“Melanie, the bus. The bus!” Gerry practically spat, bracing himself against the roof of the car. “Jesus, you’re going to get us killed.”
“Not if you don’t touch us,” Melanie shot back. “Isn’t that how it works?”
“Only if you have a chance of surviving. The way you’re driving—”
“I’m sorry, did you want to drive?”
Martin rubbed his temples. “You know, you two didn’t have to come.”
“Yes, we did,” Melanie and Gerry said in unison. Martin sighed and gave up. He was only going to have enough energy for one good fight today.
Part of him wished Jon was there. Jon had…not offered to come, actually; he’d stayed silent, but he’d clearly been hoping Martin would ask him to come. And Martin wouldn’t lie, he’d considered it. In the end, though, he’d decided not to—partly because he needed as many people to stay near the Archives as possible just in case something attacked, although they hadn’t seen anything since Jared Hopworth. Mostly it was because he didn’t want to put Jon through what was coming.
He didn’t really want to put himself through what was coming either, but he didn’t have much of a choice. And he couldn’t risk waiting much longer, based on what Celeste had said, very gently, when he’d called.
The clouds were having a hard time deciding if they wanted to be on the ground or just hanging out in the treetops; at any rate, they’d been driving through intermittent fog for the last hour, most of which Melanie and Gerry had spent arguing, bickering, squabbling, and just generally behaving in a way that would have had Martin threatening to turn the car around if he’d been the one driving and instead had him trying to stop the Eye from running calculations on whether or not he could jump out while it was moving or if he should wait to see if Melanie actually stopped at a traffic light first. It was weather more appropriate to nearly Halloween than nearly Christmas, and it was also the only thing that made Martin thankful he’d brought his siblings along. Otherwise he’d have been tempted to believe it was the Lonely.
Melanie and Gerry fell silent as they passed the entrance to Forest Lawn Memorial Park, even though neither of them looked directly at it. Martin did, though. Visibility wasn’t great, but the fog cleared just enough that he could make out the looming shape of the lone mausoleum.
He pressed a palm to the glass and made a wordless promise that they would stop on their way back. No point in coming all the way out here and not seeing both of them.
It was another ten minutes—ten very quiet minutes, during which Melanie did at least drop the car to a reasonable speed—before the sign for Rosewood Forest Hospital and Care Home loomed up in front of them. They’d replaced it sometime in the last five years—God, had it really been five years since he’d been out this way?—with smooth granite engraved in an old-fashioned, gilded script and embellished with trees twining their branches to form an arch, ringed by light tan bricks, something to really display how high class the place was supposed to be. The building itself was a Grade II listed, dating back to the 1800s; they’d preserved most of the original architecture, but the interior had been completely redone several times. From the outside, on a sunny day, it put one in mind of an Austen novel, but on a day like this one, its appearance owed more to one of the Brontë sisters.
There was some story, probably apocryphal, about one of the royals having stayed there when it was still a manor house, but it had been turned into a hospital during the first World War and, due to the location being so good for the shell-shocked and severely injured men to recover, had stayed as a convalescent, then a care home. Now it was one of the few long-term care facilities in the country that admitted patients under the age of sixty-five who weren’t completely unable to handle their own affairs. And it was there—in room 113, East Wing—that Liliana Blackwood-King had resided for nearly eight years.
There weren’t a lot of visitors, which was a bit surprising given that it was the Saturday before Christmas, but it was still a bit early and the weather was bad. Maybe more people would be getting there later in the day, but Martin really wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Anyway, even when she’d still been at home, mornings had always been better for her.
Melanie pulled the car into a parking spot, and she and Gerry followed Martin into the building. The front entrance was just as he remembered it, white and opulent and sparkling, with lots of cosy, comfortable-looking seating scattered about, soft music piped in, and cheerful prints on the wall. Tinsel and fairy lights hung on a number of surfaces, but none where a hand might need to rest or a walker or wheelchair might tangle—the staff really had thought of everything. It gleamed, despite the gloomy day, and overall gave the impression more of an upscale spa or resort than a hospital.
