Martin was not religious. He didn’t exactly consider himself an atheist, although he didn’t consider the Fears to be gods per se and he wasn’t sure if he really believed there was anything else out there, but while he was more than happy to wield whatever elements he could grab as weapons or shields in the right situation, you couldn’t really spend any length of time in this life and believe that any of the organized religions had even the slightest clue of what was going on, let alone the right answers to combating it.
But he’d known a few people who were, and they’d done World Religions when he was in school, and he’d chosen to do his term paper on fasting across religions. He knew that there were six days across the Jewish year designated as fast days, and that during the month of Ramadan Muslims were required to fast from sunup to sundown, and that Christians said they fasted during certain times of the year but with the exception of Catholics right before taking Communion it just meant cutting out certain foods or eating fewer meals or both. He also knew that these rules were sensible if you followed a religion that believed in any kind of deity that didn’t want the world destroyed, because the human body could only go so long without sustenance, and that while someone on a total hunger strike could probably last one to three months depending on age, health, and general body type, only a few days without water would be enough to kill you.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, Nikola Orsinov was also aware of that last fact. Equally unfortunately, she had an assistant in addition to Breekon and Hope and the smugly furious Sarah Baldwin, someone she kept referring to as Jan, who was almost certainly one of the “students” from Dr. Elliott’s statement and had evidently at least completed some kind of nursing course, and after Martin managed to successfully fight off being force-fed for three days straight, she had simply jabbed an IV into his arm to keep him hydrated and supplied with nutrients. Restrained the way he was, he couldn’t even jiggle it loose, so he was doomed to survive as long as she needed him to. Between the constant flow of liquid and the daily (he assumed) application of a truly staggering variety of lotions, he didn’t think his skin had ever been in better condition.
He wished she would just kill him already. On the other hand, since human skin discolored quickly as it dried out after death, which made people poor candidates for taxidermy in general (and why Martin had that particular bit of knowledge, he couldn’t say), she would probably wait until right before the Unknowing to skin him for her “dance costume”, so the longer he was alive, the more chance the others had to find a way to stop it.
God, please let them be focusing their energy on figuring out how to stop it and not on how to rescue him.
A lot of the fight had gone out of him. He still desperately wanted to be free, but he hurt. Orsinov had taken his glasses off the first time she’d had him brought into the workshop to slather him in lotion and hadn’t bothered putting them back on, and the longer he was tied up, the harder it was for him to resist reaching for the Eye to compensate. Fighting it was hard; slipping up and using it took energy he didn’t have to spare. And the fact that he was in the Stranger’s territory meant that drawing on the Beholding’s power was like plunging his bare arms into a tub full of broken glass. The IV kept him alive and hydrated, but only to the bare minimum, and it wasn’t doing much for the kind of energy drain Seeing caused.
He was hungry. He was tired. He was scared. He was in pain more than he wasn’t. His wrists and ankles were chafed and bruised from the tight bonds and his by now infrequent struggles to free himself from them, and the gag had rubbed the corners of his mouth raw and made it hard to breathe. He’d run through every song he knew—not just sea shanties, but folk songs, children songs, even the songs he’d sung back in his chorus days—trying to keep himself calm, focused, and sane. It only helped a little.
It was still raining, or maybe it was raining again—he could hear it drumming on the roof—and if he strained his hearing, which was an effort he didn’t care to put in just then, he could just make out the singing of the coffin. Orsinov apparently hated it as much as he did, or at the very least it annoyed her a good deal, so when it rained she usually came in to chirp at him, to exult over how his skin was looking, to update him on how her plans were progressing in the maddeningly vague and unhelpful way of the Stranger. He closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could through his nose, trying to brace himself.
Faint, static-laden laughter sounded somewhere nearby, and a door opened. It sounded closer than any door he’d heard yet, and the laughter grew louder as it did. Then a voice he hadn’t heard in the warehouse before, a voice at once strange and familiar, spoke from only a few feet away. “Well, well. The Archivist, but not the Archivist. What have you done?”
Martin opened his eyes. All he could see was a vague blur, but it didn’t…feel right. Without thinking, he reached for the Eye. It responded better than usual, but still painfully, and provided him with a yellow glow in roughly the shape of a person, standing in a doorway. He couldn’t help but groan.
