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“You’re sure about this?”
Gerry left off scrutinizing his choices to grin over his shoulder at his boyfriend. “Of course I’m sure! Why wouldn’t I be sure about going to a party with you?”
Behind him, Jon grinned despite his best efforts. “Well, for one, you’ve never struck me as a partier.”
“And maybe I’m not. But then again, maybe I am! Not even I know, at this point. And I’m certainly not going to find out if I never try.”
With a sigh, Jon stepped further into their room to stand alongside him. Gerry dropped a kiss to the top of his head, and Jon shifted to lean into his side. “I know, I know. Last thing I want to do is stifle your self-discovery.”
“But?” Gerry prompted him gently.
“You know what the ‘but’ is.”
“Hope it’s mine and not yours—” Jon elbowed him in the side. “Kidding, kidding.”
“It’s just, after everything you told me about the Magnus Institute,” Jon went on. “Not to mention your reaction when you first found out I was working there—I’m just surprised you want to go near the place.”
“To be fair, it’s not like I found out under the best of circumstances,” Gerry pointed out. Jon winced. “And—yeah. So the place is a temple to a vast and unknowable cosmic entity that feeds on the fear of being watched. Not ideal. But I told you before, it’s not a death sentence or anything. Plenty of people have passed through that place and come out none the wiser.”
“I’ve failed step two already,” Jon said dryly.
“True. Just means you’re aware of the danger. And as long as you steer clear of Artefact Storage and the Archives, you’re… well, you’re about as safe as you can be. Safe as anyone else.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “If it helps, Mum was pretty unimpressed with you being a Researcher.”
“Always happy to help you disappoint your mother.”
“I think she was hoping I’d bagged an archival assistant.”
“Not likely,” Jon said venomously.
Gerry kissed him again, just to loosen some of that tension out of his shoulders. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. Beholding aside, sometimes an office holiday party is just an office holiday party. Not that I’ve ever been to one of those before, but I hear they’re delightfully boring.”
“I wish I could just take that on faith,” Jon groused. “But no, now I can’t even walk past the water cooler without wondering if it’s full of eyeballs.”
Gerry pressed a gentle finger under Jon’s chin and turned his head to look at him. “Tell you what. If your boss starts sacrificing all the plus-ones to the eldritch gods, we can call it a night.”
Jon rolled his eyes fondly. “Fine, fine.”
“Great! Now help me choose what to wear, I’ve narrowed my options down to two.”
Jon finally looked at the pair of garish jumpers that Gerry had been staring at, and burst out laughing.
Contrary to popular belief, Rosie Zampano did not show up early to every optional institute function.
Office parties were the only time she could show up late to work without tarnishing her reputation. And besides, no one interesting ever showed up early. Walking in at least fifteen minutes after the start was a far better use of her time.
So, as she always did on the day of the annual holiday party, Rosie strolled down the second-floor hallway to the conference room that had come to be known as the ‘gala room’—Mr. Jonah Magnus had really thought ahead when he designed this place, hadn’t he—dressed in red and green socks, tastefully festive cardigan, and antlered headband. There were two water bottles in her bag; the eggnog ended up spiked as often as not, and that was a misstep she’d only needed to make once.
It did have its uses, though. Sonja and Diana’s row from last year had been the talk of the office for weeks, and this year Rosie was fairly sure there was something brewing between David and Andy from research. Whether it was the sort of something that led to an occupied supply closet or yet another screaming row, Rosie couldn’t wait to find out.
As she approached the door to the gala room, she slowed her pace curiously. There was a small crowd gathered around the open doorway, looking in. Less than ten people, but certainly enough to catch her attention. Rosie softened her footsteps, suddenly hyper-aware of the audible clack of heels, and approached the person furthest from the door. It was David, looking far more put together than he had by the end of last year’s party.
“What’s going on?” Rosie asked. “Has the party not started yet?”
“Oh it’s started,” David replied with a grin. “Sorry, you can go in if you want.”
