Martin didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know they were traveling up a river, finally, but it was going to take an effort he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk in order to determine which one. He didn’t think he particularly cared. Rivers meant human habitation, usually, so as long as they were in Europe he could probably make his way back to London sooner rather than later.
God, he was ready to be home.
The trip hadn’t been…terrible, all things considered. Truthfully, Martin had slept for most of it. He wouldn’t exactly call his slumber peaceful, but it was at least sleep. The owner and pilot of the boat, who still hadn’t properly introduced himself, actually came down to talk to him every once in a while, usually bringing him some rations and apologizing yet again that Martin couldn’t come out on the deck. Since the entire passage over had been one constant storm, such that Martin’s window either afforded him a view of nothing but sky or nothing but the sea, he wasn’t too terribly keen to go out in it. Seemed calmer now, though, which was a blessing.
The only odd thing…well, odder than the oddness he would have expected from being smuggled in a dinghy across the Atlantic Ocean…was the tapes. He knew he hadn’t brought any extras with him, honestly wasn’t sure what had happened to any of the recordings he had made himself other than the one he’d mailed to the Institute, but when he’d gone to try and put his trousers back on he’d found one in his pocket. Curious, he’d played it and found it to be a statement he hadn’t listened to yet—the recording Jon had made of Daisy when she’d come to drop off the tape of Gertrude and Aunt Mary. Martin wasn’t really sure he wanted to listen to more about the Hunt, but he’d listened anyway, as much for something new to do as to hear the little snippets of Jon’s voice.
The next time he’d slept, there had been a removal van on the side of the road in a rainstorm behind one of the doors in his dreams.
There had been three or four more tapes he didn’t remember, too, enough to stop the shaking and restore at least a little of the energy he’d accidentally expended on the security guard, enough to keep that aspect of him from starving for however long he was gone (Martin hadn’t even tried to ask his host or captor or whatever he was for his statement; he might not know what entity he belonged to, but he could feel the power radiating off him and knew without even testing that if the man wasn’t willing, Martin would be hard pressed to compel it out of him). But without a consistent wake-sleep cycle, without the sun to mark the passage of time by, he wasn’t actually sure how long he’d been gone, and it made him worry. Were the others okay? When was the Unknowing? Soon? Had the Stranger gone for Jon when Martin dropped off the face of the earth? Had Mustermann reformed, survived whatever Julia and Trevor had done, and gone back to report to Orsinov? He doubted that last one—Hunters were among the only things capable of killing a full-blown avatar, they could definitely take out a lower thing like Mustermann, and they hadn’t seemed particularly merciful. Still…he was conscious of the ticking of a clock, ever increasing in volume. However long it had been, they were running out of time.
He sat up and stretched. There still wasn’t room to stand—he’d been mostly crawling about to reach what he needed, on the rare occasions he moved about the cabin—and he’d given up on the trousers as being too much effort if he wasn’t going to see anybody other than the boat pilot, but if they were coming in to land he didn’t want to be walking around London—or wherever he was—in his underpants. And he was getting out of this boat, one way or another.
As he struggled and contorted to get the waistband above his thighs, he felt an odd sensation, as if his sternum had been struck with a tuning fork—like he was suddenly vibrating at exactly the right pitch. A feeling of rightness filled his being.
Despite himself, he grinned. They had to be on the Thames, because they had just crossed the invisible line separating the rest of the world from London.
Martin managed to get into his trousers at last, buttoned them up, and slid his feet into his much-abused trainers. He’d spent some time carefully flaking the dried crust of mingled mud and blood off of them once they’d dried out, and they were…serviceable. He was going to have to replace them, but that could wait. No sense in wearing new shoes to stop a ritual, after all. Maybe Elias would give them a day or two off after they saved the world and they could all go shopping or something.
With a sigh, he sat back, laced his fingers together, and stared at the palms of his hands. Neither one hurt—not right now, at least—or had suffered any loss of flexibility or function. Still, his eyes traced the outline of Jude’s hand wrapping around his palm and fingers on the right hand, the slightly jagged ridge in the center of the left palm, and the worm holes that still laced through both. And then, without conscious thought, his gaze drifted a little further, to the white, almost perfectly straight lines across the underside of both wrists. Those scars hadn’t been that visible for ages, but he’d started to notice that these days, when the other scars started aching, they did too. And it didn’t escape his attention that the worms had seemed to avoid that part of his body.