The shape reached for something, held it delicately between two long…fingers?…and leaned forward to push Martin’s glasses onto his face, far more precisely and surprisingly more gently than Breekon or Hope had done, something he was grateful for even if the knot on his head had subsided. He blinked twice and found himself staring at a…person? Whoever they were, they weren’t put together right—their fingers too long, their smile too wide, their hair seeming to move independent of all known laws of physics. The eyes were what drew his attention. They were like whirlpools, or swirling storms, or…spirals.
“I’ve come to a decision, Archivist,” the Twisting Deceit said, almost conversationally despite the odd, warbling, echoing quality to the voice. “I’m going to kill you.”
Martin groaned in frustration and annoyance. Why did people keep assuming he was the Archivist? On the other hand, if it killed him, it wasn’t going to kill Jon.
“It’s earlier than I had hoped,” it continued, “but that’s life…I suppose. Your life.” It giggled, and God, it sounded so familiar, and not just because Martin had heard it on tape. “Before I do, however, I want you to understand…even if it does go against my nature. So.”
It bent down again, reaching for the gag around Martin’s mouth. As it bowed its head, Martin blinked and was suddenly and abruptly thrown back almost twenty years. He might have sometimes had trouble remembering faces but, apparently, he never forgot a scalp. And then the gag was out of his mouth for the first time in ages and Martin gasped, drawing in a full lungful of air almost greedily.
The Distortion straightened. Very carefully enunciating each word, it said, “Ask your questions.”
Martin blinked up at it and considered while he tried to recover. “How—how did you find me?”
Again the smile, the too-wide smile that actually seemed bigger than the face it was purportedly contained on. It gave Martin a headache. “The Eye watches, and the Stranger conceals, but me…I lie, Archivist. I am the throat of delusion incarnate. They can’t hide you from me.”
“Okay, better question.” Martin took another gulp of air. “Why did you find me? I know, you’ve decided you’re going to kill me, but…why here? Why now?”
“Because I don’t want the Circus to win,” the Distortion said easily. “And I don’t want the Archives to, either. Killing you myself…it’s the best of both. And of course, there’s revenge.”
“Revenge?” Martin repeated incredulously. “For what? What did I—no. Wait.”
This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t possibly be about him. Martin’s previous encounter with the Spiral hadn’t even involved the Distortion, and his encounters with Michael Shelley—the name slammed into his brain with the force of a hammer’s blow—had been extremely limited and entirely polite. Besides…it kept calling him Archivist…
Martin took a deep breath. “What did Gertrude do to you?”
The Distortion—Michael—scowled for just a moment. “She made me…this.” It gestured at itself. “I am Michael. I was not always Michael. I do not want to be Michael. Being Michael stole the only purpose I have ever known.”
“I would imagine Michael feels the same about you,” Martin said dryly. “What happened?”
The mad, swirling eyes lit up. “Ahhh…a statement. Of course. Is your recorder running?” It glanced over at the table nearby. “Yes. Say it, Archivist.”
Martin squared his shoulders and sat back. He reached for the Beholding in as restrained a way as he possibly could. “Statement of…” he began, and stopped. He could call it the Twisting Deceit, he could call it the Distortion, but…he didn’t want the Distortion’s statement. After no more than a heartbeat’s pause, he continued, “…Michael. Taken direct from subject. Date…” He trailed off. Day and night didn’t mean a lot in the warehouse, and he’d long ago lost track of the passage of time.
“The last day of the Archivist’s life.” Was it Martin’s imagination, or was there just a hair less of an echo in the voice when it said that?
Mentally, Martin shook the thought off and refocused. “Statement begins.”
As Michael’s statement unfolded, Martin felt it settle into the crevices of his mind. It was comforting, like the borsht his grandfather used to make, but at the same time it was almost too much, like he was being fed it through a high-pressure hose. He’d been…starved, he supposed…for too long, and the sudden flood of Knowledge was almost intoxicating. And it hurt in a different way than the starvation had—hurt because he remembered now, remembered the way the strange man had spoken about “Ms. Robinson” under the cherry tree at his grandfather’s funeral and how Michael Shelley had spoken about her when he picked up books from the library for her. He could feel the weight of the trust Michael had had in Gertrude, how he would have done what she told him without question or reservation. It made him wonder if, had the circumstances been different—if he hadn’t known anything about the Fourteen—would he have done the same for Jon?