“Just don’t let them know we’re watching!” Megan hissed from her vantage point.
“Who are we watching?” Rosie asked.
“New faces,” David replied. “And what a face—didn’t know Sims had it in him.”
“Sims?” It took a moment for Rosie to recall the face attached to the name. “Wait, Jonathan Sims? Isn’t he one of yours?”
“Yeah. Still waters run deep, I guess.”
With a sigh, Rosie stuck out her elbows and made her way forward until she reached the doorway. In spite of the rubber-necking, the party inside was well underway. Not everyone had arrived, but there was a decent number of people present, making small talk or availing themselves of refreshments. She recognized almost all of them, either as coworkers or as significant others that had attended previous functions.
Almost being the operative word.
One man, presumably the subject of fascination, stood out to her for a number of reasons. The first was that Rosie had never seen him before. The second was that he was quite tall, certainly tall enough to tower over his partner. From there the reasons expanded—the long, dyed black hair, the heavy eyeliner, the black nail polish, the piercings— ears, lip, and eyebrow. One of those punks, or goths, or maybe emos? Rosie could never remember the difference. Either way, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on a motorcycle, in one of those leather jackets with the spikes on the shoulders.
But instead of leather, he was wearing a soft-looking jumper, as garish as any of the dozen other jumpers she could see in the room. Dominating the front of it was a picture of that winged goat deity whose name escaped her, surrounded by a border of snowflakes and other winter- and Christmas-themed imagery.
He must have been a significant other. And, since he was currently grinning and hunched over in conversation with Jonathan Sims…
“Well,” was all Rosie could think to say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that man in a cozy jumper before.”
“You’ve seen him before?” Megan demanded, her hushed voice rising an octave.
“I think she’s talking about Jon,” said David. “Because to be honest with you, neither have I.”
“That’s got to be his roommate or something, right?” Syeda muttered.
Rosie patted her shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find that out by standing here gawking,” she said, and shouldered her way into the room.
She didn’t go straight to them, of course. Instead, Rosie made her rounds through the room, exchanging cordial greetings and small talk until her path from one acquaintance to the next took her close enough to the pair to justify approaching.
“Jonathan, hi!” she greeted, accidentally startling him a bit. Probably could have avoided that by coming around the other side.
He turned to face her with a polite smile, revealing the front of his own jumper. HAIL SANTA, it read, around a pentagram made of candy canes and a wreath. A second glance at his companion's jumper brought her a new detail: the Baphomet figure on the front had the head of a reindeer instead of a goat.
They’d coordinated . This was too much.
“It’s good to see you here,” Rosie went on, trying not to stare too obviously. “First holiday party, isn’t it?”
“Good evening, Rosie,” Jonathan replied. “And, er, yes.” He seemed to stall, as if not sure where to take the small talk from there. His companion nudged him gently. “Right, sorry, this is Gerry.”
“Your plus-one, I take it?” Rosie asked, smiling as she shook the man’s hand. He had little eyes tattooed over his knuckles. Charming.
“His boyfriend,” Gerry replied, flashing a smile. Up close, Rosie had a much better look at his eyeliner. He had wings to die for.
“This is Rosie,” Jon told him. “She’s the administrative specialist.”
“Sounds fancy.”
Rosie squinted at him for a moment, not sure if he was having a laugh. Everyone knew that ‘administrative specialist’ was just ‘secretary’ with too many letters. But he seemed genuine enough. “They keep me busy around here,” she replied at length. “What do you do, if I may ask?”
She almost missed the quick look that passed between the two men. “I’ve been in the rare book business for a while,” Gerry replied after a moment. “Just left a long-term position over… a contractual disagreement.” Jon pursed his lips, not quite hiding a smile. “Might go freelance from now on. Might go back to school, even. Sky’s the limit.”
“Rare books,” Rosie mused, curiosity decidedly piqued. “I can see how a Magnus researcher might have caught your eye. Quite a bit of overlap, there.”
