“—So fuck the Rose, and you as well—”
Jon actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much. A bit strange to say he was enjoying himself, considering he was standing in the most secluded, unobservable part of the street they could get to and still be able to see the House of Wax, watching the fire consume it, and still clutching the detonator that had caused it, but he was. Partly it was the energy of the song, the first sea shanty he’d ever really learned and that only because the Mechanisms had used it as the basis for a song on their first album, and the fact that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with his friends, his family, with his hand safe and warm in his boyfriend’s as the rain pattered down in fits and starts, not enough to quell the burning even if it were a normal fire. Partly it was the fact that they’d done it, they’d successfully stopped the Unknowing, that it would be centuries before the Stranger could try again, and that they’d all made it out of the building safely. He was almost giddy with relief.
The others seemed to share his elation. Daisy was smirking. Basira wasn’t, but she was at least tapping her foot in time with the music. Melanie’s eyes danced, seeming to reflect the fire’s glow, and she kept bumping into Jon as she sang. Martin stood straight and tall, his eyes fixed on the building and a concentrated determination on his face that honestly made Jon fall in love with him all the more.
Gerry was actually the only truly worrying part of the whole thing. His eyes and hair had both changed when he’d…done whatever he did to the not-a-waxwork in that last room, and while they’d gone back to normal at first, the more the building burned, the more they changed back. At that point, his hair was almost pure white, with a single streak of black that was rapidly fading to grey. His eyes, too, had lost all color, with only the faintest of lines delineating his pupils and irises. And even as he sang, it didn’t escape Jon’s notice that the few raindrops that hit him had settled on his shoulders as a dusting of snow.
But that was a problem they could deal with later. They had a “later” to deal with it in, which was even better. For now, they could just watch the wax museum, and all the things in it, burn to ash.
They probably couldn’t really be seen where they were, but just in case, Basira had her hand to her ear as if she had a phone—which she, like the rest of them, had left in their room at the inn—so she could look like she was calling 999 if anyone did see them just standing around staring. Not like they were the only gawkers, Jon was sure, but since they weren’t near the more tourist-heavy areas, they might stand out a bit. The singing probably didn’t help with that.
Someone had called 999, anyway. Sirens were beginning to wail in the distance. Jon couldn’t tell what direction they were coming from, or if they would come by where the Archives group stood, but right about now, he felt invincible. Whatever happened next, they could handle it with ease. They were on top of the world.
“—is no excuse, boys, let us fly—today is not the day we die—“
Later, he would think back on that moment and curse himself for being an idiot.
“Bend your backs and break your bones, we’re just a thousand miles from home—“
“Guys!”
Startled out of the song, Jon looked, stupidly, up at Martin first. He had suddenly tensed up, his attention away from the burning building, his eyes a piercing green. Jon followed his gaze and felt the blood rush from his face.
Staggering towards them, teeth bared in angry grins, clothes still smoldering as if they’d barely escaped the fire, were two nondescript, unremarkable deliverymen who could only be Breekon and Hope.
“No,” Jon gasped. If they had survived, if they’d gotten out…had they really done it after all? Had it actually worked? Gerry—surely Gerry wouldn’t be—
“Melanie, don’t!” Martin grabbed her arm as she shoved in front of him, but she pulled away, snarling, without taking her eyes off the approaching pair.
“Martin, get back.” Gerry’s tone was firm and determined as he, too, stepped in front of Martin. His appearance caused Breekon and Hope to check, but only for a moment.
Suddenly, Jon became aware of another sound over the crackle of the flames and the sizzle of the rain and the sirens growing ever louder. A faint humming, like a chorus of angels singing in the distance. Then he saw the coffin the two burly men carried between them and realized what was going on.
The coffin was the Buried. Both Joshua Gillespie’s statement and Daisy’s had made that abundantly clear. Why two beings of the Stranger were toting it around was beyond him, but that didn’t matter. It was still the Buried.
I was lucky to get out alive, and I won’t be so lucky a second time. Martin’s words from that first morning after the attack at the Institute, almost a year ago now, sounded in his head. Jon knew, with absolute certainty, that he couldn’t let that coffin get anywhere near Martin. He shouldered forward to stand with Melanie and Gerry, preparing to sell his life dearly to protect Martin’s if he had to.
