I Am the Day Transcending Night

The seat was, or should have been, uncomfortable. Splinters ought to have poked into his legs, or his ass should be getting pinched between the slats. At the very least, its flat nature should have meant his tailbone ached. But some weird sort of alchemy must have gone into the making, because the worst that could be said about it was that nobody else was seated on it.

Gerry really hated traveling alone, which was a new and somewhat startling development. His whole life he’d preferred solo trips, certainly over traveling with his mother, and he’d honestly believed that was down to his native personality. But sometime in the last few years, he’d come to realize he’d much rather have someone to share the experience with.

It couldn’t be helped, though. Well, it could, but that was down to personality. Gerry hated flying, absolutely hated it, and refused to do it unless it was completely necessary and there were no other alternatives whatsoever. Tim usually indulged him, and God knew he liked taking the trains too, but it was important he get there quickly because he had to make sure the Archivist was all right. That was the only reason he wasn’t sitting next to Gerry.

Wasn’t it?

Gerry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then looked around. This was a small station, little more than a platform really, nothing but this backless wooden bench under a slope-roofed shelter open on both sides, a tiny ticket window at the far end currently closed, the tracks stretching out ahead of him and, presumably, behind. It was cold, unusually so for…May? Wasn’t it May? Was he still in England or—no, he was traveling, he must be…

He shook his head impatiently. He felt like he’d just woken from a very long nap, or recovered from a bad bout of the ‘flu. His head was full of fog and cobwebs…no, not fog or cobwebs, that implied things he didn’t want to imply. This was just…just an illness. Right? Or the tail end of an illness, anyway. Or maybe…an injury?

Flashes of memory tugged at Gerry’s brain—the Archives, the tunnels, a block of grey putty. The detonator in his back pocket, a hand in his back pocket. A taunt. A kiss. An explosion.

Right. They’d blown up the Archives, and Jonah Magnus, while they were still standing in them. No wonder he felt off. Good thing they’d been able to get some time away to recover, he thought fuzzily. But of course, Tim needed to get back to London and the Archivist, and Gerry could take his time. Still, it wasn’t like Tim to leave Gerry alone while he was hurting like this.

God, the Guardian must be winning out over Tim, and wasn’t that a happy thought.

Gerry shivered. Christ, it was cold. Foggy, too. It felt normal enough—this wasn’t the Lonely—but it was heavy and thick, almost enough that he could have wound it through a drop spindle and spun a ball of yarn for someone to knit into a blanket or a jumper. He couldn’t make out the signboards, let alone the tracks. It was a good bet he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

At the sound of footsteps, the first thing he’d heard in—how long had it been, anyway?—Gerry turned, warmth rising in his chest. Of course Tim hadn’t gone on without him, of course he was there—he’d just gone to check the time or the weather or something, or maybe to call Martin and find out how everything was and let them know they’d be delayed. Tim wouldn’t leave him behind. Not like this. Not now.

The joy dimmed, though, as he made out the figure emerging from the fog. Not Tim after all, but a completely unknown man. His face was pale and angular, his eyes almost colorless and tired, his hair a soft shade of ash brown. He wore a stodgy heather tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, basic brown trousers, and a cream-colored turtleneck. In one hand he carried a battered briefcase, in the other a battered porkpie hat. He looked as confused and disappointed to see Gerry as Gerry probably did to see him.

“May I join you?” the man asked politely.

Something about his voice tugged at Gerry’s memory, but he shrugged and shifted over slightly. “It’s a free country.” He paused, then added, “I think.”

The man managed a small laugh and sat down, resting first the briefcase on his lap, then the hat on top of that. “Thank you. Not sure of where you are, then?”

“I’ve been ill,” Gerry said, because it seemed easier than trying to explain. The man sounded like London—he sounded like home—which didn’t necessarily mean he’d know what had happened to the Institute but at least meant there was a chance, and the last thing he needed was to have to field awkward questions.

“That much is obvious. You’re too young for it to have been much else,” the man murmured. “Would have to be either ill or an accident. Kids don’t actually commit ritual suicide from listening to that music, do they?”

“I’m thirty-seven,” Gerry said, mildly offended. “Hardly a kid.”

The man snorted. “Well, excuse me. Then of course it’s much more likely for you to have—hang on.” He stopped and studied Gerry’s face intently. His eyes widened, and what little color was in his face faded. “You’ve got…oh, God. Gerard?”

