As flashbacks went, it hadn’t been the worst one Gerry had ever had, Tim thought, gently running his fingers through the white streak that had grown so that his hand just about fit in its span. But it hadn’t exactly been the best, either. And while Gerry’s narration had been as flat and unemotional as ever, the fact that his face was still wet with tears told Tim that the part of him not possessed by the End had been deeply moved.
He could understand that, he supposed. Empirically anyway. He’d grown up surrounded by three generations of DiAngelos and five generations of Stokers who all loved one another dearly, so he certainly didn’t know what it was like to suddenly be given a single, solitary precious memory of someone he didn’t, couldn’t possibly remember. But he at least felt like he had an inkling of understanding about what it must be like.
Unlike Gerry, though, Tim had listened to the entire recitation with bated breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was the first time—or at least the first time since Tim had begun to be present for them—that Gerry had had a flashback of his own from before the age of eleven, let alone before he’d met Martin and Melanie. And considering all the other flashbacks he’d had of their friends when they were that young had involved them being Marked, and that deeply, by one of the Fourteen, Tim had been terrified. Especially when he’d realized just how small Gerry actually was.
Gerry, as usual, had passed out immediately following the cessation of his narration—or, more accurately, drifted off into slumber as his two-year-old self did—but Tim hadn’t been able to sleep himself. Despite the relief of knowing it hadn’t been a situation where Gerry had actually been Marked, his mind was still whirring with information and worry. They’d figured out that, while Gerry’s flashbacks for others usually showed moments where they could have died but were spared somehow, often by one of the other Fears, the ones of his own life tended to be more…watershed moments. Points in time that had led him to the place he was now, moments where possibilities clicked into certainties or even inevitabilities. There had been a lot of firsts in the memory: his first meeting with Martin’s grandfather, his first introduction to art, his first attempt at colored pencils. Maybe there had been some lasts, too—his last outing with his father, his last time trusting that Eric Delano had had a good plan, his last truly carefree moments. Tim didn’t know, and likely wouldn’t until Gerry woke up.
Probably not even then. He’d been two. He wasn’t going to remember much from that point in time.
Tim glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was almost six in the morning. Martin would probably be awake, but…no, he chastised himself, no need for that. Martin hadn’t even been born then, he wouldn’t know anything, and he wasn’t going to ask him to Know. Things were bad enough without pushing him further over the edge.
As if on cue, his phone rang with a few bars of the Toreador’s song from Carmen, which he’d changed it to after Gerry described exactly what was going on in the aria from I Pagliacci he’d used before. While Gerry didn’t seem to notice, Tim decided it would be prudent to answer quickly anyway. “Morning, Marto.”
“Tim. Hey.” Martin exhaled. “Sorry, I…don’t know why I called you.”
Tim glanced down at Gerry’s face, relaxed and . “Since you didn’t apologize for waking me, I’m assuming that by ‘I don’t know why I called you’ you mean ‘something compelled me to call you immediately’ and not ‘I forgot why it was so important I call you and risk getting you out of a sound sleep on what’s theoretically a holiday’. Is everything okay?”
“Maybe?” Martin didn’t sound sure. “I’ve…I dunno. Been up for about half an hour. Just feeling…restless.” He paused. “How’s Gerry?”
“Sleeping. I’m guessing you know he had a flashback last night.”
“I mean, he’s sleeping. Or was a few hours ago. I know that’s the last thing he does before he goes to sleep at night.” Martin paused. “That…sounds harsh. I’m sorry.”
Tim shook his head, even though Martin couldn’t see it. “No, I get what you mean, and you’re right. It’s how I can tell he’s getting tired, he comes over all glazed and starts talking about something horrible or life-changing or both. Last night’s wasn’t…terrible, but…”
“One of his?”
“Yeah. He was two. Apparently his dad took him to visit your grandfather.”
Tim regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and he could almost hear Martin’s desire to push. Finally, he simply asked, “Are either of you coming in today?”
“Probably. I think he’ll want to talk to you all about it,” Tim said, silently relieved. “But if not, I’ll ask him if he’s okay with me explaining further.” He paused as the numbers on the clock rolled over to six. “Are Jon and Daisy up yet?”