Actually, he didn’t need to wonder that. The Eye didn’t deal in hypotheticals, it dealt in absolutes, but Martin knew himself. He’d have done anything for Jon, even sacrifice himself to a power he didn’t understand.
When he came to a finish, Martin gasped at the rush as he came back to the present, a curious strength flooding his body. It took him a moment to recover enough that he could continue. “Why didn’t you try to take revenge on Gertrude?”
“She knew how to protect herself.” The echo was back in full force, leading Martin to wonder if he’d imagined its absence before. “From me, anyway. She knew what she was creating. And killing her was not as important. She wasn’t as good an Archivist as you.”
“I’m not—never mind.” Martin blew out a huff of frustrated air. “So why not kill me before?”
“I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now.”
Martin gave a fleeting thought to arguing, to asking what he could do to stop him. But he knew the answer was likely nothing. Unlike Jude Perry, who felt she owed Elias for having killed Gertrude after she stopped their ritual, the Distortion still wanted revenge and felt that Elias had cheated him of it. Besides, his death at the hands of the Circus would be far less pleasant. At least this would be quick. Probably.
“Can I at least put some pants on first?” he asked, resigned.
A bone-knife finger sliced through the ropes, and Martin sighed in relief as he got to his feet and pulled out the IV. He still hurt, but at least he could move under his own power. His clothes were still where Orsinov had left them, piled haphazardly on the table. He shook the layer of dust that had accumulated off and swiftly pulled on pants, trousers, and shirt. For good measure, he shrugged into his jacket—not that he’d need it, but it just felt better—and swept up the recorder, then stepped into his shoes. Total time, maybe forty-five seconds.
“Good,” the Distortion said, sounding satisfied. “Right this way.”
A door creaked into existence—Martin hadn’t even noticed it disappear—and the Distortion pointed at the knob. “Open it. Open it, and all this will be over.”
Martin tightened his grip on the tape recorder and reached out with his other hand. However long he’d been here, the burn scar had completely healed, or at least as much as it ever would, he supposed; the skin was still a bit mottled and warped, but it at least didn’t hurt anymore. He wrapped his fingers around the knob and twisted.
It didn’t open.
Frowning, Martin tried again, and again. The knob twisted properly, he could feel no resistance, but when he tried to pull the door open, it remained fixed in the frame, like it had swollen slightly with the damp.
“If this is some kind of trick…” he muttered, because of course it was. He tried pushing, just for variation, and met with total resistance.
“It’s a pull door, Archivist,” the Distortion said, giggling. “Don’t you Know that?”
“It won’t open,” Martin snapped. He pulled on the door as hard as he could for emphasis.
“It will.”
“Fine. You open it, then.” Martin stepped to the side of the door that would open and gestured to it with an exaggerated bow.
The Distortion sneered at him. It reached out and took the handle in its fingers, twisted, pulled…and met with the same problems Martin had. It kept trying, first steadily, then frantically, fighting to yank the door open or jiggle it loose from the frame, its anger growing visibly with every second. “No, no, no, it must, it must—”
Suddenly it froze. It stiffened, and straightened, and yet somehow seemed to shrink in on itself, until it stood half a head shorter than Martin. In a voice that was different and yet the same, it said, “Run.”
“What?” Martin said, which maybe wasn’t the most intelligent response, but it was all he could come up with.
“When I open the door—” The voice was still different, and this time, Martin realized that it was the weird warping echoing quality, or rather, the lack of it. “—close your eyes and run. There will be another door—I don’t know how far, that’s not the point—but run until you reach it, and don’t look.”
For just an instant, the eyes cleared of their madness, and Martin saw only an intent pansy blue, laden with fear and concern. “I can hold it back for a bit. Long enough to get you home. I can’t promise it won’t ever try to hurt you again, but I can try to stop it. You have to trust me. Hurry.”