In a way, it was almost comforting. Not what they represented—only Jude Perry hadn’t actually intended for him to die—but the fact that they were there at all. It meant that the Beholding hadn’t completely taken him over, hadn’t…remade him in its image or whatever. He wasn’t sure that was possible, to erase the Marks left by another Fear, but every scar was another tally against his being of any use in a Beholding ritual. Or at least, he was still assuming that. Orsinov wanted to use his skin for the Unknowing, but it wasn’t him she wanted, just the power.
Right?
Martin worried at his bottom lip, then took a slow, deep breath. Well…if he was wrong, if collecting Marks like Pokémon didn’t actually keep him from being useful in a ritual, then at the very least it wasn’t as bad as if someone else was getting them. He was pretty much a full-blown Avatar at this point; the other Fears were going to be after him anyway, even if he didn’t have beacons branded into his skin. And he was probably too far along that path to transfer his loyalty and be fully claimed by another one. Melanie, Jon, Tim, Sasha—even Basira—any of them was at risk of those Marks doing far worse damage. They were his people, and it was his job as the Archivist to protect them.
He shook his head minutely. Where had that come from? He was an Archivist, if Elias was to be believed…but, no. The Knowledge settled heavily against his shoulders, as if he’d just been embraced proudly by a terrifyingly creepy uncle at a family gathering: Elias Bouchard might have appointed Jon to head the Archives, but as far as the Beholding was concerned, it was Martin Blackwood who was the Archivist.
Well. Shit.
There was a dull thump that reverberated through the entire hull of the boat, then a faint scraping noise. Martin glanced out the window over the bed and saw what looked like rough wood pressed against it, obscuring anything else that might be in view. Not being able to see didn’t matter, because that was a pylon. They had fetched up against a dock. All he had to do was open the hatch and he would be able to get away.
As the thought crossed his mind, the hatch overhead opened, allowing in the familiar smells of London, and the pilot backed his way down the ladder. He seemed both surprised and pleased when he got his head below the level of the deck to see Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, if his smile was any indication—Martin had never yet seen his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re awake and ready! I was just coming to fetch you. Your ride is here.”
“My…?” Martin decided, on the balance, not to argue with the person who’d got him this far. “Right. I’m coming. Uh…thank you for the lift.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. Elias was right about you.” The man beamed, and from the twitch of his cheek, Martin rather thought he’d been treated to a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. Enjoy.”
With that cryptic comment, he headed back up the ladder, leaving Martin to crawl over and—for the first time in far too long—stand up straight. Doing so put him head and shoulders out of the hold. There was nothing to see but the side of the boat, but the daylight flooding the deck was a welcome sight. The humidity less so, but there was a wind blowing from the north that ruffled his hair. For just a moment, he stood still, letting the light soak into his bones and warm him.
Then he got on with the business of hauling his arse out of the hold and onto the deck of the boat.
The pilot was whistling cheerfully—way too cheerfully, considering that was definitely “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,” which wasn’t generally a peppy song—as he coiled ropes at the stern, but Martin was more focused on the dock. More specifically, he was focused on who was standing on the dock, leaning against a post, partly in shadow, arms folded and glowering.
“Daisy,” he said cautiously.
Daisy grunted. She looked deeply annoyed. Martin didn’t need to even ask the Eye for assistance to guess why, a theory that was confirmed when she muttered, “Bouchard sent me. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped again.”
“How kind of him,” Martin said dryly. He went over to the side of the boat and somehow managed to climb out of the boat without falling on his face—or into the Thames, which would have been worse. Still, he had to stand for a moment and get used to being on land again.
Daisy stared, or glared, at him, arms still crossed over her chest. Her gaze dropped to his shirt, and her eyes narrowed at the stain on it. “That blood?”
“Yup.”
“Yours?”
“Yup. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know it wasn’t you.” Martin tested his legs and found they would at least cooperate for the moment. “Right, let’s go, then. I assume Elias wants me back at the Institute.”
“Institute’s not open yet,” Daisy said, surprising him a bit, but then again it was the height of summer—it had to be at least July by now—so the sun rose a fair bit earlier. “I’m not fucking going back there after hours.”
“Don’t blame you,” Martin admitted. “So, where to?”
Daisy’s phone rang. Martin couldn’t hold back a frustrated groan and was both comforted and slightly alarmed by the fact that Daisy gave an identical one at the exact same time. From the glare she shot him as she answered, she was thinking the same. “Tonner.”
She didn’t exactly soften at the voice on the other end of the line, or even really relax, but the hostility did dial back a notch. “Hey. What’s up?” There was a long pause as she listened to whoever was on the other end before she said, “Yeah, I know it. Who’s asking?…Uh-huh. Yeah, makes sense. Okay, I’m on my way.” Her eyes flicked to Martin’s briefly before she added, “Got something Bouchard sent me to pick up that might help anyway. Ten minutes.” She ended the call and pocketed her phone. “Come on.”