The room was deserted save a single uniformed nurse behind the wide swerve of the reception desk. It wasn’t Sheila, but it wasn’t Celeste either, and in fact Martin didn’t know her on sight—which wasn’t surprising, considering how long it had been since he’d actually been there. She smiled as they approached.
“Good morning,” she said in a high, pert voice. “How may I help you?”
Martin returned her smile more than half mechanically. “Good morning. I’m here to see Liliana Blackwood-King.”
The nurse’s smile slipped slightly. “Oh—ah—I don’t know if she’s taking visitors today,” she hedged.
“She’ll see me,” Martin said, quietly but firmly. “Please let her know the Archivist is here.”
The nurse picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers. After a moment, she spoke into one end. “Ah, Mrs. Temple? There’s an Archivist here to see Miss Liliana, is she…?” She listened for a moment, then blinked in surprise. “Oh—um, of course, thank you.” She replaced the receiver and gave Martin an uncertain smile. “She’s waiting for you. Room 113. Just through those double doors there, first left, and it’ll be the second door on the right.”
“Thank you.” Martin probably could have Known that, or at least remembered it, but he was happy to accept her directions. He started down the corridor with Melanie and Gerry in his wake.
Once on the other side of the indicated doors, the opulence of the front area died down quickly. It continued, more or less, down the length of the hall, but as soon as they turned the corner the floors were cracked, the carpet runners threadbare, the paint blistered and peeling. There were no decorations here, save one or two rather cheerless wreathes or bells on individual doors; far from the front hall with its scents of lemon polish and pine boughs and vanilla scent diffusers, these corridors smelled faintly of mildew and urine and hopelessness. They passed a businesslike older woman with brassy curls under a starched white cap whose name tape read TEMPLE; Martin surmised she was the lead nurse on the ward, or at the very least on this shift. She didn’t give them so much as a second glance. He spotted Celeste going into one of the rooms further down the hall, and two more nurses chatting quietly over a medicine cart, but none of them were likely to disturb them either.
The door to 113 was closed and unadorned; the nameplate next to the door bore only a single name, although the room was clearly a double occupancy. That was good; it meant they would be able to talk without interference or concern.
Martin didn’t bother knocking. He just opened the door and walked in.
The curtains were drawn, the television and overhead lights off; the only illumination in the room came from what looked like one of those Himalayan sea salt lamps that some people claimed had healing properties. It was enough to see by. Certainly enough to see the occupant of the bed. She’d obviously taken some pains to sit upright, hands folded over the blanket in her lap, but equally obviously she wouldn’t have managed it were it not for the bed itself being raised.
Martin hadn’t seen, or been allowed to see, his mother since they had buried his stepfather, and he was shocked at the change in her appearance. Her face was drawn, practically skeletal, and her bed jacket hung loose on her frame. The fine ash-blonde hair she’d always taken care to style no matter how sick she was, the one thing she’d ever allowed Martin to do without complaint, was mostly gone, reduced to a few wisps of brittle white that clung pathetically to the paper-thin skin on her skull. Her eyes had faded to a weak, watery blue-grey that looked almost colorless in the dim light. Only her expression was the same. As was the way it shifted from cold determination to annoyance at the sight of her only son.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice as thin and faded as the rest of her.
“Hello to you, too, Mum.” Martin stepped more fully into the room. He’d worn a collared shirt and one of his better pairs of trousers, along with a plain and serious navy blue jumper; he’d had to change first, as he’d been wearing a wool skirt when he’d started the day, but he’d decided not to antagonize his mother more than necessary. That didn’t mean he was going to just take everything she dealt him. Not anymore.
His mother didn’t rise to the bait, not that he’d really expected her to. “I suppose you didn’t think you’d get past the door if you were honest.”