“They weren’t a few minutes ago, but Daisy probably will be soon. She—hold on.” There was a rustling sound, and Martin’s voice got quieter, as if he was holding the phone away from his face. “Hey. You okay?”
There was a muffled response Tim couldn’t quite hear, but it sounded like a female voice, so either Melanie and Sasha had come in early—unlikely—or Daisy was up after all. Martin’s reply to whatever it was sounded apologetic. “No, just me. On the phone with Tim.” He paused, as if listening to a response. “Be careful. I haven’t seen anything lately, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Another rustle, and then he came through more clearly. “Sorry about that. Apparently it’s ‘soon.’”
“Daisy, huh?” Tim managed a smile. “Well, at least you’re not alone there. I know you hate that.”
“Yeah. Might be why I called you.” Martin sighed. “I don’t like to wake Jon, he doesn’t sleep well as it is, but yeah, the more time I spend on my own the harder it is to fight. I think that’s part of the reason Daisy gets up when she does. It’s a lot harder to resist feeding the Eye when I don’t have someone holding me accountable, and I imagine she’s the same way with the Hunt. I’m just glad I’ve got all of you for support. I can’t imagine what it would be like to try to do this if nobody cared whether I did or not.”
Tim didn’t reply. He had nightmares sometimes, full of screaming and fire and all kinds of pain, nightmares where Gerry hadn’t saved Sasha and Martin hadn’t saved Jon and Tim hadn’t walked out of the Unknowing and everybody hated everyone else, and while it was most likely just his brain throwing up worst-case scenarios in an “aren’t you glad things never got this bad” way, they never fully left him. And as bad as the gulf separating Daisy and Basira was, the idea of it being between Jon and Martin somehow hurt worse than anything else.
After several heartbeats, Martin took a deep breath. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be dumping everything on you this early in the morning. Anyway, I’d better, um…have breakfast, I guess, before anyone decides to come in.”
“Have—oh.” Tim glanced down at Gerry and wondered how Martin’s sense of taste was these days. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll probably be in a bit early today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I’m awake. Gerry’ll probably be up in a bit, so once he’s up and ready to go—or to let me go, whichever comes first—I’ll start that way.”
“Be careful.”
“Always. See you soon, Freckles.” Tim ended the call and sat back against the headboard with a sigh. Martin was definitely going to need all hands on deck today; it was the early May bank holiday, so the Institute was—nominally anyway—closed. On the other hand, there would be a lot of people out and about, and both Martin and Daisy would, if they set foot outside the Institute, be tempted to go after someone who didn’t deserve it. Or someone who did, but…no, there was nobody who deserved trauma, not really. Jon was better than he’d been, especially since Melanie had discovered how deeply he’d started to fall into the Web’s clutches, but there was always a risk he’d somehow maneuver them into going after someone he didn’t like. Not likely, but possible. Anyway, since the rest of the Institute would be empty, having all of them around would also help keep the Lonely at bay.
The bed jostled slightly as Umberto leaped onto it and strode his way up to Tim’s side. He sniffed at Gerry’s hair, sneezed into it, and then somehow squeezed his enormous, leonine body into the extremely small space between Gerry’s head and Tim’s abdomen.
“I’m convinced you’re even more liquid than most cats,” Tim told him, scratching his cheek. He was rewarded with purrs so loud they made the bed rumble. “Don’t suffocate him. I don’t even know if he really has to breathe anymore, but let’s not test that.”
“’M f’n.” Gerry turned his head, clearly meaning to snuggle closer to Tim, then suddenly jerked back and sat up, spitting cat hair out of his mouth. “Jesus. Pfft. How did he—pfft—fit there?”
“He is the Cat Who Walks By Himself, and all places are alike to him.” Tim kissed Gerry’s cheek. “Morning. Go take a shower and brush your teeth. I’ll feed the dust mop and get breakfast for us going, unless you’d rather pick something up on the way to the Institute.”
“Let’s pick something up. I’m betting nobody went shopping this weekend, and Martin’s probably forgotten Jon needs actual food.” Gerry gave Tim a quick kiss and headed towards the bathroom, leaving him alone with that oh so pleasant reminder.