“Suppose so.” Gerry’s face did a fascinating little maneuver while still managing to stay mostly bland and polite. He’d caught her meaning. Rosie would bet good money he’d come across a Leitner or two in his time.
“We, ah, actually met before I started working here,” Jon said bashfully.
“Ohh, I see! Is there a story there?”
Jon’s mouth did a little twist that told her there very much was. “Not much of one,” he replied. “I met him my last year at uni, in a library. Helped him find a book. Went from there.”
She was absolutely dying to know more, but she had little more than a hunch to go on, and there wasn’t really a way to ask, Was it a Leitner? politely. “Well, the two of you look lovely together. Especially with your…” She gestured vaguely at Gerry. “Your whole style that you have. I love that. Reminds me of my early twenties.”
“Thanks.” Gerry grinned at her again. He had a lovely smile. Shame he was spoken for.
“And good luck with school, if you do decide to go,” Rosie offered.
“I might, I might not,” Gerry said, shrugging. “Haven’t decided.”
“You know I’d support you,” Jon murmured, not quietly enough for Rosie to miss.
Gerry leaned over to knock their shoulders together lightly. “That’s a conversation for home, I think.”
The conversation continued on. A few choice questions scored Rosie another few tidbits—the two of them had recently moved in together, Jon was Gerry’s first relationship but Gerry wasn’t Jon’s, Gerry had once whisked Jon off for a weekend in Paris ( what )—before Rosie glanced around and noted the greater numbers in the gathered party. She had more rounds to make, more people to talk to.
“Well, it’s been lovely,” she said. It really had been. Who knew that a boyfriend was all it took to smooth Jon’s prickly moods? “But I think I just saw Hannah, and she owes me a pie recipe.”
“Nice talking to you,” Gerry said cheerfully. At some point during the conversation, his hand had found its way into Jon’s. So precious.
“Yes, see you later, Rosie,” Jon added.
Rosie exited the conversation with smooth, practiced ease, and made her way over to Hannah. The other woman was staring past her, eyebrows raised.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Hannah asked. “That’s not Jon from Research, is it?”
“Oh, Hannah, wait until you hear this—”
Sasha was only late to the party because a call with the landlord had run a bit long. She used to skip these things in her early years, until one year she found out that Elias had invited surprise guests from outside the institute, and she’d missed out on valuable networking opportunities. It hadn’t happened since, but she was never going to take that risk again.
She arrived almost an hour after the holiday party had been scheduled to begin, to find a handful of people chatting around the door to the conference room, occasionally glancing in. Sonja was among them, bearing a cup of eggnog and a vaguely amused expression.
“Anything interesting this year?” Sasha asked her.
“You could say that,” her former coworker replied.”
“Don’t you share a desk with Jon?” asked Megan from filing.
“Yeah, why? Did he have a few too many?” That would be a surprise. He didn’t seem like the type to get drunk this early in the evening. Then again, this was his first institute party, wasn’t it.
“No, but he has a very pretty boyfriend and it isn’t fair.” Megan pouted. “How does a guy like him even meet someone that drop-dead hot?”
Sonja angled her face away from Megan and rolled her eyes so hard they almost disappeared into her head.
“I wouldn’t count him out,” Sasha said dryly, carefully approaching the doorway. “Jon could easily pull off the dark academia look if he put his mind to it—”
She stepped through the doorway and stopped, speechless. It didn’t take her long to find Jon, because the man he was standing next to stood out like a sore thumb. Long black hair, goth as hell right down to the reindeer Baphomet on his jumper. But, most importantly, Sasha had seen his face before.
She’d seen his mugshot .
All thoughts of Megan’s inane comments fled from her mind. Sasha crossed the room in a straight line and linked her arm with Jon’s, pasting a strained smile across her face as she stared up into Gerard Keay’s heavily-lined eyes.
“Hi there!” she said brightly. “Sorry to interrupt—mind if I borrow Jon for a second?” Without waiting for an answer, she towed Jon away toward the relative safety of the drinks table. People tended to avoid hanging around it, for fear of being blamed when the punch or the eggnog turned up spiked. For the sake of privacy, it was a risk that Sasha was willing to take.