The tiny part of his mind clinging to rational thought told him he was being a bit melodramatic, and that Martin would never let him do that, but he was prepared to and that was the important thing.
“Well, well,” said one of the two men, nastily.
“What have we here?” said the other. The statements were right, those were dreadful Cockney accents.
“Come to watch the show?”
“Think you can stop us that easily?”
I can certainly try, Jon thought. He tried to recall the feeling he’d had in the tunnels the time he’d made Melanie stop and accidentally called on…something. It hadn’t felt right, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the Eye, but maybe if he could call on that…
He concentrated on the feeling of compelling someone to do, not to say, and forced out the words. “Go away.”
There was the static, or something like static anyway, but it sounded and felt different. Still, for a moment, Jon thought it worked—Breekon and Hope actually checked briefly. Then they shook it off, and their grins sharpened as they focused on Jon.
Well, at least they weren’t focusing on Martin.
“That was interesting,” said the first one.
“But we can do that to.”
“Jon.” Martin sounded genuinely scared, in a way Jon hadn’t heard from him in a while. Especially since his return to the Institute after Leitner’s murder, he’d never known Martin to be anything but calm and capable. Angry, sure, stressed on occasion, but scared? That was an emotion he’d almost forgotten Martin could feel. It was enough to make his resolve waver, anyway, but it firmed up instantly when he felt Martin start to step forward. “Leave them alone, I’m the one you want—”
Melanie’s arm shot out at the same time Jon’s did. He grabbed her hand tight to keep Martin from pushing through them—he’d go around them, maybe, but he wouldn’t push through them, he wouldn’t hurt them—and stood his ground as Breekon and Hope leered. It was his turn to be brave, if Martin was going to be afraid. He wasn’t very good at it, but he would have to try…
“Shit, I should have brought my gun,” Basira hissed from behind them.
Gerry rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath, obviously preparing to do…something. Breekon or Hope noticed and scoffed at him. “You think that’s going to help?”
“Think you can kill us?”
“We’re like you.”
“We can’t die.”
“Not in a way that matters.”
“Wanna bet?” Daisy snarled. And it was an actual snarl, almost an animal one, and Jon shied away on instinct before remembering he was trying to be the brave one here. She moved to the front of them, hands clenched, crouched slightly, and shot a glance sideways at Jon, or possibly Martin. “Go.”
“They—” Martin started.
“Go,” Daisy repeated forcefully, not taking her eyes off Breekon and Hope this time. “Get them out of here.”
“Daisy,” Basira said, voice full of foreboding and almost pleading.
“GO!” That was almost a roar, and as she yelled it, Daisy sprang, straight for the nearest of the two, who dropped his end of the coffin as she leaped for him.
“Run!” Martin grabbed Jon’s arm and Melanie’s and practically threw them down the sidewalk, shoving them along in front of himself. “Go, go, go! Gerry, Basira, come on, move!”
Jon stumbled briefly, but recovered and pounded along after Melanie. Yells and snarls echoed from behind them, mingled with screams and the ever-growing sound of the sirens, and it began to rain harder. It was chaotic and terrifying, and adrenaline sang in his veins. Still, he managed to reach back and find Martin’s hand.
The last time he’d run from Breekon and Hope, they’d caught Martin because he wasn’t keeping hold of him. He could not let that happen again.
“Does anybody know where we’re going?” Basira shouted. She sounded angry. Jon had to admit he wasn’t surprised.
“This way! There’s a bridge!” Melanie turned up a street. Nothing in Jon said to do anything other than follow her.
Eventually it got too dark to see where they were going, and they were all audibly exhausted (Jon would have said visibly, but he could barely see his hand in front of his face, let alone anyone else’s) and soaked to the bone. Melanie found an abandoned shed and forced her way in; it wasn’t much, but it was at least dry, and they collapsed to the ground. Jon didn’t even really have time to consider whether it was a good idea or not before he fell into the sleep of total exhaustion.
