see…you!” She gave a merry giggle that sent chills up Martin’s spine. “Oh, yes, I know all about you. You’ve been quite the nuisance these last few years—you and your little friend. What’s her name? Melanie.”
It was difficult to sound threatening with a gag in his mouth, but Martin gave it his best go anyway. Orsinov ignored him. “We really wanted an Archivist for this, but from everything I’ve heard, you’ll do just fine.” She giggled again. “Do you know, Jude actually thought you were the Archivist? I didn’t have the heart to set her straight.”
Martin wanted to point out that Orsinov didn’t have a heart at all, unless she’d stolen that from somewhere too, and that Jude Perry was by no stretch of the imagination “straight”, but it was extremely difficult. He pushed at whatever was jammed into his mouth with his tongue, trying to dislodge it, but it was firm and unyielding. He settled for glaring.
Orsinov waggled a finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah! We’re letting you keep your glasses so you can see, but don’t think you can See here. I’ve heard all about your eyes, Martin! I know what you can do. But try to do that here, and it will be very bad for you.”
Martin grumbled at her through the gag. He wasn’t trying to See; he didn’t enjoy it, and he didn’t really need to, either—he knew she was the Stranger. Besides, it would only drain his energy, and he was going to need that if he was going to escape.
“Now then. Let’s see what we have here.” Orsinov picked up something from a nearby table—Martin’s jacket—and began rifling through the pockets. “Two train tickets from Newcastle to London…dated today. My, my, we are being nosy! A canvas case…” She unzipped the case. “With lock picking tools. I wouldn’t have thought you would go for that, Martin. And…oh? What’s this?”
She held up the tape recorder that Martin had tucked into his jacket on a whim before he and Jon set out for Newcastle; he hadn’t necessarily planned on recording anything per se, but he’d figured it couldn’t hurt to have. He directed a sarcastic mumbling in Orsinov’s direction about whether she was too young to know what a tape recorder was.
“I wonder if it’s any good?” Orsinov turned it over several times in her hands, then pressed the RECORD button experimentally. Since she was right under his nose, Martin was able to see the wheels begin turning, which meant there was still room on it, not that he knew for sure how long each side was. Long enough for statements, that was all that mattered. “Oh, it does work! What have you been recording? Anything spooky?”
Martin tried to tell her that he’d been recording the truth about her assistants, but it still came out as just muffled nonsense. Orsinov didn’t seem to notice. “Is it…your Elias who listens?” She held the recorder up to the mouth of the mask. “Hellooooooooo!”
Martin mumbled a few choice words about Elias’s parentage, the species of said parents, and the validity of their marriage, most of which were swallowed up by the gag. Orsinov continued to address the recorder. “He’s mine now, and you can’t have him back.”
Martin was about to tell Orsinov she was welcome to Elias—even though he knew she likely meant him—but then he realized that the low background humming had increased in volume until it was practically an angelic chorus. He looked at the box again. This time his eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the warehouse, and he recognized the shape of it: a coffin, made of some old, dark wood, with chains wrapped around it. His skin crawled as he recognized it as the one from Joshua Gillespe’s statement—the coffin that was clearly the Buried. But why was it here? He tried to quell his panic and ask Orsinov what the hell she wanted it for; it just came out as vague, questioning mumbles.
Orsinov actually seemed to understand him. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not for you. You won’t even need a coffin—we’re going to use every piece of you.”
That part, at the very least, was…not a surprise, actually. Martin found himself humming a couple bars of “Every Little Piece” from Pete’s Dragon. Orsinov turned to the two men Martin presumed to be Breekon and Hope. “Now, could you two please move that thing somewhere far, far away?”
Martin found himself emphatically agreeing with Orsinov, not something he’d ever have believed he would do. One of the deliverymen, though, just shrugged. “Not really.”
“Needs to be near us,” the other said, which Martin found interesting.
Orsinov’s expression never changed, but somehow, Martin suspected if she could, she’d be scowling. “Well, just…move yourselves away, and take it with you.”
“Gotcha,” said the first.
“Right you are,” said the second.
They picked up the coffin as if it were an ordinary bit of furniture being moved, one at the front, one at the back. With an ominous rattle of chains, they lurched off into the depths of the warehouse. The eerie chorus gradually faded away until the only sound in the warehouse was the sound of rain, faintly drumming on the roof or windows or both. Martin breathed a bit easier despite the gag in his mouth.
“Right,” Orsinov said cheerily. “Where were we?”
“Oh, really.” Martin almost managed to make that spit out distinctly despite the gag.
“Oh, of course!” Orsinov returned her attention to the tape recorder. “So, Elias, can I call you Elias? Let me set the scene, as I know you can’t actually see this. He’s tied to a chair—Sarah wanted to use nails, but I talked her out of it because I’m a good friend. You’re welcome. And he’s absolutely surrounded by waxworks. Not…good waxworks, though. Weird ones. Wax faces where you almost recognize who it’s meant to be, but then…ah, it’s downright uncanny!”
Martin swore at her in three languages, secure in the knowledge that she probably wouldn’t care even if she could understand and translate them. Orsinov scoffed at him. “Excuse me! I’m talking to your boss, and I would thank you not to interrupt.”
If the gag had permitted him to physically bite his tongue, Martin would have. He didn’t know where the recorders were coming from, but he did know they were hardly a direct line to Elias. Still, better to let Orsinov believe that for now. She might say something indiscreet.
“You know,” Orsinov continued to the recorder, “I must say, Elias, can I call you Elias? You have not raised this one very well.”