“Jon, what the hell is going on,” she demanded sotto voce. “What’s he doing here? And why are you talking to him? Megan from filing thinks he’s dating you!”
“Sasha—”
“He isn’t threatening you, is he?”
“What—no!” Jon whisper-shouted at her. “Good lord, Sasha, it’s fine.”
“It is not fine! You had me researching his trial for murder the week after we met, and now you’re—” She stopped, and for the first time she noticed that Jon was wearing. “You’re wearing matching jumpers. Why are you wearing matching jumpers?”
“They don’t really match,” Jon replied, ducking his head to look down at the HAIL SANTA written over his front. “He couldn’t decide between the two, so I said, well what if I wear one and you wear the other.” He plucked at one baggy sleeve. “It’s a bit big. Very warm, though.”
Sasha stared at him. Jon very carefully did not look back.
“Jon. Why is he here.”
“He’s…” Jon’s cheeks darkened, ever so slightly. “He’s my plus one. Megan has the right of it.”
Sasha continued to stare, trying her best to beam her emotions directly into his brain.
“Look, Sasha—”
“On trial. For murder.” Sasha put her hands on his shoulders. “Did you read about the murder, Jon? Did you read about the clotheslines with the skin?”
Jon shut his eyes. “He didn’t do it.”
Sasha was shaking him a little. Jon shrugged her hands off and stepped back out of reach.
“It’s a very long and complicated story, but—the short version is, his mother was performing a supernatural ritual in an attempt to achieve immortality, and it left her a very powerful but unstable ghost. I asked you for help researching the trial because Gerry was distancing himself, and I had to figure out how to deal with her.”
“You call him Gerry? ”
“How is that the point you’re focusing on?” Jon retorted.
“ Because the rest of it is absurd, Jon. ”
“I’m sorry, where do we work, again?” Jon hissed back. “Which one of us worked in Artefact Storage for four months, again?
“You can’t keep bringing that up every time we don’t both believe in the same thing!”
Without warning, Jon’s eyes flashed with held-back temper. “This isn’t about what I believe. It’s about what happened.”
“And what happened is—what? A Leitner did it?”
“ Yes .”
Sasha stared at him helplessly.
“I met his mother,” Jon went on. “She tried to kill me, and he stopped her. He tried to make me leave so she couldn’t hurt me again, but I wouldn’t. I went back. She tried to kill me again. We burned the book. She’s gone now.” He sounded tired. “That’s what happened, Sasha. Whatever you choose to believe, it happened. Calling me a liar won’t change that, it just… it draws a line, and puts us on opposite sides.” He stepped back, shrugging. “It’s fine if you’d rather do that. Might be safer, honestly.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Sasha chased after him, grabbing his arm. “I didn’t—” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t what? She didn’t mean it? Of course she meant it. Jon could be in danger . “Look, do you have any proof?”
“What, you mean right now?”
“No, just—in general.”
Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead as if warding off a headache. “Honestly? No. The book is gone, and good riddance. Right now, all I want to do is put that night behind us, and maybe help my boyfriend figure out where his life is going now that he’s not being haunted by his mother. So to be perfectly honest, Sasha, I have far better things to do than prove anything to you.”
That stung. “I’m just worried ,” she retorted.
“And I’m telling you, you don’t have to be,” Jon informed her. “Look, believe me, don’t believe me, that’s up to you.” Pointedly he turned away from her, busying himself pouring a cup of eggnog. But before he could raise it to his lips, a pale, inked hand slipped over the rim and stopped him.
“Heads up before you do that,” said Gerard Keay, while Sasha nearly sprang back in alarm at his sudden, entirely noiseless arrival. Jon, by comparison, barely twitched. “Dunno if there was a failure of communication, but that stuff got spiked twice . How fucked up do you want to get tonight?”
With a sigh, Jon slowly lowered the cup back to the table.