He had no idea how much later it was that he woke, but there was a little more light—not much, but enough that he could make out shapes. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, his back against a wall; opposite him, Basira was also sleeping sitting up, in a corner as far from the door as possible, her arms folded over her chest and her legs splayed out. Melanie had tucked herself under what might have once been a tool bench and curled into a dense knot of humanity. Martin’s head rested on Jon’s lap, and while he lay still, his breathing light and easy, something about the tension of his face suggested his sleep was anything but restful.
A very, very faint click caught Jon’s attention. He turned his head slightly and saw, a few feet away, Gerry sitting on…something, he couldn’t quite make out what. His face was illuminated more than anything else in the room thanks to the lighter. A moment later, the flame vanished, leaving behind only the cherry red glow of a lit cigarette.
“Those things will kill you, you know,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse.
Gerry laughed quietly. “Go back to sleep, Jon.”
“What time is it?” Jon asked.
“Early. Or late, depending on how you look at it. Sun’s not up yet.” Gerry drew on his cigarette, then eyed Jon for a moment before tapping his front pocket. “Want one?”
Jon did. Badly. He was stressed and strained and the nicotine fix would undoubtedly help…but he hadn’t one since Leitner’s murder, and the memory of the story Melanie had told him, about Liliana Blackwood stubbing a cigarette out on her son’s chest, was a powerful deterrent. He looked down at Martin’s sleeping face. “Best not. I’ll just sit here and breathe the secondhand smoke.”
“Fair enough.” Gerry took another inhale and glanced down at Martin. “How is he?”
“Sleeping,” Jon said honestly. As carefully as he could, he brushed a few curls back from Martin’s forehead, then looked back up at Gerry. “You should try to sleep, too, you know. I-I assume you still need it.”
“More or less, but I won’t be sleeping until we’re back in London,” Gerry replied. “Can’t risk it out here.”
“What—what do you mean?”
Gerry was silent for a while. Finally, he said in a low voice, “I have…flashbacks. Don’t properly know how to explain them. But essentially, when I’m about to fall asleep…I get thrown back into moments in the past, like I’m reliving them as they happen. They suck. A lot. And I don’t want to fall into one out here in front of you lot, especially in front of Martin and Melanie, not when we’re all still raw from what happened today. Besides, someone has to stay awake in case…” He trailed off.
Jon’s stomach twisted unpleasantly, and he curled his arm around Martin’s head on instinct, as if he could somehow protect him from anything that came after him. He felt stupid almost the minute he did it, but he didn’t stop.
They sat quietly for a while, listening to the rain patter on the roof. That was good, Jon supposed, it would give them a bit of cover, and they’d be able to hear if the coffin came anywhere near them, a thought that made him shiver. That had been far too close…
“Was—has there been any sign of—of anyone…following us?” he asked.
Gerry sighed. “No, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?” Jon repeated, a little louder than he meant to. Martin tensed and made a small noise in his sleep, and Jon instantly stroked his hair soothingly to get him to calm down. It seemed to work, anyway.
Once he was sure Martin was still asleep—he needed his rest—he looked up at Gerry again. Trying to keep his voice to a whisper, he asked, “Why unfortunately?”
“I was hoping Daisy would catch us up,” Gerry said. “Not that I like her all that much, but…you know, I’d feel better if we knew she won, at least.”
Jon bit his lip and glanced over at Basira briefly, who was still sleeping. Her face was hard to read at the best of times, and she had followed Daisy’s instructions and come with them, even if she’d sounded—understandably—angry about it. But still…he remembered the panic he’d felt before he’d reached back and found Martin’s hand. He wouldn’t have been able to stand knowing Martin was staying behind to fight off the Stranger.
“I don’t think they’ve got anything like that going on.” Gerry’s voice was soft and pensive. “Not like you two have, or like Tim and I have, or like whatever it is Sasha and Melanie are pretending they don’t have. I think she just resents us leaving Daisy behind, even though it was Daisy’s choice, because she’s convinced we were looking for an excuse to do it.”
Despite himself, Jon chuckled. “More of the Beholding in you than you thought, is there?”