“Have we met?” Gerry asked hesitantly. The man’s voice still sounded familiar, but he couldn’t seem to place it. Still, if the man knew his name, obviously they’d met…however briefly. Probably on one of his trips with Gertrude—if it had been Tim, he’d have known him as Gerry.

“Gerard,” the man said softly. “You don’t recognize me, do you, son?”

Gerry was about to point out that he’d just said he didn’t know the man when the word son filtered into his brain and caught up with the voice. It sounded so different when not filtered through memory…or a tape recorder’s tinny speaker.

He sat up straighter. “Dad?”

“Gerard,” the man—his father—repeated. Tears filled his eyes, and he reached toward his face for a moment before drawing back, as if conscious of the fact that it may not entirely be welcome. “My God, look at you. You’re…you’ve grown up.”

“That, uh, that tends to happen,” Gerry said, a bit stupidly. He was still struggling somewhat to catch up to the conversation. “I mean, it’s been…thirty-five years? Something like that.”

Eric Delano gave a small, slightly broken laugh. “Something like that, yes. What are you doing here?”

“Traveling, I guess. I don’t really remember,” Gerry admitted. “It’s…complicated. Not sure how much time I have. Even as foggy as it is, trains usually still run, right?” He glanced around again, looking for some sort of timetable. “Shit, I don’t even know if I have my ticket.”

“You do,” Eric assured him. Something sad flickered through his eyes as he said it, at odds with the smile on his lips. “We have plenty of time. What happened? You said you’d been ill.”

“Seemed easier than trying to explain to a stranger, but…you know, you’ll get it.” Gerry managed a smile in reply. “Short version, there was an explosion. I…probably got caught in it. I’m kind of fuzzy on what happened, actually, so there’s probably brain damage or something.”

He spoke lightly, but almost unconsciously, he found himself raising his hand to touch the spot where the surgeons had cut into his skull almost three years previously. The scar had long since healed over, the hair grown back, but his fingers still quested lightly over the scalp, seeking the bumps and ridges as if to satisfy himself that they hadn’t come loose and spilled his brains all over the place. It felt intact, anyway, which was nice to know.

“An explosion?” Eric’s eyes widened. “God, what’s Mary got you doing now?”

Gerry winced. “Uh, right, you’ve…it’s been a while. She’s dead. Has been for…God, nine years? She tried to gain mastery of that book of hers and…she needed my help to finish, and I wouldn’t do it.”

Eric huffed. “Good for you. Got more of a spine than I ever did, honestly…so she bled out over it?”

“Kind of. It worked, but it also didn’t? She bound herself to it, and she was able to manifest almost at will, but it left her…damaged.” Gerry swallowed at the memory. “And she said it was my fault, that if I’d helped her she’d have transcended death. She haunted me for about five years before Gertrude Robinson found me and said she could help.”

At that, Eric’s eyes went flat and cold. “Took her damned long enough.”

Gerry shrugged. “I didn’t exactly make it easy on her, not that I knew she was looking for me. Neither did Mum. But she got me free in the end. I gave her the book when Mum had faded away and when she handed it back to me a week later, the pages were burned and mangled. Honestly, I could’ve cried, I was so relieved.”

“I’ll bet.” Eric’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m sorry. I should have…never mind.” He studied Gerry for a moment. “So it was Gertrude who got you involved in whatever caused this explosion?”

“I guess kind of indirectly, maybe,” Gerry said slowly. “I was helping her, and that’s how I met Tim—he was her assistant, and he stayed on after she died. Well, was killed.”

“Someone killed Gertrude? I’m shocked. She’d spent decades surviving, she was good at it. What got her in the end? A Hunter?”

Gerry shook his head. “Jonah Magnus.”

Eric’s briefcase and hat clattered to the platform. “What? You’re joking. Jonah Magnus has been dead for two hundred years!”

“He’s been stealing lives to stay in charge of the Institute. When I met him, eventually, he was Elias Bouchard, but he’s apparently been doing it for hundreds of years. Gertrude left us—Tim and me—well, mostly Tim, but even she admitted that we were almost certainly working together still. Anyway, she left us a note telling us everything. Not that he killed her. He told us that, eventually, but…” Gerry trailed off. “Sorry, got a bit off topic there.”

“It’s—you’re fine.” Eric ran a hand distractedly through his hair, which Gerry now realized was the same color as his own under the dye. “What were you…blowing up?”

Gerry swallowed. “Um. The Magnus Institute.”