“I mean, don’t let me stop you,” Gerard went on brightly. “If that’s the kind of night you want to have…”
“ Absolutely not.”
“That’s fine, we can make our own later. I was googling recipes this morning—”
“Why were you googling recipes for eggnog?” Jon asked.
“Oh, I dunno. It’s one of those things I’ve always heard about but never bothered looking into. But I’ve got the time now, and a non-contaminated kitchen, so…”
Sasha watched them, speechless. They really were together, in every sense of the word. Judging by the effortless ease between them, the way they seemed to simultaneously make space for each other and slip into the space left for them, they had been for a while.
She’d read the full police report, just out of morbid fascination. The man before her, cozily dressed and grinning as he bent down so Jon could whisper something in his ear, did not look like someone capable of doing the things she’d read about. But that was what they always said about murderers, wasn’t it? They looked just like everybody else.
The thought was just finishing its passage across her mind when she was presented with one of his slim, tattooed hands. The nails were neatly painted black, without a single smudge or chip.
“Hi,” Gerard said with a friendly smile. “Sasha, right? Jon’s told me about you.” He locked eyes with her for a moment. “Apparently, I owe you one for helping Jon out.”
“Oh, do you?” Sasha put on a smile of her own as she shook his hand. His grip was light, almost cautious. “Sorry, how exactly did I help?”
“Uh.” Gerard looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know that bit at the end of The Mummy where he’s reading from the Book of the Dead and he needs his sister’s help translating the last hieroglyph? It was a bit like that. The little things go a long way, you know?”
“Our situation was completely different,” Jon argued lightly. “In fact, if I recall correctly, you were the one reading incantations written in an ancient language in a magical death-aligned book, and you didn’t need any help with translation—”
“Hence why I said it was a bit like it. There was about an equal number of angry dead people, at least.”
Jon let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose, technically, there was a ‘mummy’ involved—” Gerry cut him off snickering, sharing in an inside joke that Sasha barely understood.
…Much as she might not like to admit it, there was a time and place for acknowledging that she simply didn’t know enough to make a judgment call. Not just hearing stories, no matter how trusted the source—she needed real knowledge, for-sure knowledge, that kind that she could hold in her hand and measure. And right now, she didn’t have that.
But she could get it.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” said Sasha, breaking through the gentle… lover’s squabble before her. “Hope to see you around more?” Gerard’s eyes lit up, and Jon looked simply relieved.
Two minutes ago, she’d been certain that Gerard was some ruthless killer who’d gotten away with a brutal murder. Now, she wasn’t certain at all. When she saw the way Jon looked at him, she fervently hoped her initial fears were wrong.
Well… at least if Jon ever disappeared mysteriously, Sasha would know the first place to start looking.
With each passing year, the infrequent institute-wide parties grew a little more exhausting.
It wasn’t that Martin found the decor or the people or what passed for activities unpleasant. If anything, the opposite was true. Barring the odd argument or Rosie’s never-ending quest for the latest stirring drama, everything about them was so damned pleasant that keeping up with the smiling platitudes and small talk was a lot of work.
It was his own fault, Martin supposed. He could never make up his mind, that was the trouble. When he was sitting at home, alone in his empty and cramped flat, all he could do was berate himself for not having more to get him outside. And when he was here, surrounded by coworkers in a decently festive atmosphere with better food than he’d ever had at any other workplace, all he wanted to do was go home and sit alone in silence.
So here he was, because at least while he was here and chatting with people that were friendly with him but never proper friends, he could at least pretend to himself that his social life existed.
It wasn’t like he bothered pretending for his mother’s benefit. Other people’s mothers nagged them about being social. Martin’s probably wanted him to be less social, if only so he’d stop coming around to talk to her.
Martin forcibly turned his thoughts away from that area, once he realized they were in danger of showing on his face.
He was running out of people to talk to. He hadn’t said hello to Hannah yet, but from the looks of it she was still deep in conversation with Rosie. A Rosie conversation could last anywhere between five minutes to an hour; with Hannah involved, Martin was willing to bet on the longer end of the spectrum.