Martin had spent almost his entire life surrounded by the Fourteen. He knew that all of them, but especially the Spiral, were prone to lies and false promises, that many things said trust me when that was the last thing you should do. He knew that a deal with the devil was only of benefit to the devil and that if the statement he’d just absorbed was true—and he Knew it was—going into the corridors would almost certainly mean his death.
And yet.
“Thanks…Michael,” he said seriously.
Michael nodded once, then swallowed. “Okay…you’ve only got seconds, at best.” It—he—yanked on the door, and it flew open wide. “Go!”
Martin shoved the recorder into his pocket, closed his eyes tightly, and ran faster than he’d ever run before.
The world felt wrong, warping and shifting around him, and part of him was afraid he was going to run smack into a wall, but he wasn’t even a little tempted to open his eyes and stop that. The likelihood that he would be able to see anything, or that there would be anything worth seeing, was slim to none.
He didn’t trust the Twisting Deceit. Of course he didn’t, that was fucking obvious. But he did trust Michael Shelley, former Archival Assistant, who had gone to the funeral of a man he’d never met in order to pay his respects and had sympathized with a grieving little boy, who had cared about an old woman who’d used him and had been welcoming to a new employee well out of his depth. Who had somehow, somehow held on to a tiny part of himself, who was fighting the Distortion itself to save him, the way Gerry fought against Terminus to keep people safe. He would be punished for it. Martin had to make that sacrifice worth it.
He stretched out his hands as he ran. For a long while—or maybe it just seemed like a long while—they encountered nothing. And then, suddenly, there was something—something smooth and cold and metallic-feeling. A door handle.
Martin didn’t give himself time to think. He wrapped his fingers around it, turned it, and led with his shoulder, hoping like hell it was a push door.
It was. He burst through the doorway and found himself…somewhere. He didn’t know where, exactly, but it felt real, and quiet. And cool. And then he slammed shoulder-first into a wall that was definitely made of stone and grunted in pain. The handle of the door slipped through his fingers, and the door slammed shut faster than he would have expected, and there was near-total silence, save for a tiny, muffled sob from somewhere nearby.
Martin opened his eyes hastily and realized that he was standing in one of the tunnels underneath the Institute. Behind him, where he was pretty sure the door he’d emerged from had been, was one of the false doors they’d found in their explorations that didn’t lead anywhere. There was a bend in the corridor just a few steps away. Anxious to put as much distance between himself and the Distortion’s doors as possible, even if it was gone…for now, he hurried forward, made the turn…
…and stumbled upon a figure sitting hunched into a jumper far too big for him, hair falling from a hasty half-bun, a torch next to him spitting out just enough light to see by. His face was buried in his hands, but he jerked upright as a stone crunched under Martin’s foot. “Who’s there?”
Martin moved fully into the room, relaxing for the first time in he didn’t know how long. “Jon?”
“Martin!” Jon leapt to his feet and sprang at Martin all in one movement. Martin moved forward at the same moment and caught him, wrapping him in a tight hug in sheer relief. He was solid and warm and real, and oh, Martin had missed him so much. Jon flung his arms around Martin’s neck for the briefest of seconds, then took his face in both hands, pulled him down, and kissed him.
Surprise, combined with the mad dash and the adrenaline rush of taking Michael/the Distortion’s statement, left Martin breathless for a moment. The kiss was hard and desperate and messy. It tasted of salt and tea and strawberry toothpaste because Jon didn’t like the way the minty kind made his mouth feel, and it didn’t take much of a stretch to realize that Jon was, or had been, crying. His fingers tangled in Martin’s curls, and he pressed in harder, like he’d maybe risen up onto his toes to give himself better access. Martin responded without conscious thought, shifting his head to allow Jon a better angle and his hand to cup his jaw. Before he could really get the presence of mind to properly return the kiss, though, Jon eased back, at least enough to look Martin in the eyes.
“I promised myself I’d…tell you everything, as soon as you got back,” he said, his voice shaking madly. “That—that wasn’t how I meant to tell you, but—”
“Jon,” Martin interrupted, as gently as he could. Hope and relief and rightness and home coalesced into a single, pure warmth in his chest. He rubbed his thumb against Jon’s cheek gently, swiping away the tears there. “I know I’m probably pretty furry right now, but can we do that again?”