Martin folded his arms over his chest. “First of all, considering you’ve been refusing my calls since before Dad died, I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to expect that you’d refuse my visit too. And second, I was honest.”
“Mrs. Temple said the Archivist was here,” his mother said accusingly.
“Yes. He is.” Martin reached into his pocket and pulled out the tape recorder, which—unsurprisingly—was already on, and set it on the nightstand. “Duly appointed. Contract and everything.”
His mother’s thin eyebrows shot up her forehead. “You? You’re the Archivist? For how long?”
“Six months or so. I wasn’t Elias Bouchard’s first choice, or even his choice at all. The Beholding chose me.”
His mother gave a short, bitter laugh and leaned back against the bed, closing her eyes for a moment. A small, smug smirk flitted across her lips. “I bet Gertrude Robinson is thrilled with that. Did she get fired?”
“You could say that,” Martin said dryly. “Terminated with extreme prejudice, I think is the term. She’s dead.”
His mother’s eyes flew open, and she turned her head sharply to stare at him. “What? When? Six months ago? Why didn’t she—” She checked herself, pursing up her lips.
“Why didn’t she come see you first?” Martin supplied. “And no, it’s been two and a half years. Elias Bouchard murdered her. He appointed someone else as the Archivist in her place initially, but…”
“But the Ceaseless Watcher likes Martin better,” Melanie said. “Most of us do.”
“Melanie,” Martin murmured.
“I didn’t say we don’t like Jon too. I just said we all like you better.”
His mother flicked her gaze back and forth between the two of them. “I find that extremely difficult to believe.”
“Believe what you like. I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life.” Martin grabbed the chair against the wall, pulled it closer to her bed, and sat down without waiting for her permission. “I need to ask you some questions.”
His mother studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed. “And if I choose not to answer them?” she asked softly.
Martin met her gaze as steadily as he could. “You will.”
The huff of air could have been a laugh, or it could have been a defiant snort. “Even she never compelled me.”
“She tried.” Gerry had told Martin about his latest flashback, and Martin still wasn’t sure if he was impressed or annoyed.
“And didn’t succeed,” his mother countered.
“I didn’t say she tried all that hard. It was accidental in the first place. It was also a simple yes or no question. These won’t be.”
“Do you think you’re more powerful than she is, then? Somehow better than Gertrude Robinson was after forty years as Archivist when you’ve only been doing it for six months?”
“No, but I do think you’re weaker than you were thirteen years ago, and I also know that she was doing everything she could not to hurt you,” Martin said, letting some of the acid churning in his gut into his tone. “She cared about you. I don’t.”
“How dare you? I am your mother—”
“And you have never, not once, done anything to protect me,” Martin interrupted. “Or shown the slightest consideration for me, or done anything that wasn’t expected of you as a parent. You trapped me in a world I knew nothing about, bound me to something I didn’t understand, and any time I tried to do something for myself you punished me for it. I didn’t ask to be born, and I certainly didn’t ask you to be my mother, any more than you asked for Gertrude Robinson to be yours, and I didn’t and don’t deserve to be mistreated because those things are true. I gave up twenty years of my life for you, Mother, and the least you can do is give me twenty minutes of your time and the goddamned truth for once. And if you don’t give it to me, I will be taking it by force. You don’t have to like it, but I am here to get answers from you, and I’m not leaving without them.”
A part of him felt guilty about this. Not about intimidating his mother, even in the condition she was in, but about the fact that every compulsion tied him a little tighter to the Ceaseless Watcher. He might have already been inextricably bound to it, but…he didn’t have to become a complete monster. He’d never do something like this if Jon was here.
Which, admittedly, may have also been part of the reason he hadn’t brought him along.
From the doorway, Gerry spoke quietly. “Look at it this way, Aunt Lily. You’re dying either way. You can either go out to him, or you can go out to me. And at least if you die by using all your energy spilling your guts to the Beholding, you’ll probably be free of everything.” He stepped a bit closer, and his voice took on a little of the curious echoing quality it had taken in the House of Wax when he had severed Danny’s soul from its flesh and wax prison. “You will get no such guarantee from us.”