Martin had not, as it turned out, forgotten Jon needed food, nor had Daisy, but there was still a three-way argument going on when Tim and Gerry arrived because Jon was reluctant to eat without them. Well. Reluctant was a mild term. Jon was outright fucking furious and—in Tim’s expert opinion—more than a little heartbroken that not only did Martin and Daisy no longer seem to need human food, they were willing, even insistent that he not share with them, that he needed all his strength and should eat what there was without worrying about them.
The pastries and sausage rolls helped.
Melanie and Sasha arrived with trays of coffee, fortunately before all the food was eaten—although, Tim admitted privately to himself, he and Jon were the only two who were properly hungry, so there wasn’t much risk of that. His worries about Martin sprang back to life, fully formed, when he accepted one of the coffees from Sasha without so much as a murmur. He wasn’t surprised when Melanie looked into her own cup and smacked her forehead. “Fuck—I meant to get you a hot cocoa, not another coffee. Sorry, Martin, I can go make tea or—”
“I’m fine, Neens, but thanks.” Martin took a sip of the coffee.
Melanie stared up at him. “You never drink coffee. The last time you tried it you ended up with a migraine.”
“I had a migraine because the caffeine made me very aware of everything and I was fighting to keep the Ceaseless Watcher from showing me the traces of every single Fear that had even so much as passed over an area, so I had to lie down in a dark room until it shut up. I’m already in that state pretty much all the time now.”
“You realize that is doing the opposite of making me want to let you keep drinking that, right? This is just going to make that worse.”
Martin shrugged. He looked, in contrast to how he sounded, extremely tired. “Good, maybe it’ll overload whatever blocks I have keeping me from Looking or, o-or Knowing things and I can get past whatever the fuck is going on with that tape.”
Tim blinked. “Wait, what tape?”
Martin pointed to the desk furthest from where he stood. Right on the very edge was a cassette tape, unlabeled, just sitting and waiting. No case, no player, nothing. Just…a tape.
Sasha picked it up and turned it over, frowning. “Where did it come from?”
The hopeful look on Daisy’s face was a bit pathetic and a bit heartbreaking; Tim had to look away. Martin rubbed his nose, looking uncomfortable. “El—Peter’s office. I, I don’t know what’s on it.”
“Peter’s office. You mean Bas—someone left it for you?” Sasha looked a bit guilty.
Martin shook his head. “Uh-uh. I went up and…lock’s still broken, you know? I’ve gone up a couple of times, pulled a couple tapes to listen to. I figured there was a chance they were statements Gertrude took live and they’d be a bit more…substantial than the written ones, but less likely to give me dreams than ones I take in person. Let’s face it, people don’t survive giving their statements very long. Comparatively.”
“So you were drawn to pick it up?” Tim took the tape from Sasha and studied it. There was nothing particularly appealing about it, at least not to his eyes, but then again it wasn’t like he could pick out a good fish if it wasn’t frozen and clearly labeled. Martin was the one who lived on these things, he knew what a ripe or juicy statement looked like, and God he hated thinking like that.
“No,” Martin said, surprising him—and, from the way everyone else stared at him, the rest of the crew as well. “The opposite, actually. I had a very strong feeling that I should leave it alone. That there was nothing on there I needed to know, that whatever’s on there would…that I should just leave it alone. There were a few others I just wanted to throw away, but this one…I dropped it twice just trying to pick it up. Probably should have left it, but…I don’t know. Curious, I guess.” He stared at the tape in Tim’s hand. “I’m the avatar of awful knowledge and revealed secrets. What does it not want me to know?”
When he put it like that, Tim could understand both why he had brought it down and why he had left it where he had. He couldn’t risk leaving it where it might fall into the wrong hands, after all. It was almost certainly something that would put the rest of them in danger, he mused; that would be why the Ceaseless Watcher wouldn’t want Martin to look at it. Or why it would tell him not to look at it. He still cared, in a way few other avatars did, about what happened to his people, and the Eye had to know that if anything happened to them, it would likely lose Martin. One way or another. And Tim could see just how painful it was for him to even look at the thing with his regular sight. Trying to actually play it would definitely hurt.
Gerry suddenly inhaled sharply and yanked the tape out of Tim’s hand. Before Tim could even wrap his lips around a hey, he had snatched up a recorder, popped the tape in, and pressed PLAY. Then he stepped back, found Tim’s hand, and clutched it tightly before reaching for Melanie with the other.