Eric stared at Gerry hard. “Why?” he asked finally.

Gerry gave a small laugh. “You know, after everything you must have seen working for the Institute and living with Mum and all that, this is going to sound really, really stupid, but…I don’t think you’ll believe me if I told you.”

Eric laughed, too, but he sounded more incredulous than amused. “Try me.”

“All right.” Gerry took a deep breath. “There was a new Archivist appointed after Gertrude died. Tim started slowly…becoming something as well. He’s the Guardian. His purpose is to guard the Archivist. The Archives,” he added slowly, remembering Tim’s monologue he’d left for Jon the night before the Unknowing. “And did you…did you know about the rituals Gertrude was trying to stop?”

“Oh, yes. She had us working on those. Sort of.”

“Well, she worked out in the end—I mean, just before she died—that they were all doomed to fail. That they couldn’t succeed, because you can’t bring just one of the Fourteen into the world. But she said Jonah had a ritual that would work. And Tim worked out that whatever his plan was, it hinged on the Archivist, probably because of recording the statements and absorbing them into himself. He reckoned that if we could blow up the Institute, it would disrupt the Eye’s power enough that it couldn’t gather enough to try another ritual for at least a hundred years or more, and if we could blow Jonah Magnus to kingdom come in the bargain, so much the better. The Unknowing—the Stranger’s ritual—was in the final stages of preparation, so Tim let Jon—the new Archivist—and the rest of his assistants head up there to stop it, and he and I planted explosives in the building.”

Gerry stopped, partly because he’d reached the end of the story—more or less—and partly because his father was staring at him like he’d just come out of a cake in his underclothes and danced on the tables. He ran through the things he’d just said and…yeah, okay, that was kind of a lot. He resisted the urge to apologize, though, and just waited.

Finally, Eric swallowed hard and bent over shakily to retrieve his briefcase and hat. When he sat back up, he spoke in a careful sort of voice. “Did you misjudge the range on the detonator?”

With a wince, Gerry shook his head. “Not really. We meant to get clear before we blew it—we could have got safely away and been fine—but, well, Jonah cottoned on to what we were doing. Sort of, anyway. He came down and threatened to shoot Tim the way he had Gertrude and…well, we both knew it was then or never. Either he was going to shoot us both and win, or we were going to blow the place while he was standing there. And he had one of the charges in his jacket pocket like an idiot. I don’t think he actually thought Tim would have the courage to press the trigger while both of us were standing there.”

He touched his lips lightly, hardly aware of what he was doing. Despite the cold of the platform, they still felt warm, as though the kiss Tim had planted on them had only been broken off moments before. Of course, Tim had to have kissed him again before he went off to do whatever it was he was doing, but Gerry couldn’t shake the idea that it was that kiss, the one they’d thought might be their last, burned into him permanently.

“It didn’t blow up in your face, did it?” Eric asked a bit anxiously.

“Not really. My face was otherwise occupied,” Gerry said without thinking, then bit his tongue hard enough that the back of the silver stud affixed to it stabbed him in the gums. This might have been his dad—and he might have been dead, so it might not matter—but that still wasn’t necessarily safe to mention.

Eric didn’t seem to notice, though. He sighed heavily. “That’s good, at least. Still, I can’t imagine it was pleasant. Was it the explosion itself, or did the building fall on you?”

Gerry shrugged. “I don’t actually know. Like I said, I don’t really remember. Last thing I remember was Tim pushing the detonator, then…” He gestured around him. “Do you know what country we’re in? I’m not even sure how I got here. Or how you’re here, come to think of it. I mean…I, I heard the tape Gertrude recorded with your statement. If she burned your page, shouldn’t you be…gone?”

That look of infinite sadness came into Eric’s eyes again. “This isn’t really a country, Gerard. Not in the traditional sense.”

Something flipped in Gerry’s stomach as understanding dawned on him. He looked down at his hands, at the rough and callused palms, then slowly turned them over and stared at the smooth, unbroken, unmarred skin, evenly colored from nail to wrist.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” Eric agreed. He reached over hesitantly and touched the back of Gerry’s hand.

Both of them flinched back simultaneously. To Gerry, his father’s fingertips were as cold as ice—colder. They burned, like he’d been kissed with liquid nitrogen. He half expected to see crystals sparkling in the spot where he’d touched, or three discolored circles of red or white or black, the sign of instant frostbite. It was as pristine as before, though, save the faintest hint of the curve of a tattoo on the knuckle, like Eric had wiped a layer of makeup off of them.