His mother shrank back slightly, eyes widening, before she recovered herself and turned her attention back to Martin. He could taste the tiny bit of fear in the air, though, and it was…at least marginally gratifying. Even if it wasn’t entirely directed at him. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you’re going to ask…do it now.”
Martin took a moment to gather his thoughts, then took a deep breath and drew on the Eye as he locked gazes with his mother. “Tell me what you did.”
As was usually the way when he took a live statement these days, his mother’s attention met his with laser focus. “It started with the talisman your father placed under my pillow, and on your incubator, when you were born. My father had told me about the Fourteen, hoping I would avoid them, but I guessed that the token belonged to Terminus and thought that if I could join the pieces together again, I could keep breaking it to save my life every time I came close to death. But it didn’t work. Joining the pieces together only made me weaker and weaker. I even tried to give it to you, thought that maybe if I put it in your cradle or hung it over you with your mobile it would affect you instead, but instead…whenever it was near someone who wasn’t me, the further I got, the weaker I got and the stronger they—you—got. I kept it with me all the time, but it only helped keep me from getting weaker, it never made me stronger. I started doing research, trying to find someone other than Mikaele Salesa or Gertrude Robinson—or anyone at the Magnus Institute—who would know what it was. I never dared tell my father. He would have only scolded, not helped. Or not helped the right way. He would have tried to make it stop entirely, instead of help me to master it.
“I finally heard about Jurgen Leitner, just before your father left. My plan was to go and visit him, perhaps offer to be his assistant if he would let me see a book that could…so I moved us to London, but I had only just got settled when news started spreading about the attack, the breaking up of his library, and the loss of the knowledge. It was an unexpected bit of luck that the antiquarian book dealer who told me the news also told me about his foremost rival in the rare book market, a woman by the name of Mary Keay. I got the information and made an appointment, and it was then that we visited for the first time. Mary was the one who helped me to understand the talisman. The End and the Corruption both, tied together in a nasty bit of bone and sinew. When split, it put the two in conflict with one another and directed them away from the afflicted, but by putting them back together I had caused them both to fight it out inside myself. It had claimed me, and it would punish me for trying to corrupt another. Even you.
“Mary helped me. First by finding ways to…pacify the two, then by helping me to strengthen myself. And I joined in her work. And then you found your first book of power, and we both knew we could use that, that perhaps you, more than either of us, could find the book with the answer to my problem. You were so pathetically eager to please back then, it was so remarkably easy to coerce you into looking…and Melanie and Gerard were never able to rein you back. Especially since they wanted approval, too.
“If there was anything that was hard about it, it was keeping any of you from finding outside influence, from finding outlets that weren’t part of our world. Easy enough to manipulate you each on your own, but as a unit…a bit of spellwork here and there did the trick, though. Hexes to make other children avoid you. Curses to turn opinion away from you. It never worked on more than one of you at once, but you were so loyal to one another that if someone hated one of you, all of you would avoid that someone, so a bit of dissent here, a bit of annoyance there, and soon enough we had you isolated enough that you were trapped. Meanwhile, we were looking for the books, but also a way for us to become masters of them. The trouble was we never could manage to gain the favor of more than one at a time. And so we kept trying.
“You almost managed to escape. Gertrude Robinson—my mother—facilitated that. I was so angry with her. Not enough for her to interfere with the Rituals—not that I wanted them to succeed, but she didn’t need to interfere—but now she was getting involved on a personal level, encouraging you to audition for that college program. She threatened retaliation if I did anything to you in order to prevent you from going, and I didn’t doubt she was serious, but I had to do something to get you back. Mary was the one who found the way—a little nothing book from the Spiral, just a book of poetry really. Easy enough to slip into the pile on Roger’s nightstand. Then all I had to do was wait. He was beginning to forget anyway, so who would have thought it anything but natural? All we did was…nudge it along a bit.”