Jon’s shoulders sagged in evident relief, and something lit up his eyes as he scanned Martin’s face. “I—you—”
“I do,” Martin assured him. “Have for a while now. You…?”
For an answer, Jon pulled Martin down for another kiss. This one was softer, gentler, more tender. Martin felt every emotion Jon was feeling in that moment, and every emotion he himself was feeling, and all he could think was thank you thank you thank you thank you…
After a few moments, simultaneously forever and not long enough, they separated again, or at least came up for air. Martin rested his forehead against Jon’s and said quietly, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Jon choked out. “Thank God you’re home.”
They held onto one another for a few moments more, and then Jon stepped back, Martin’s hand still tightly held in his. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here and…a-are you all right? Did, did they hurt you?”
“No, no,” Martin said quickly, even as he felt the fabric of his shirt rub against his raw wrists. “Just…my skin’s never been in better condition.” A tiny, nervous laugh escaped him. “Is that weird to say?”
“A—a bit?”
“It was all Orsinov could talk about.” Martin took a step and nearly stumbled, catching himself against the wall just in time.
Jon shook his head and smiled at him, though his eyes looked worried. “Let’s get you out of here. You—you’ve been away a long time, y-you don’t need to be down here longer than necessary.”
Martin had to admit, Jon had a point. He’d used too much of himself getting to this point. “After you, then.”
Jon all but dragged Martin up the steps. Martin figured he was just worried about his energy levels until he shoved open the trapdoor and practically exploded into the Archives. As he yanked Martin up, he shouted, “Melanie!”
Melanie, whose desk was sideways on to the trapdoor, started and turned, looking somehow both worried and annoyed. The instant she saw Martin, however, she screamed—which actually startled Basira into dropping her book—jumped to her feet so fast her chair toppled over, and vaulted over the desks. Martin just had time to move to the side so that they wouldn’t both go tumbling back down the stairs before she tackled him in a hug. He overbalanced and fell, only just managing not to topple completely flat, and found himself sitting next to the still open trapdoor with Melanie practically in his lap. The second his free arm—since Jon still hadn’t let go of his right hand—got round her, she burst into the kind of sobs he hadn’t heard from her since that fateful Halloween.
“Martin!” Tim was suddenly there, too, Sasha a half step behind him, and Martin found himself in the center of a laughing, crying, tightly clinging group hug. Jon let go of his hand and joined the hug as well, and Martin tried to wrap his arms around all four of them at once.
Tears sprang to his eyes. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought he’d be missed…but he certainly wouldn’t have thought he’d been missed this much.
Cold awareness suddenly came over him. He lifted his head and peered over Tim’s shoulder just in time to see the person stepping through the door to the Archives. It was one of the last people he wanted to see right about then, but he supposed it was inevitable.
He let go of his friends—his family—and pushed himself to his feet, trying not to show how exhausted he was. He didn’t say anything, though, just watched.
“Martin,” Elias said, calmly and pleasantly. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” Martin said dryly. He reached out and put a hand on Melanie’s shoulder to stop her from launching herself at their overlord.
Elias studied him for a brief moment. “A word, if you please?”
He may have phrased it as a request, but Martin was in no doubt that it was an order. Tim folded his arms over his chest and glared. “I can think of a few.”
Elias’ one good eye flashed momentarily. “In private.”
“You—” Melanie began, but Martin squeezed her shoulder and she subsided, for a wonder.
“Use my office,” Jon said. He brushed Martin’s hand lightly as he said it. “I’m—I’m going to go make some tea. I’ll be right back.”
Elias didn’t argue, for which Martin was thankful. He wasn’t sure he could manage the stairs to Elias’ office right about then. Instead, he gave a nod to Basira, who had been watching awkwardly, and trudged after Elias into Jon’s office.
Once the door was closed, Elias sat behind Jon’s desk. Martin, as tired as he was, remained standing. He leaned against the door as much for support as to keep the others from coming in and folded his arms across his chest, determined to wait the man out. This was his damn idea.
He didn’t have long to wait. “We’re glad to have you back, Martin. You’ve been missed these last few weeks.”
“How long?” Martin blurted. Horror flooded him, along with the flow of time, and the knowledge slammed into his brain—there was probably a phone or computer or something with a date that caught his attention, or at least he hoped that was it. He and Jon had gone to Newcastle on the twenty-fifth of April, and now it was the second of June. “Are you serious?”