“Jesus, you’re hot,” Eric hissed, shaking out his hand.

“So I’ve heard,” Gerry said automatically. He winced—God, why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut? True, he’d never been respectful around an adult in his life, but this was his dad. This was someone he wanted to respect him. He didn’t want to annoy him like he did Gertrude, but he also didn’t want to fear him like he had his mother.

Eric managed a smile. “So, from the sound of it, you’re, uh, maybe in the process of making me a grandfather?”

“Can honestly say that was not ever something we talked about. Your only grandson has four legs and a tail,” Gerry mumbled.

“It’s serious enough that you got a dog together?”

“Moved in together. Got a dog together. Held each other through the worst days of our lives, supported each other when we were at our best. I, uh…” Gerry cleared his throat. “I proposed. Kind of by accident once, but I confirmed it just before…” He gestured at himself.

Eric’s smile brightened, even though his eyes still looked infinitely sad. “Tell me about her.”

For a moment, Gerry considered talking around it, but he knew he had to be honest. “Well, first of all…she’s a him. I’ve never…cared about gender all that much when it comes to who I’m f—who I’m sleeping with, but he’s the first one I…liked enough to stick around after. Or, well, we were friends before we started hooking up, but…” He trailed off uncertainly. He’d never cared what his mother thought of him, or Gertrude. Worrying about how someone would take his sexual proclivities was new.

Eric’s smile never wavered, though. If anything, his expression softened just a little. “That’s important. Being with someone you’re friends with. I loved your mother…or at least I was in love with her, or the thrill she brought into my life…but we were never friends. Tell me about him, then.”

Gerry relaxed and told him all about Tim—his goofy sense of humor, his brilliant smile and eyes you could drown in, his work ethic and his calling Gerry out on his bullshit from minute one and liking him anyway. How he’d flown halfway around the world to be there with him for his surgery and supported him afterwards, how he’d introduced him to ice skating and great wheels, how he’d charmed his way through door after door and coaxed secrets out of recalcitrant witnesses. The way Gertrude had trusted him, the way he’d tended the Archives, the way he looked after the other assistants. He told him about the dangerous moments and the peaceful ones, and the life he’d only just begun to realize he could even live, never mind deserve.

Until Eric leaned over and, tenderly and carefully, wiped away the tears coursing their way down his cheeks, he didn’t even realize he was crying.

“That’s why he’s not here,” he murmured, something unpleasant settling into his stomach. “He’s not…I don’t deserve to spend forever with him. We’re not going to…”

“Hey.” Eric’s voice, gentle but stern, cut through Gerry’s self-recrimination and pity. “None of that. If anyone deserves forever, Gerard, it’s you and your Tim. If he’s not here, it’s because he’s waiting for you where you’re going.”

“Is he, though?” Gerry shook his head. “He’s the Guardian. He’s an avatar of the Beholding. I don’t know if he can die, not unless he dies for the Archivist. He’s got to protect him. I, I think he survived the explosion.” He dropped his chin to his chest. “And I didn’t.”

Eric was silent for several moments. Finally, he said, “You said you heard my statement?”

“Yeah. We both did.”

“Then you know—then he knows how to sever that connection. If he’s connected enough to it that he could survive being at the epicenter of an explosion, he’s probably bound to it tightly enough that that would kill him.” Eric ducked down until he made eye contact with Gerry, who, reluctantly, raised his head. “Which means I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know that he won’t. That’s love.”

“It’s not—we’re not like that. Neither one of us really does…romance.” Gerry held back his snide thoughts about his parents’ relationship.

“Did the word ‘romance’ come out of my lips?” Eric huffed. “I said love. Trust, devotion, respect—you don’t need romance to love someone. And you don’t need romance to decide life isn’t worth living without them. You’ve both fought hard enough that you deserve a rest, and you deserve each other.”

Gerry managed a smile. “I think we’re only going to get one or the other.”

Eric sighed. “You get that pessimism from me.”

Gerry looked around the platform. He still couldn’t see more than a few feet away, but now that he twisted around to see behind himself, he realized that the platform stood in the middle of two sets of tracks. “Heaven or hell?”

“Hm?” Eric looked up at him in surprise.

“Is that where the two sets of tracks go?” Gerry jerked one thumb over his shoulder, then nodded in front of him. “One to heaven and one to hell?”