“Cinnamon Rose Books?” Martin guessed. He held up a hand when she glared at him. “I’m not in your head. It’s just an educated guess.”
“You’d better not be,” Daisy growled, but she didn’t reach for her gun or his throat, so that was probably as close to a peace offering as he was likely to get. “Yeah. The rest of them are gathering there for breakfast. Something about plans and that…Unmaking thing.”
“Unknowing,” Martin corrected her. Unease flitted through his stomach. “Yeah, good. Let’s go.”
Daisy’s car was…pretty much what Martin would have expected, a nondescript late model sedan that had seen better days, not battered enough to be called a junker or old enough to be an antique but dingy enough not to stand out. The fact that she indicated for him to get into the front seat rather than the back—or the boot—was another indication of the uneasy truce they currently had going, or so he assumed. He eased into his seat and just had time to put on the seatbelt before Daisy was pulling away and they were off.
Martin gave her a few minutes to be sure she was heading in the right direction before he asked, “How is…everybody?”
“Fine.” Daisy stared straight ahead out the windscreen. After a moment of silence, she added, “Nothing’s been sniffing around. Been tailing Sims to and from his place to be sure.”
“Thank you,” Martin said, both surprised and somewhat touched. When he’d asked her to keep an eye on everyone while he was gone, he definitely hadn’t expected that level of…concern. Unless Elias had told her to do it.
As if she was the one reading his mind, Daisy growled, “I’m not doing it for you. Or Bouchard. If anyone’s going to kill that little bastard, it’s going to be me.”
“You can certainly try.” Martin kept his tone as neutral as possible, but he could feel the protective urge rising in his chest, and something crackled in the air between them. Daisy shot him a death glare, but didn’t respond.
To cut the sudden tension that had sprung up, he added, “And…that other thing I asked you about?” When her scowl deepened, he pulled out the recorder and popped the tape out, then set it on the dashboard, its tape deck conspicuously open. “Not recording, see?”
Daisy grumbled under her breath, but did return her eyes to the road. “Got a couple names for you. Guys who didn’t buy the official line on why Basira and I aren’t around anymore. One of them was on the Brodie case and he’s pretty convinced Bouchard called in the tip, didn’t ask why, but he shouldn’t be hard to convince. If you can find that evidence.”
“It’s there. We just have to figure out how to get at it.”
“I put a flea in James’ ear about it. Don’t know if anything came of that yet.”
Martin braced himself against the dashboard as Daisy took a corner with, he couldn’t help but feel, unnecessary sharpness. “I guess we’ll find out.”
It didn’t take them long to reach the bookstore, and Daisy parked in the tiny space out front where the alleged car had once sat when it didn’t feel like running, which was most of the time. Martin managed to get out of the car relatively quickly and stretched, feeling his shoulders pop. Then he made his way up the path to the shop’s door as Daisy leaned on the bell.
He assumed it would be Gerry who came down, but when the door opened, it was Melanie who stood scowling at Daisy.
“Basira said you picked up something that might help,” she said, managing to make it sound accusing. “I’m here to make sure it’s actually useful before I let you bring it in.”
“You know, people usually say hello first,” Martin said dryly.
That fast, Melanie’s expression changed from irritation and suspicion to shock as she whipped around to see Martin. She flung the door open wider, launched herself at him, and promptly burst into tears.
“Hey, now, it’s all right, I was only joking.” Martin tried for a joke, but it definitely fell flat.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie wailed, the same way she had twenty years previously on the train back from Oxford. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t—I was so busy that I didn’t even think to ask if anyone had heard from you and I didn’t realize you were missing and—”
“And what could you have done if you did?” Martin said pointedly. “Melanie. It’s okay. Really—”
“I promised you I’d look after Jon,” Melanie hissed, stopping him in his mental tracks. “And he was suffering for two weeks knowing something had probably happened to you and I wasn’t there to help him and…Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me. I can’t imagine how he felt.”
Martin hugged Melanie tighter. Tears pricked at his own eyes, and he had to force them back. They wouldn’t help now. “It’s not your fault. And…it’s not your fault. I’m here now. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Apology accepted.” Melanie stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then gave a mighty sniff and turned. “Come on. I need to go make sure Gerry has cherry preserves now.”
Daisy raised an eyebrow at Martin, but she did follow Melanie into the shop. Martin took the time to lock the door behind them before following.