He heard, or felt, a faint click in his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder as Elias said, “Look, Martin, I understand you’re upset.”
“Five and half weeks, Elias,” Martin ground out, trying to keep himself under control. “And you, what, just left me there? I know Jon told you what happened.”
“He did,” Elias agreed. He looked—and sounded—sincere. “And I was attempting to find you, I assure you. But the Stranger, as you well know, is anathema to us, and it’s that much harder for me to see what’s going on than it used to be.” He touched just below the eye patch. Martin noticed that, unlike every other time he’d seen Elias in the last year, it was a plain black patch—still silk, but it wasn’t coordinated with his tie or suit or shirt.
Martin glanced at the recorder in his hand, wondering if it was recording over what Orsinov had said to him, or what he’d said to Michael, or if it was even recording at all. “Yes, she did mention that it wouldn’t be much use if a ‘big, stupid Eye’ could see what she was doing.”
Elias sighed heavily. “Ah, yes. Detective Tonner was looking for you, too—the Hunt is of course much better suited to that sort of work, in a way—but there was just so little to go on.” He paused, then added, “Still, I am glad to see you back safe. I admit I…may have underestimated how much the Archives relies on you, Martin.”
Martin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The team’s research—even Jon’s—was…haphazard at best. Even when they were focusing on locating the site of the ritual, and locating you in turn, they had significant trouble in winnowing out true leads from false ones. I had to have a serious talk with Jon and Melanie after they nearly got themselves killed trying to investigate the Trophy Room, in the mistaken belief you were there.” Elias grimaced. “The Archives functioned amazingly well, almost perfectly, while Jon was absent, even when Tim attempted to leave us. But in your absence? I am, frankly, astonished that anything got accomplished.”
Martin couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or something to be concerned about. “Well, when Jon was…absent…we at least knew roughly where he was, and why he was gone. And we didn’t think he was in danger. Jon knew I was.”
“That’s part of it, I’m sure. But more importantly, your connection to our master enables you to cut through uncertainty and chaos and lay out a logical path. It’s an ability common among Archivists.”
“I’m not the Archivist,” Martin pointed out. “Even if half the people I meet who want to kill me—or want to kill Jon—or both—seem to think I am.”
Elias steepled his fingers. “Why do you think Jon always styles himself as ‘Head Archivist’?”
Because he didn’t know what was going on, was probably the answer, but Martin couldn’t resist a jab. “Because you never told him he was just ‘the Archivist’?”
“Ah, but he isn’t.” Elias’ one good eye bored into Martin intently. “You were all considered Assistants when you only helped with the research, like the ones who worked for Gertrude. But once you begin recording statements, not just reciting them but truly chronicling them, you become Archivists yourselves. The others may have stopped soon enough to avoid fully being…promoted, shall we say. You did not. Jon is simply the one nominally in charge.”
Martin really didn’t know how to take that one. It…didn’t seem right, but it wasn’t like he had the ability to pull the truth out of Elias. Did he? “So why can’t Jon keep things on an even keel?”
Elias shook his head slowly. “I have tried to help Jon develop his own faculties, rather than explain everything to him like a child, but he keeps reaching for the easy knowledge, the simplest path. It has its merits, of course, but it has definitely…stunted his growth, shall we say?”
“Which is why you killed Jurgen Leitner.”
“I will admit I possibly…overreacted to his sudden reemergence,” Elias said slowly.
That was more than Martin had ever expected to hear Elias actually admit, and it surprised him into saying honestly, “Not sure I wouldn’t have killed him myself if I’d known who he was. Fine. So, so you’re saying it’s good to have me around because it keeps the team actually doing their damn jobs and not thwarting you at every turn?”
“Hardly thwarting me. But they certainly aren’t able to focus on their work.” Elias folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “And they need your knowledge. You have the background to delve into the Unknowing, and more of a chance of figuring out how it will manifest. I thought Jon might be able to…but it was obvious, upon his return, that he knows little more than I do.”