There was a sharp sigh from the tape, and then Gertrude Robinson’s dry, reedy voice began speaking. “Right. No use putting it off further.”
It only took the rustle of paper and the first few words before realization struck Tim with the force of a hammer’s blow, and he wrapped himself around Gerry from behind, holding him tightly. Gerry had, as usual, made the connection between his flashback of the night before and the tape Martin didn’t want to hear far faster than Tim had, but now Tim realized what the reasoning probably was. I think I found a way.
“And so Eric Delano ended.”
Melanie made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and Tim noticed her hand tighten around Gerry’s; he tightened it in return. Martin was staring at the tape recorder, his eyes glowing as usual, his face paper white, and Tim saw, rather distantly, Jon wrap himself around Martin the same way he was clinging to Gerry. Then he forgot about everyone else as the conversation began.
Eric Delano sounded a lot like his son, but far more jaded and bitter. Tim found himself wondering what Gerry would have sounded like if he hadn’t grown up with Martin and Melanie, if he’d died alone and thinking he was unloved. If he’d never come back. He tucked his chin over Gerry’s shoulder and listened as he talked to Gertrude. The description of what being bound to the Book felt like hit Tim in a place he’d never expected, and he hugged Gerry a little tighter. Gerry had suffered like that, had known he was nothing more than a memory and pain…but he wasn’t, he was still Gerry, he was solid and real and alive and there and Tim loved him in a way he’d never expected to love anyone, and he had to know that.
But it didn’t erase what he’d suffered, no matter how much Tim wished it had. And now he had to listen to the father he could barely remember describe the same agony.
A lot of the initial conversation was painful, and part of Tim would really rather not have heard it. But he supposed it was stuff he needed to know. Hard to get old in this business. You either die, or you, uh, stay young. Well…that was accurate. Despite the white hair, Gerry still seemed young enough, and Tim found himself wondering if he would continue to age or if, someday down the line, he’d be an old man of seventy getting funny looks for walking out with this young-looking thirtysomething thing. Or maybe they’d both die young, or relatively young anyway. No way to know for sure, except to wait.
Gertrude had gotten old, despite being…more or less what Martin was. That had to be comforting.
Right?
Someone—Tim wasn’t sure who—inhaled sharply when Eric informed Gertrude that he’d figured out a way to quit, but he wasn’t surprised. Gerry’s flashback had ended right before he found out what his dad was planning…Alastair Koskiewicz had known, but nobody else had. And the Eye didn’t want Martin to know about this any more than it had—probably—wanted Gertrude to know. Of course that would be what was on the tape. Eric’s concern for Gerry made him smile, at least a little, but Gertrude’s remarks about him made him want to dig up what the Stranger had left of her and kill her a third time.
And then Eric began his statement.
“Subject is Eric Delano, recorded twenty-first of July, 2008, regarding...”
“What else? Me, Mary, and the Archives.”
2008…Tim tried to slot this into his mental timeline. It was ten years after Martin’s grandfather died, twenty years after Martin and Jon and Melanie were born, the same year that Mary had bound herself into the Book and Gerry had been accused of her murder, the same year Gerry and his siblings had started burning Leitners. It was closing in on ten years ago now. And, Tim realized belatedly, it was exactly twenty years after Eric had—presumably—given the same explanation of his plan to quit to Martin’s grandfather.
He sounded so bitter, but also…resigned. It was like he knew, even at the beginning, that he wasn’t going to get anything out of this other than an opportunity to talk, that it wouldn’t do any good to him or Gertrude. But he kept talking. Tim got that. It was hard to stop talking to the Archivist once you started, and while he knew Martin hated it, he didn’t think Gertrude minded. Not in this instance, anyway. Certainly she didn’t seem particularly sympathetic when Eric got to the end, only insisting that he keep up his end of the bargain and tell her how he’d quit.
And when he did, the answer took Tim’s breath away.
Of course. Eric was right—it was so simple, and so extreme at the same time. But it made sense. After all, they called it the Eye. What else could it possibly use? Martin’s connection got stronger when he took off his glasses, there was so much about Seeing…
Click. The tape recorder sounded almost preternaturally loud as it shut itself off. For long moments, none of them spoke.
Sasha was the one to finally break the silence, with a single word that fell into the center of the room with all the weight and subtlety of a cinder brick dropped from a third story window. “Fuck.”