“Do yourself a favor, Sims. Never play poker.” Gerry blew a smoke ring into the air over Jon’s head and smirked.
“At least not when I’m too tired to mask well, I suppose.” Jon watched the smoke ring dissolve into particles. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
Gerry shrugged. “Gertrude. It’s one of maybe half a dozen things she actually taught me. I’d offer to teach you, but, well, you know, you’re not smoking.”
Jon smiled ruefully. “Yes, well, I’ve made it five months and two ‘where’s Martin’s without one, so maybe it will actually stick this time.”
Gerry let out a bark of laughter, seemingly before he could stop himself. Melanie jerked upright, slammed into the underside of the bench with an echoing thud, and swore at the top of her lungs. Basira shot up into a half-crouch before she seemed to even be fully awake yet, her whole body tensed at the ready. Martin’s eyes snapped open, and Jon instinctively flinched back in surprise at the twin spotlights beaming up at him.
“Well, fuck, I guess we’re all awake now,” Gerry said with a heavy sigh.
Martin made a small noise in the back of his throat and closed his eyes again, scrunching his face up slightly in a way Jon was coming to recognize as him throttling back the Eye. He struggled to a sitting position, shook his head slightly, and opened them again. This time they were…well, at least not glowing. “Wh—Melanie, are you—”
“Fine. Hit my fucking head.” Melanie crawled out from under her makeshift shelter, scowling. “What time is it?”
“Three forty-seven,” Martin replied automatically, then winced and thumped his temple lightly with the heel of his hand. Under his breath, he muttered, “Fuck off.”
A year ago, even six months ago, that might have been funny, but after the last few weeks Jon wasn’t even tempted to laugh. Basira settled back into a sitting position, but she still looked tense. “Any sign of Daisy?”
“Neither hide nor hair,” Gerry replied with a shake of his head.
“She probably doesn’t know where to find us. With all this rain—and we didn’t exactly run in a straight line…” Basira patted down her pockets. “Anyone got a phone?”
“They’re all back at the inn,” Jon reminded her. He checked his pockets and winced. “Ah…along with my wallet, I think.”
“Mine, too. I didn’t want to risk dropping it in there and having the police pick it up after the explosion,” Melanie muttered.
Basira let out an exasperated sigh. “Then, obviously, we need to head back there—”
“Tried earlier,” Gerry interrupted. “The whole area’s still closed off. Police and fire both. From what little I overheard, they, well, found a lot of remains.”
Jon shuddered. “How many is a lot?”
“You don’t want to know,” Martin and Gerry said in unison.
Melanie looked back and forth between the two of them. “When you put it like that, I do, actually.”
“Melanie—” Martin began, his voice tight.
“How many of those waxwork things were people once? Did they just, what, cover the dead bodies in wax?”
The sudden burst of static was the only warning they got before Martin’s eyes glowed once more. “They weren’t dead. The Anglerfish never killed its victims, only lured them in, and the Stranger was never one to waste perfectly usable parts. It needed a ballet corps and a chorus, and why take two when you can use both parts, the skin to dance and the body to sing? But the Unknowing needed more than just bodies and skin—”
“M-Martin,” Jon interrupted, his voice shaking.
“—it needed fear, and after what happened in 1787 the Stranger knew it couldn’t risk spectators. One person filled three roles, then—the Movement, the Voice, and the Fear…”
“Martin,” Jon said, a little louder this time. Horrified fascination at what Martin was saying was beginning to give way to fear that he couldn’t seem to stop saying it.
Martin didn’t seem to hear him, just continued to stare into space, the static building as he continued. “They weren’t meant to die as part of the ritual, either. They would have lived to see the world remade in the Stranger’s image, and whatever was left beyond it, well, they’d have lived through that, too. And who knows what would have happened to them after, if death would have even been possible if—”
“Martin!” Desperate and lacking any better ideas, Jon slapped Martin across the face as hard as he could.
Martin gasped. The static died instantly, as did the glow in his eyes, and he blinked, obviously disorientated. He took a few deep, slow breaths and closed his eyes, lowering his head. “Um, sorry.”