Martin was about to say something sarcastic about Elias’ knowledge, but the comment settled into his brain and something clicked. “You don’t actually understand Gertrude’s notes. That’s why you were only giving Jon the statements, not because you thought it would be too easy. You don’t know why she had those statements set aside either.”
“There is a possibility some of them were misfiled,” Elias acknowledged.
“That defines most of the Archives. So how much did Gertrude actually know about the Unknowing?” Martin frowned. “More to the point, how much more did she know than we do?”
Elias leaned back in Jon’s chair. “Gertrude believed that the Unknowing was going to take the form of a dance. It required a great deal of intact human skin to clothe what she referred to as the, er, the ‘corpse de ballet’, though I suspect that’s just her sense of humor. There is also one, the ‘Danseuse Étoile,’ that requires a costume of special power or distinction. Gertrude believed that Orisnov and his circus created a dancer specifically for this role.”
“Yeah, that’s who’s been holding me for the past month and a half. He named her Nikola, and she’s using his last name, too.”
“There’s also something else in the notes that she calls the Choir, but no real detail on that.” Elias frowned slightly. “As far as where it will happen, it’s a—a—”
Martin grimaced. “A wax museum. Old, mostly abandoned, I think. I don’t know exactly where, but—”
“That still narrows it down significantly. I’ll have the others start digging.”
Martin pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. “So far the only thing Gertrude noted that we didn’t already know about was this Choir, whatever it is. We knew about the Dance. We knew about the skin—Nikola Orsinov originally wanted a gorilla skin, some ancient bit of taxidermy that used to be at the Trophy Room until, apparently, Gertrude got hold of it, but she decided an Archivist’s skin would be just as good. We knew they were building up a stockpile of victims that were probably going to be part of it, and we knew the Circus of the Other was involved. Is there anything the things trying to kill us might not have information on?”
Elias considered for a moment. “Well. Gertrude seemed to have some idea on how to stop it.”
“Please. Enlighten me.”
“She seemed to think that once the dance begins, it’s tied to its location. Sufficiently disrupting that might be enough to derail the ritual. She mentioned she had acquired…something for this purpose, but she gave no detail as to exactly what that might be.”
“And you can’t just…See it?”
“She…got very good at hiding things from me. Rather like you, actually. You’re quite difficult to observe outside the Institute, and even when you’re here, it can be a bit of a strain at times.”
Martin sighed and chose to ignore that last bit, for the moment anyway. “Great. And of course it could be anywhere, whatever it is. We know the Buried’s ritual was set to take place in the United States, so if Gertrude had some kind of inkling the Unknowing might happen in another country, it’s entirely possible she’d have kept whatever she had to disrupt it near there. Christ.”
Elias tilted his head. “Do you think that likely?”
“That it’s outside of the UK? No. Breekon and Hope, the original one, was based out of Newcastle. Mr. Breekon’s statement said they delivered ‘from Aberdeen to Penzance,’ but that still keeps us pretty firmly in country. And if the Stranger took it over, it was for a reason. No, if they were going to do their ritual in another country, it wouldn’t be this obvious or this close. But Gertrude might have believed otherwise. Depends on if she even knew about the beings currently calling themselves Breekon and Hope, or if she made the connection to them being as crucial to the Stranger as they were.” Martin rubbed his forehead for a moment with his free hand. “God knows she traveled enough places. The question is, if it’s hidden outside the UK, did she hide it in someplace she went on her own or with Gerry?”
Elias suddenly straightened, and an intense, interested look came onto his face. “Sorry, Gerard Keay?”
Martin froze. Shit, he hadn’t meant to…no, be reasonable. He’d had Gerry listed as his emergency contact up until 2014, of course Elias knew he knew him. They’d managed to keep him from knowing Gerry was alive, that was all. “Uh…yes?”
“Who told you…how did you know I was aware he was working with Gertrude?”
Martin blinked, totally thrown for a loop. Had he actually been aware of that? For that matter, had Elias actually been aware, or was he just pretending he was? “I—I mean, you, I-I deduced it or—”
“No, you knew.” Elias actually seemed…delighted. "Gertrude—and Gerard, I suspect—were convinced I didn’t know he was helping her, considering the lengths they both went to in order to conceal that. You knew, of course, because he told you, but you would have believed I didn’t know either, not with what you know about how good they are at hiding it. Which is why you never mentioned him before. Is this the first time it’s happened?”