Eric blinked and looked over his own shoulder. After a moment, he stood and walked over to the platform, then leaned over and peered into the fog for several long seconds. Finally, he came back and sat down slowly.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Gerry frowned. “What is?”

“That you noticed a second set of tracks back there.” Eric raised an eyebrow, and this time the quirk of his lips was more of a smirk than a smile. “They aren’t there for me. Just these in front of us. Looks like you might be able to get a different train than I’m going to be taking.”

Gerry wanted to hope. He wanted to believe that there was an opportunity, that it would mean he could…but no, more than likely it was just that Tim would arrive on one train, and maybe they could ride the next together. He couldn’t possibly be that lucky.

What was it Tim had said on the recording for Jon, when he’d talked about the risk he was taking in letting the others go to Great Yarmouth? We make a lie out of hope by treating it like a promise. It’s a gamble.

“‘But there is no bargain, for here what is is what must be,’” he murmured.

“Eh? What was that?” Eric cocked his head slightly.

“It’s…it’s a line from a book. Watership Down.”

“I know the book, but I didn’t catch the line.”

“It’s something the Black Rabbit of Inlé says to El-ahrairah, when he’s trying to trade his life for his people.” Gerry tried to remember the full, exact quote, then gave up and just repeated, “‘But there is no bargain, for here what is is what must be.’”

Eric snorted. “‘This is a cold warren: a bad place for the living and no place at all for warm hearts and brave spirits.’”

“I’m no El-ahrairah, Dad.” It was the first time Gerry had called his father that, and he swallowed back the tears at how good it felt to say.

“No, that would be your Tim, but Rabscuttle made it out too, didn’t he?” Eric smiled again.

The overhead tannoy crackled to life, startling them both. Gerry expected to hear the matter of fact voice of a practiced announcer telling which platform the train would be approaching, or an apologetic voice saying the engine was delayed. Instead, he heard a voice that thrummed with power so strong it pushed back the fog. “He who hears my voice, he who knows my nature, he who lies still but does not sleep: Turn you around and retrace your path, and come back to the one who ever needs you by his side.”

Gerry felt a tug at his heartstrings, a very literal one. He looked behind him and smiled as a light cut through the fog. “I think that’s my train.”

Eric stood, too. “I wish I could go with you, but…well, my ticket is in the other direction.” He hesitated, then held out his arms.

Gerry knew it would be cold enough to burn, and that it would likely hurt his father, too, but if he was willing to chance it, damn the risk. He hugged him as hard as he could. Still cold through the fabric, but the tweed suit and Gerry’s own leather coat insulated him from the worst of it, especially on his back as his father hugged him back just as tightly.

“We’ll see one another again someday,” Eric murmured in his ear. “I promise, Gerard.”

“Gerry,” Gerry whispered back.

Eric pulled back a bit. “What was that?”

Gerry looked into his father’s eyes and smiled—a real, true, genuine smile. “The people who love me call me Gerry.”

Eric smiled back. “Gerry then. I’ll see you again—a long, long time from now, you hear me?”

“I hear you, sir.” Gerry hugged him again. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too, son.”

With a long, low whistle and a hiss of steam, a 4-6-2 engine of gleaming green steel and brass trim, its cowcatcher painted bright red and flags fluttering on its bumper, pulled up to the platform and stopped. A tall, slender man in a uniform Gerry had last seen on the cover of an Agatha Christie novel stepped out of the first car and opened a pocketwatch.

“All aboooooooard!” he called, drawing out the vowel like a steam whistle himself.

Gerry reached into his pocket and was somehow unsurprised to find a large yellow cardboard rectangle. He crossed the platform and held out his ticket to the conductor, who studied it, punched it, and handed it back with a smile. “Better get on board, son. Trains wait for no man. Next stop, London.”

Obediently, Gerry climbed the step and entered the car, which was completely empty. He made his way to a seat and settled by the window, then looked out. His father still stood on the platform, watching him; they made eye contact and smiled.

The whistle blew again, and the train began to move. Gerry waved enthusiastically. Eric waved back, walking alongside the train, then running as it picked up steam, until he reached the end of the platform. Gerry watched and waved until the platform vanished into the distance—the fog, once he’d taken his seat, had totally gone.

That done, he settled back in the seat and clenched his hands together tightly. Anticipation and—he dared to feel it—hope burned in his chest.

“Hang on, Tim,” he whispered. “I’m coming home.”