Melanie let out a strangled noise of rage and despair; Martin heard a rustle from behind him as Gerry, presumably, wrapped his arms around her. He ignored them both, focusing on his mother, who had faltered briefly at the noise. “Go on.”
Instantly, his mother refocused and continued. “We had hoped to get all three of you back, but Melanie managed to stay away—or you managed to keep her away. At least at first. She came back in the summer and still helped you all, though. Mary kept looking out for a book that would help me. She had her own, of course, the Catalog of the Dead, but we knew there had to be one that I could master and free myself from the torment of it all. And then…we found it. Or we thought we did. The Last Quagga , it was called, a book about Endlings—the last of a species. But in the illustrations, if you knew where to look, was a blueprint for becoming master of death, putting yourself beyond the reach of extinction. And we had a plan. Mary went and spoke to my mother one last time, gave her one final gift from both of us, and then came back and showed me what I needed to do. We agreed we would speak again after we had both reached apotheosis.
“Of course, you know what happened to her. She needed Gerard’s help to finish, and he selfishly refused. My problem was that I needed complete isolation for mine to work. I had to perform the rite on my own. But I was only partly finished when Roger came into the room.
“He didn’t know what I was doing, poor dear. Or what he was doing. It was one of his bad days, and he only wanted a cup of tea, wanted to know where Melanie was. And then he called me Amy, and it broke my concentration. I screamed at him, startled him, and for the first time in all the years I had known him he yelled back, and we had a fight such as we never had before. And it was only after he left, slamming the door behind him, that I realized I had stopped. I reached for the book to finish…and then I fell to the floor.
“You know the rest. The doctors at the hospital said we were too much for you to handle and it was time to have us placed somewhere. We went to Ivy Meadows for a while, but they never could help me—obviously, they couldn’t help Roger either, but at least they thought his problems were something they were used to, just ordinary dementia. Mine, though…they recommended Rosewood Forest, and here I am. I was genuinely upset to hear about what happened at Ivy Meadows, but at least I was able to bargain for Roger to be removed. They would not be allowed to use him.”
His mother drew in a breath and sighed, sinking back into the seat. Martin felt the statement settle into his body and hated every moment of it, even as it fueled him. He pressed his lips tightly together for a moment, then asked, “What did the talisman do to you?”
“I called it the Hollowing,” his mother replied. “It took everything inside me and turned it to nothing, made me just…a husk. Easy to fill with…something that shouldn’t.” Her breathing was beginning to get a bit ragged.
Martin had no sympathy for her. “How did you destroy it?”
His mother gave a hoarse laugh. “Fire. Like…the books. Thought we didn’t know?”
“We didn’t particularly care if you did,” Martin said. A bit of a lie, but not much of one. “Why did you kill my father?”
“In the way.” His mother’s voice was nothing but a thread now. “Too close to Salesa. Might have stopped me. Roger was…easier to work with.”
She closed her eyes. Her chest rose slightly with shallow, rasping breaths. Martin stared at her, wanting to feel something of the pity or empathy or, yes, love he’d once felt for her, anything to indicate he wasn’t wholly inhuman—after all, she was, when all was said and done, his mother. But the only thing he felt was disgust, anger, contempt…and a sudden, burning desire to know the answer to one last question.
The Eye sensed it, and rushed in eagerly. The static he was only barely aware of these days rose to near a fever pitch as, unable to stop himself, he asked, “Did you ever love me at all?”
A single delicate snort, barely a pop, and she didn’t even bother opening her eyes to answer. “Never.”
One last rattling breath, and her chest stilled. The temperature in the room dropped, or seemed to drop, several degrees. For long moments, Martin just sat, staring at the corpse on the bed.
Finally, from behind him, Gerry spoke in the ringing, echoing voice of the End. “Thus ends Liliana Blackwood-King.”
Click.