“I—no,” Martin admitted. “I-I mean, you heard me when Jon came back after—but I think this is the first time it’s happened without me being…aware of it, I guess.”
“This is good, Martin, it’s a promising development.” Elias practically beamed.
Martin sighed. “Fine. Good. Hooray for me. How is that going to help us, exactly? I know Gerry died in Pittsburgh, and I know when he left London for the last time he was heading to New Zealand to meet Gertrude, but it’s not like I have the slightest idea where they went in between. I assume they went somewhere in between, because he left in June and died in November, but he wouldn’t have told us and risked people he didn’t want knowing where they were finding out. And as far as I know, Gertrude was out of London before that and didn’t come in.”
“Well, it’s a start, at least. Perhaps if we can retrace their steps, we might find something.”
“And by ‘we,’ you mean us here in the Archives.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Primarily, Martin, I mean you. Everyone will need to help with the research…as well as continuing to find a way to stop the Unknowing, not to mention where it is…but I think the one who stands the best chance at being able to follow Gertrude and Gerard’s path, and find what needs to be found there, is you.”
Martin matched Elias’ raised eyebrow with one of his own. “You’re sending me on a round-the-world trip? I thought the Archives needed me.”
“You’ll be in touch,” Elias assured him. “The Institute will provide you with a SIM card for your phone with an international calling plan on it so you can keep in touch with the Archives, and as long as they know where you are, I think they’ll do much better.”
Martin was honestly too tired and…hungry to come up with a decent argument. Maybe if he got a good night’s sleep, preferably with Jon somewhere nearby, he’d be able to come up with a way to wiggle out of this. In the meantime…“Fine. I don’t think just going to New Zealand and asking around is going to yield much, though. Beholding powers or not, it’s been three years, and the whole place is bigger than the UK, so the odds that I’m going to find someone who met her without at least something to go off of are only just this side of a snowball’s in hell.”
“No, of course not,” Elias assured him. “We’ll need to plan this properly, and I do have to get Manal to order you that SIM card. I’ll see if I can hunt down a few relevant statements.” He stood. “In the meantime, I suggest you go home and rest. Tell the others—no, don’t worry, I’ll tell them myself. Just get a Return to Work form from Manal on your way out the door.”
“Do I need a doctor’s note, too?” Martin held up his hands and let his sleeves slip back, displaying the rope burns on his wrists. For the first time, he noticed that the leather jacket, formerly dark brown, was now almost tie-dyed in splashes of pastels, probably courtesy of the Distortion’s halls.
Elias actually flinched at the sight of them. “No, not to return to work, but you may want to get that looked at. You wouldn’t want infection to set in.”
Martin had to admit, that wasn’t a bad idea. “I’ll head up to the clinic before I head home. Was there anything else?”
“No, not today. Welcome back.” With that, Elias came around the desk, then stood and waited.
It took Martin a moment to realize he was still standing in front of the door. Without bothering to speak, he straightened up and opened the door. Elias strode out, and Martin followed, but not before he heard the soft click of the recorder—finally—shutting itself off.
“I don’t imagine you’ll get much more work done today,” Elias was saying to the rest of the Archives crew as Martin pulled the door to Jon’s office shut. “Why don’t you all take the rest of the afternoon off?”
“It’s already almost four o’clock,” Basira pointed out, the first sound Martin had heard out of her since his return.
“And take Monday off as well,” Elias said without missing a beat. “It’s Whit Monday, after all. Enjoy your weekend.” With that, he turned and left the Archives.
Jon pressed a cup of tea into Martin’s hands. “Are you all right?”
“I am now.” Martin smiled at Jon, who actually blushed, but smiled back.
Melanie rolled her eyes at them both, but he could tell she was too happy to have him back to complain. Much. “So. Bookstore? I have a feeling there might be, uh, something there you need to look into.”
Martin nodded. “Let me stop by the clinic and get them to look at…look me over, and then I’ll meet you there.”
“Fuck that,” Tim said. “We’ll go with you.”
Jon slipped an arm around Martin’s waist. “You’re not getting rid of us any time soon,” he warned.
Martin couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m actually pretty okay with that.”