Melanie took the stairs two at a time, hopped over Umberto—Martin bent briefly to rub his ears—and practically broke down the door to the kitchen. “Jon!” she shouted in a voice too loud for the small space.
They were all there, Martin noted to his relief—Tim presiding over the stove while Gerry lingered nearby, Sasha and Jon studying a sheaf of papers, Basira watching with her elbows resting on the table. All of them jumped when Melanie shouted. Jon leaped to his feet with an expression of mingled fear and alarm, but a split second later, he lit up, his beautiful brown eyes widening.
“Martin,” he choked out, and then he was rushing around the table, and Martin stepped fully into the room and held out his arms to catch him in a tight embrace. He buried his face in the top of Jon’s head, smelling the tea tree shampoo he always used, and felt a sense of overwhelming calm come over him. He was home.
Jon pulled back from the embrace just enough to take Martin’s face in his and bring him down for a kiss, and, okay, now he was home, because he’d been waiting for this moment for—apparently—two long weeks. Three if you counted the week before that. Martin would happily have stayed like that forever, but the need for air did eventually force him to break the kiss. He rested his forehead against Jon’s briefly and soaked up the moment of closeness.
All their problems were going to come flooding back in a moment, but for the moment, there was this.
At last, reluctantly, he pulled back and looked up at the others. Sasha and Tim were both grinning ear to ear, and the relief in Tim’s eyes was palpable. Basira was just watching, a little uncomfortably, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Melanie was apparently rummaging in the cupboards for the cherry preserves. Gerry, behind Tim, was just…staring at Martin. What little color he had in his face had gone, and he looked both shocked and quietly devastated.
Martin felt an uneasy twinge. “What? What is it?”
Tim’s smile faltered as he turned to look at Gerry, suddenly worried, and Melanie straightened with a scowl and a jar in one hand. Gerry edged past Tim and walked towards Martin as if in a trance. Jon stood aside, leaving room for Gerry to stand directly in front of Martin.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed Martin’s temple. In the same tone of voice Martin himself had used almost a year ago, he murmured, “Oh, Martin.”
With a sinking feeling, Martin realized that the spot Gerry had just touched was the spot where his father’s ghost had pressed a solid kiss before telling him he was proud of him. Obviously, there was something there to Gerry’s eyes—a sign of a new Mark.
“You were right,” he said quietly. “About my dad.”
“About—?” Gerry looked momentarily confused, and then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “He was in the Book? How do you know?”
“I met him. Apparently when you burned it, all the souls that were in it…didn’t exactly get set free, but aren’t exactly trapped either. It’s…complicated.”
Sasha gestured to the table. “Well, sit down and un-complicate it, then.” Martin flinched slightly at the echo of the words Julia had used, but either it was internal or Sasha did the polite thing and ignored it. “Or at least tell us what happened to you since…Chicago? Was that where you were the last time you talked to any of us?”
“Pittsburgh,” Jon said. “And I think…maybe there were things you were hiding?”
“A bit,” Martin admitted. “All right, yeah, I think I owe you guys an explanation.”
“You don’t owe us anything, Martin.” Tim pulled down a bowl and took a couple of the ingredients from Melanie. “But we’d like to hear what you learned. Did you get anything useful off this trip?”
“Maybe. You be the judge.”
While Tim and Melanie cooked in the background, Martin told his team what he had learned on the trip, about the feeling of being watched in Chicago, the weakness in Pittsburgh, and the kidnapping in Philadelphia. Daisy’s eyes flickered with interest when he told them about the encounter with Mustermann, and Sasha leaned forward when he told them about the things he’d learned from Julia and Trevor. Tim looked over his shoulder in some concern when Martin said that the tape recorder had shut itself off when he asked it to.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Should you be able to do that?”
“Probably not,” Martin admitted. “And that’s not even the worst of it, honestly. Talking to Mustermann…I-I didn’t get a whole lot out of him, he didn’t tell me where the ritual was going to be or anything, but I got a little bit. And…well, I compelled him. Pretty hard, actually. I asked him when it would be ready, and I had to practically make his head explode to get him to give me even a vague answer. I managed it, but it took a lot out of me. After we were done, I…kind of let slip that I’d spoken to you, Gerry. I mean, since you died. Trevor, um, didn’t take that well.” He held up his left hand, palm out, to show them the scar, eliciting a round of gasps and curses. “Stabbed me through the hand with his hunting knife. They…locked me up in the other room while they decided what to do with me, and that’s when I met the ghosts from the Book. One in particular.”
“Your dad,” Melanie said flatly.