“Jesus fuck.” Melanie sounded shocked. She didn’t even stand up all the way, just lunged across the shed and threw herself at Martin’s neck before Jon could even think about giving him a hug or an apology of his own. “No, don’t you fucking apologize. Don’t you dare. You tried to stop me and I didn’t listen and—that was my fault. I know better than to do that to you. I’m sorry.”
Hesitantly, genuinely not sure he was welcome to, Jon cupped the cheek he’d just slapped in his hand as gently as possible and rubbed his thumb across the spot, like he could erase what he’d done. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have—I-I just, I couldn’t think how else to stop you and—”
“It’s—” Martin sighed heavily and hugged Melanie with one arm, then reached out for Jon with the other; Jon went to him readily enough. He turned his head and kissed Jon’s palm before he could take it away. “I don’t think there was any way of keeping that from happening, honestly. The, the monologue, I mean. It was hard enough to keep from giving you an exact number when you asked, Jon—the second someone pressed, it was going to come out. And it’s not like you guys haven’t been startling me out of that sort of thing for almost a year now.”
“We have?” Jon said, surprised and not a little guilty.
“First thing Gerry did when I started going on about the Twisting Deceit was put his hand on the back of my neck because he knew the cold would shock me out of it,” Martin pointed out. “You pinched me to stop me Looking too hard in the tunnels that time we almost found Leitner. First time it’s been that…extreme, maybe, but I definitely wouldn’t have stopped before the Ceaseless Watcher was done if you hadn’t, and I’d probably have passed out again.”
Basira snorted and crossed her arms. “What, didn’t get any energy out of that?”
“What, exactly, about blowing up a building do you think the Ceaseless Watcher got any satisfaction out of? Let alone any part of it that has to do with what I generally feed off of?” Martin huffed at her. “There were no statements. No secrets being spilled. If I’d known at the time the waxworks were alive, sure, maybe I could have tried to extract a statement from them, but that would have taken time we didn’t have. I didn’t spend a lot of energy because Jon stopped me from Looking for evidence of the Web, but I didn’t get any either, and I didn’t think to record anything before we left. I’m more or less running on fumes right now.”
Jon hadn’t even thought of that, and he found himself leaning a little harder into Martin, as if he could somehow loan him strength by osmosis. “So…so, ah, wh-what do we do? Just…wait here until the coast is clear, head back to the bed and breakfast, get our things, and head back to London?”
Gerry leaned over and hesitantly ruffled Martin’s hair. “Might take a couple days.”
“What’s the alternative? Walk?” Basira sneered.
“Which would also take a couple of days.”
Martin sighed. “We probably should stick around, at least for a little while. If we just up and leave all our things in the B&B, it’s going to—Ger, did you talk to anyone while you were there?”
“No, but I will.” Gerry got to his feet. “Who feels up to pretending to come back from a night on the town with me?”
It surprised Jon a bit that Basira was up instantly. “I’ll go. Drag your drunken ass back if I have to.”
“Melanie? You coming with us or staying with them?” In response to Martin’s look, Gerry added, “Don’t even. You don’t need to be anywhere near there if those bastards are still lugging around that coffin, and I know Jon’s not leaving you alone.”
Melanie hesitated, then pulled away from Martin a bit. “Staying. Wait, here, trade shirts with me.”
“Why?”
“So you have a reason the rest of us aren’t coming back with you. You turn up acting drunk, it’ll be ‘where are the others, still causing trouble in a bar?’ But if you’re wearing a Ghost Hunt UK shirt, you can claim we’re trying to get the show going again, we’re staking out somewhere trying to film, and I sent you back for, I dunno, the spare camera battery or something. Bullshit them. You’re good at that.” Melanie stripped out of her shirt and threw it into Gerry’s lap.
“Good call,” Gerry admitted. He shrugged out of his leather coat, peeled out of his own shirt, and dropped it on Melanie before pulling on hers. It was a bit short on him, but it worked. “Right. We’ll be back. Hopefully with more information.”
“And Daisy,” Basira muttered. Gerry shrugged wordlessly, and they stepped out into the early morning drizzle.