At that, Martin couldn’t restrain himself from telling her he’d been raised by someone a lot scarier than Elias, but she ignored him. Or just couldn’t understand him. “He is rude. And he just will not stop asking questions. Ooh, but now, I can ask the questions! How are you feeling?”
Cold. Annoyed. Probably not as terrified as he should be, because this was an objectively terrifying situation, but he was quite a bit less tense now that the Buried coffin was gone. Worried about Jon and whether he’d made it back to the Institute, although Orsinov had said they’d got him instead of Jon. Slightly hungry, seeing as he hadn’t eaten since early that morning and it was…however late it was now. Relieved that it was him and not anybody else trapped in this position. Martin tried to convey all of that in as simple a way as he could, but since he couldn’t twist his wrist, restrained as it was, to flip her the bird properly, he settled for another muffled sentence.
“Oh, wonderful,” Orsinov said brightly. “Now, about the whole skin thing…did the Archivist tell you about that, by the way? Well! We had an ancient relic one we wanted him to find, and originally I was just planning to have him followed until he did. I mean, my goodness, it is very powerful. And if he didn’t come through, well, he’s quite powerful himself, and more than that, he is…symbolically appropriate, so…” She giggled again. “I thought he’d make a lovely frock!”
If Martin had tried to threaten her before when she’d brought up Melanie, he was definitely more emphatic now when she brought up a direct threat to Jon. Orsinov just giggled again. “Exactly! And, well, I was going to wait, but…y’know, have you ever had one of those backup plans that, when you think about it, they’re—they’re just more fun? So I told Breekon and Hope I changed my mind. Only you got in the way, Martin. Just think, you could be safe and secure…but you had to interfere, and get in the Archivist’s way.” She clucked her tongue (did she even have a tongue? Had she stolen that too?) almost sympathetically. “But as I said…you’re plenty powerful, too. In fact, if I hadn’t known who the Archivist was, I might have agreed with Jude. So…out with the old, in with…well, in with the you!”
Martin’s long-suffering groan needed no words or translation. Orsinov reached out and caressed his cheek with one long, plasticine finger. It felt wrong, unsurprisingly, and he shuddered at the unpleasant sensation that ran through his entire body. “You understand, don’t you, Martin? You know all about the power that can be written on a skin. And you’ve been so beloved of your patron for so long…is it any surprise that I realize now you will make the very best outfit for the Dance? You’ll fit me so much better than the little Archivist.”
That, more than anything, finally broke the dam that was holding back his fear. Martin had tried so hard not to be afraid, or at least not to show he was afraid, but now he couldn’t stop himself. He garbled at her incoherently as he struggled against his bonds, trying desperately to break free. He’d always been strong, surely…but no, the ropes were thick and tight and no matter how he fought, he couldn’t even so much as shift the chair.
“Oh, no, I’m afraid he can’t See you, can you Elias, can I call you Elias?” The mask’s expression didn’t change, but Martin envisioned Orsinov baring her teeth a bit more in a sharp grin. “What’s the point of having a secret place of power if you can’t hide it from a big, stupid Eye?” She set the recorder down on the table without turning it off, then patted his thigh, which he enjoyed even less than her touching his face. “Anyway, you sit tight. Lots to do!” She stood up and paused. “Ooh, also, do you have a preferred brand of lotion? Because you have not been taking care of your skin, and we really do need it in better shape before we peel you.”
Martin, with malice aforethought—on the off chance she would actually understand him—rattled off three brands of lotion he knew had been discontinued and one that was only available from those door-to-door salesladies. Orsinov either saw right through him or couldn’t make out a word. “All right. I’ll just ask them to pick up a selection.”
With a flutter of her fingers, she strode away. A door closed in the distance, sounding incredibly ominous and final, and Martin was alone. He took several deep, heavy breaths, trying to settle his racing heart and turbulent mind.
The recorder shut itself off with a preternaturally loud click that seemed to echo in the cavernous space.
A small whimper of fear and despair clawed its way out of his throat. He closed his eyes, trying to force back the tears, but one escaped and wended its way down his cheek anyway. He’d been afraid plenty of times, threatened by the Fourteen and their servants more times than he could count, trapped and injured and manipulated…but this was different. Every time it had happened before, he’d been with Melanie or Gerry…or Jon, or at least known one of them wasn’t far away. Now he didn’t even know where he was, let alone where the others were, and they likely had no idea where to find him either. He’d dropped his phone, so they couldn’t call him and track that, and there was no way for him to contact them. Now even the tape recorder had abandoned him, which was probably a stupid thing to think—they weren’t sentient. Still, they did feel like a presence, a comforting one at that, and if it was off, if it wasn’t listening…
He allowed himself a few moments to break down, then gathered himself and tried to think rationally. Jon was safe, he had to be, even if Martin hadn’t actually seen him make it to the Institute doors. The others would look after him. And he had the log book from Breekon and Hope. Surely, surely they had logged deliveries to…wherever this place was. Surely Jon would be able to figure it out, and they’d be able to rescue him. Or better yet, they’d figure out what was going on with the Unknowing and how to stop it, before it got to the point where…where Martin would be needed. They’d be okay. He would be okay. And maybe he hadn’t been able to break away right off the bat, but if he was just patient, if he worked at it, he’d be able to make it.
For now, he was going to rest. For now, he was going to breathe slowly and deeply and just…relax. He could do that. He could. And then, when he felt a little stronger and calmer, he’d get to work on those bonds. He’d get himself free.
Quietly, he began humming, then singing softly, even with the gag in his mouth. It was the song he always used to ward off the Lonely, or just when one of them was upset or scared, and even if someone listening couldn’t have made out the words clearly, Martin knew exactly what he was singing.
Let the lower lights be burning, send their beam across the waves…