Martin swallowed. “Yeah. He gave me his statement…I’m pretty sure I’ve got it on tape, but I don’t know which one. I was…I was bleeding out pretty heavily, and I’d used a lot of energy on that interrogation, so when he realized he could touch me, we realized I was probably not going to make it to hospital if I didn’t get something, so he told me about…everything. Apparently he used to sail with Salesa. And I’ve got a few more answers about Mum.”
Fortunately, nobody pressed him further; he wasn’t ready to share. Jon took his left hand in both of his and ran his fingers lightly over the scar. “But you made it to the hospital after that, right? They stitched it up? I, I assume the sutures were the kind that dissolve on their own.”
“Uh…no, actually,” Martin admitted. “After I had his statement and I was…feeling stronger, we realized it had closed up on its own. Which, while it was great for the immediate ‘not bleeding to death’ thing, is probably not all that good in the grand scheme of things. But it at least meant I was able to move. Papa rallied the rest of the ghosts to distract Trevor and Julia while I got away. I made a run for it and…well, eventually I ended up by the river, where I met…someone.”
“Someone,” Sasha repeated.
“Look, I didn’t get his name, okay? He said Elias had sent him to help get me home. I’d just realized I’d lost my passport and my wallet, so I wasn’t going to be able to get anywhere otherwise.” Martin took a deep breath. “I knew it was a trap, but…I didn’t really have much of a choice. And at least it got me home. Eventually. And at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a new Mark out of that one.” He squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “That’s it, really. What about you lot? What did you find out while I was gone?”
“A good amount,” Sasha said. “We found out—well, Tim and Melanie worked out where the Unknowing is going to be. The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. The three of us spent the last couple of weeks staking it out, and Tim and Melanie finally got that final proof a couple days ago, so we’re sure. And Gerry and Jon went to a storage unit Gertrude had rented up in Hainault and found a crate full of plastic explosives.”
“And a statement,” Jon added. “Which I haven’t read. You—you can have it. You should have it. Later. You might need it.”
Martin couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Jon. That’s…awfully sweet of you.”
Tim set a laden platter in the middle of the table. Martin realized that he and Melanie had been making naleśniki while the rest of them had been talking. “There’s one other thing. I think they’re almost ready.”
“What makes you say that?” Martin accepted a plate from Melanie and used a fork to lift the first thin folded pancake off the platter.
“Skin. That’s what they need, right? They wanted yours.”
“Yeah?”
“Well…they took a trip to a couple of cemeteries.”
Martin’s blood ran cold. “Who did they take?”
Tim sighed. “New graves. No flowers. The first had a name, no dates, no inscription. ‘George Icarus.’”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Martin glanced around at the others, who all looked equally bewildered. “Who was the other?”
Tim bit his lip and glanced at Melanie, who scowled. “You found that one out. You tell them.”
“Tim?” Gerry prompted, reaching up to tug Tim down to sit on his lap. It wasn’t even a sexual gesture, just a simple need to be close as Gerry wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist and settled his chin on his shoulder. Martin could empathize with that.
Tim leaned into Gerry for a moment, then looked at Martin and said softly, “Gertrude.”
“What?” Jon, Martin, and Gerry all said in unison.
Sasha blinked hard, several times. “Wasn’t she cremated?”
“Apparently not,” Tim said.
Jon exhaled hard. “So they did get an Archivist’s skin after all.”
Martin realized, with a slightly uncomfortable twinge, that he hadn’t told the others about his realization that he wasn’t just an Archivist, he was the Archivist. And then something else hit him like a lorry and he sat up straighter. “Wait. When was this?”
“Just the other day.”
“Tim, I need you to be specific. Wh—” Martin caught himself, barely. He didn’t want to compel his friends, and he definitely didn’t want to fall into the habit of using the Eye more than he had to. “Please. It’s important. I need you to remember exactly when they got these skins.”
Tim stared at Martin, looking a little worried, but he answered. “Sometime between the cemeteries closing the day before yesterday and it opening yesterday. I found out about it late yesterday evening, after we’d left the Institute.”
“Fuck.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”
“What? What do you mean?” Melanie demanded.
Martin looked seriously around the room at his team. “Mustermann said that once Orsinov had the skin she needed for her costume, she would ‘call in the Chorus and the Corps’, and three days later they would be ready to begin. Assume they waited until the darkest part of the night we got, say around midnight yesterday? It’s been one day. We’ve got two left.” He nodded as he saw realization dawn on everyone’s faces. “I hope you figured out a plan while I was gone, because we officially have to stop the Unknowing. Now.”