Melanie struggled into Gerry’s shirt, grumbling under her breath the whole time about cigarette smoke and man sweat. After a moment, she stared—or rather glared—at the peeling, faded letters Jon couldn’t quite read in the dark, then got to her feet. “I’m going to pretend I’m going outside for a pseudo-shower and not to give you guys a chance to be all lovey-dovey,” she announced. “Back in ten minutes. Or so.”
“Melanie—” Jon began, a bit nervously, but she was already out the door before he could finish the words.
“She’ll be fine.” Martin sounded tired. “She’s probably just going to stand right outside the door, somewhere she’s sort of invisible but able to keep watch to make sure nothing gets at us.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Jon said, aware he was a bit of a hypocrite, since—up until fairly recently, anyway—he’d occasionally been known to do that himself, without meaning to.
“It’s not the Eye, Jon. I’ve known Melanie since we were seven, and more crucially I’ve known her since I was old enough to start holding hands with boys at school and call it dating. That’s what she usually does when she ‘steps out for air’ or ‘goes for some tea’ or whatever. This is just the first time it hasn’t been because she’s staying close enough that she can break down the door and beat whoever I’m with to death if I scream.”
Jon wanted to laugh, but he suspected Melanie would do exactly that. “Did she ever have to?”
“My self-esteem might be shit, but I can honestly say I’ve never dated someone who would actually hurt me.” Martin paused for a second, then added, “At least not more than once.”
“I am sorry.” Jon shifted so he could see Martin better and reached up to touch his cheek lightly again. It still felt slightly warm.
“No, no, that wasn’t—”
“No, I-I wasn’t…that wasn’t what I meant either. I just—since we’re alone, and there’s…” Jon leaned up and pressed a kiss to the spot. “It didn’t escape my notice that you didn’t actually accept my apology. Or Melanie’s. You only pointed out why we’d done it. A-and I don’t, I know I don’t deserve you to forgive me, but—”
“That’s not how forgiveness works,” Martin said gently. “It’s a gift to be given, not a prize to be earned. Also, accepting an apology and forgiving someone are two entirely separate things.” He leaned over and kissed Jon’s nose. “I do accept your apology. There’s nothing to forgive, but if you want forgiveness, it’s yours. I guess I just thought the one who needed forgiveness in that situation was me. I…I know I scared you.”
“More that you didn’t seem to remember I was there than what you were actually saying.” Jon considered for a moment. “I mean, that was…bad. Very bad. But the worst part of it—to me, anyway—was that it seemed like you were…gone somewhere, someplace I couldn’t reach you. It—it scared me. Like I was losing you while you were right there in front of me.”
Martin pulled Jon into his lap and hugged him tightly. Jon hugged him fiercely back, burying his face in Martin’s shoulder. He would not cry. Not now. Not until…
“I wish I could promise you won’t,” Martin whispered, and suddenly not crying got a lot harder. “All I can promise is that I will never be angry at you for pulling me back. Whatever it takes.”
“I’ll, I’ll try not to hit you again,” Jon managed. Martin gave a small, slightly wet chuckle. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
They held each other for a while, until Jon felt the tears fade back, until they both felt a bit calmer, at which point Melanie came back in slightly soggy but overall seeming fine. She settled down on top of the bench this time. “Sun’s rising, sort of. Going to be a grey and gloomy sort of day.”
“Better to hide in, I suppose,” Martin said. “Any sign of the others?”
“Not yet, but we ran for a bit, and if they’re walking it’s going to take a while.” Melanie huffed. “Hope they bring food. I’m starving.”
It took significantly longer for Gerry and Basira to return than Jon would have thought, even so. Long enough for him to get twitchy. Martin and Melanie tried to distract him at first by teaching him shanties that hadn’t also been Mechanisms songs, and then by telling him some of the more lighthearted stories from their childhood. It actually did help, a bit, but any good feeling Jon had built up burnt away when Gerry and Basira did finally returned, grim-faced and carrying nothing but a couple of bags from what looked like a convenience store.
“Couldn’t get in?” Melanie asked.