“God.” Gerry reached up and wiped at his face with a shaky hand; Tim wasn’t surprised to realize he was crying again. “I—I remember him just sitting there, but…fucking hell, I didn’t realize he did that.”
“Bit drastic, but necessary,” Martin said, his voice flat and unemotional but unusually quiet.
Daisy strode around the desk, nudged a chair over with a scrape that made Martin flinch ever so slightly, and then grabbed his arm and half guided, half dragged him to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Jon, looking extremely shaken, kissed Martin’s forehead lightly. “I’ll—I’ll go get you some tea and—”
“No, I’m all right. I’m all right,” Martin repeated. Tim didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know he was lying. He was paper white under the freckles and scars, and there was a dull, blank look in his eyes that said he was more than half blind with actual, physical pain. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple. “Christ. Gerry, are—are you…?”
“Better than you are,” Gerry said, a bit pointedly. “I had—that was my flashback last night. Dad took me to see Alastair—it must’ve been a month, maybe, before you were born—and that, he’d figured out how to quit. I must’ve fallen asleep before he told him, but…well, I guess I knew that was coming.” He swallowed. “I just…didn’t expect to hear his voice.”
There was another long silence as they all sat down, in chairs or on the edges of desks or, in Jon’s case, on the floor next to Martin’s chair, resting his cheek against Martin’s thigh. Martin absently began stroking his hair, ever so gently, but his eyes were still fixed on the tape recorder, or at least in its direction.
This time, Tim decided to break the silence, because he had to ask. “So. Is anyone going to try that?”
Sasha looked up at him in obvious surprise. Martin blinked, hard, and looked around the room. “It’s a fair question,” he agreed slowly. “I—I wouldn’t blame any of you for trying.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Jon said, looking up at him. “If you quit, I’ll go with you. If you stay, I stay.”
“Yeah, same,” Melanie said. “Promised you that fifteen years ago, I’m not changing that now.”
“I can’t,” Daisy said in a low voice. “Think the Eye’s the only thing keeping me from either giving into the Hunt or starving to death right now. I won’t survive severing that connection.”
Tim glanced at Sasha, who bit her lip in obvious indecision. “I—I don’t know. I have to think about it. I don’t want to abandon you all, but…” She looked over at Tim. “What about you?”
Part of Tim was tempted. He’d got revenge for Danny, after all; the world was safe from the Unknowing, and they didn’t really need him for the other rituals. Gerry wouldn’t abandon him if he was blind and helpless, and really he wouldn’t be helpless. There was nothing keeping him here anymore.
Nothing except his family.
“Not until we figure out exactly what Peter Lukas is up to, anyway,” he said finally. “Not while you’re all here. What about you, Martin? I notice you said you wouldn’t blame any of us, but I didn’t hear anything out of you about quitting.”
“I—” Martin hesitated. Anguish flashed across his face. “I…don’t think I can. I-I mean, I could. Physically. Wouldn’t even take much effort to do it. The problem is…I’m, I’m really wound up in it. It’s had a hold on me since I was seven, and it’s only got worse in the last few years. And with the state I’m in…I’m pretty sure trying to sever that connection would actually kill me at this point. I don’t think I can survive without the Eye. And as tempted as I am to try…” He closed his eyes, but not before Tim had seen the glint of tears in them. “I don’t want to risk leaving you all.”
“Getting free of this isn’t worth losing you,” Jon said softly. “Not to me.”
“Or me,” Melanie added.
Gerry raised his head and looked at Martin. The temperature dropped several degrees, and his eyes turned pure white, as did his hair, and there was the whoosh of wind Tim was familiar with now. It only lasted a second, and then it was gone and Gerry was back to normal, though incredibly sad.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It would kill you. And it wouldn’t let you go easily. You’d…suffer.”
“I’d do it if I thought it would do any good,” Martin said. “I just…don’t know that it would.”
“It wouldn’t,” Jon said fiercely. He got up, took Martin’s face in his hands, and kissed him, deeply and thoroughly. Martin’s hands came up to hold onto Jon’s elbows, and Tim could see the tears rolling down his cheeks.
He wrapped his arms around Gerry again and pulled him close, feeling the tears in his own eyes. He understood. He understood all too well.