Gerry sighed and sat down next to her. The bench creaked alarmingly, and he immediately got up again, but he did set the bags down on it. “They’re still clearing things up. Everybody in a three-block radius has been evacuated. Apparently they’re not sure the building is stable, and they’re worried about secondary explosions.”
“That’s the story, anyway,” Basira added. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed once more. “Probably just trying to avoid more Section Thirty-One forms.”
Melanie’s sigh was exasperated, but Martin’s was bone-deep weary. It was Martin who asked, “So, are we walking, then?”
“Let’s—let’s wait,” Jon said. “It can’t be that much longer…” He hesitated. “Can it?”
“Cops said they’d probably be done by tonight. One of them was a Ghost Hunt UK fan and seemed kind of surprised to hear you were trying to revive it, Neens, but at least it made him less suspicious, so thanks for that,” Gerry added. Melanie grunted. “Jon’s right. Let’s wait it out a bit longer. If they still haven’t cleared us to go back and get our things tonight, well, Officer Nevins was kind enough to get me my wallet, at least, so I can probably get us all tickets back to London. On the other hand, replacing all your identifying documents is the most annoying bureaucratic bullshit in the world, so if we can spare you lot that, we will.”
“Thanks,” Melanie said dryly. She poked the nearest bag. “What’s in this?”
“Well, I thought you might want something to eat other than rotting wood and loam.”
“Cool. What about for the rest of you?”
It started raining harder about midday, so none of them were terribly keen to go out. Instead, they kept telling stories, moving into the more serious ones. Jon was curious about some of the more dangerous events Martin and Melanie had referenced, but he knew better than to ask about them now. He did ask about the burning of A Guest for Mister Spider, though, and Martin was happy to tell him exactly what they’d done to it.
Jon had to confess he was relieved.
The rain petered out late in the evening, and Gerry rousted everyone for the two-hour walk—more trudge, and it took closer to three at that rate—to the Hive. Thankfully, the police presence had died down to a minimum and tightened more around the actual building that had burnt, the fire apparently now safely contained, and they were able to get into their rooms. Jon somehow wasn’t surprised when Martin collapsed instantly, or when he slept for pretty much the entire next day.
He wasn’t surprised, but he was concerned.
“We’ve got to get him back to the Institute,” he told Gerry, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, and Gerry simply nodded and headed to the nearest station to buy their tickets. Obviously driving one of the Breekon and Hope vans back would be out of the question, even if Daisy wasn’t the ones with the keys. Hope though they might, she never yet had turned up.
They checked out early the next morning and began the long journey back to London. Jon noticed that the closer they got, the more energized Martin got, although that could have also been the tea or decent food on the train. He seemed almost like his old self when they finally got on the Tube towards the Institute. Gerry came with them. Nobody questioned it. It was as if they’d all decided that, at this point, secrecy over Gerry’s existence was pointless. Either Elias knew he was back—likely, if he’d been watching the Unknowing—or he didn’t, but either way, he was probably anxious to see Tim.
There was a police car parked outside the Institute, right on the curb. As they started towards the side door to the Archives, the main door to the Institute opened, and Jon stopped in astonishment—and, honestly, delight. Two police officers, heads held high and malicious smirks on their faces, were marching out of the Institute.
In between them, hands cuffed together in front of him and suit jacket thrown over his shoulders but otherwise looking like this was a normal business meeting, was Elias Bouchard.
Several faces appeared around the still-open door, and even from where he stood, Jon could hear the shocked murmurs of his colleagues. One of the cops caught Basira’s eye, and his smirk broadened; she didn’t react. Melanie’s hands curled into fists, but otherwise her expression never changed.
Elias turned his head briefly and made eye contact with Martin, his face placid and unbothered. Then the officer shoved his head down roughly to get him into the backseat, although it was probably unnecessary force; he didn’t seem to be resisting too hard. The slam of the door echoed off the buildings, and the officers peeled away with a thoroughly unnecessary squeal of the tires. For several long moments, they stood in the same stunned silence as the crowd in the doorway.
Finally, Jon broke it, pressing back into Martin but still staring at the spot where Elias had last been a free man. “Did we win?”