With a sigh, he turned toward the refreshments table to buy some time and refill his plate, only to nearly run into someone stepping unwittingly into his path.
“Whoops,” an unfamiliar voice said, as its owner dodged nimbly around him to avoid a collision. “Sorry, didn’t see you.”
“It’s alright, s-sorry, I just kind of moved without looking…” Martin’s eyes found their way to the other person’s face, and his voice trailed off.
There were a number of reasons why he could have lost control of his tongue. He was already embarrassed and spluttering, for one. He didn’t know the man he was speaking to, which was a shock because he made a point of knowing everyone, if not by name then at least by face and association with someone whose name he did know. It had been a long day, and he was tired even before he came back to his workplace for a long night of socializing.
…No, there was no rationalizing his way out of this one. He was tongue-tied because the man was gorgeous.
“Hi,” said Martin.
“Hello.” The man smiled, and his lip ring glinted. The black lipstick only made it even more noticeable and distracting . Martin stayed still for a moment, expecting the man to walk away now that the danger of collision had passed. Instead, He held out his hand. “My name’s Gerry.”
“Oh!” By some miracle, Martin remembered that people who held their hands out usually expected them to be shaken. “I’m Martin. Sorry, I… don’t think we’ve met?”
The polite smile became a lopsided grin. “Oh, yeah, I don’t work here, I just came along as arm candy.” He glanced back toward the drinks table, where two researchers Martin recognized seemed to be holding a whispered conference. “My boyfriend got whisked away by a coworker, so I’m just sort of drifting until she’s finished with him.”
Martin continued to smile pleasantly, while, somewhere buried deep in his psyche, Inner Martin screamed and kicked over some furniture. This man was gorgeous and interested in men and had excellent taste in holiday jumpers. Some people had all the luck.
Almost immediately he felt mortified for thinking that way about a total stranger, and another Inner Martin manifested to strangle the first.
He looked to the researchers again. One of them was Sasha, who’d transferred from Artefact Storage to Research a while ago. The other, presumably Gerry’s boyfriend, was one of the more recent hires. Martin didn’t know his name, but he had seen his face around the library a few times. Very polite, sort of posh-sounding, a bit distracted. Kind of cute, in a scruffy academic sort of way—which was a thought that felt a lot less harmless now that Martin knew he had a boyfriend.
Abruptly, Martin realized that he hadn’t answered Gerry yet. “I’ve seen him around the library a few times,” he said, hoping his embarrassment wasn’t too obvious. “I think I helped him once.”
“Oh, did you?”
“Yeah, with… newspapers or something. From Morden, I think? It was a while ago.” When he glanced at Gerry, he was startled to find the man looking at him with a sharper expression. He wasn’t upset, thank God, but he seemed to be paying closer attention to Martin than work-related small talk really warranted.
“Morden, huh.” Gerry grinned at him again. “Well, thanks for that. Jon doesn’t have the best luck with libraries.”
Jon, his name was Jon. “Oh. Well, you’re welcome. Th-that’s my job.”
“What about you?” Gerry asked. “You here with anyone?”
He said it so casually, but it still felt strangely pointed. Martin was at a loss for what it could mean—was Gerry judging him for coming alone when so many others came with their significant others? Was he checking if Martin was single—?
No, Martin told himself, vehemently squashing that line of thinking. Absolutely not. He’s got a boyfriend, and even if he didn’t, you’re so obviously not his type it’s not even funny.
“N-no,” he said. “I don’t really—I mean, it’s just me, haha.” The laugh sounded thin even to him.
Against all of Martin’s hopes, Gerry seemed to notice. His smile faded, and Martin’s heart sank— Great, just great, can’t get through one conversation with an attractive man without coming across as a complete creep—
“I’m… not making you nervous, am I?”
Martin blinked in surprise. “S-sorry?”
Gerry hesitated, just long enough for Martin to catch a flash of uncertainty on his face. “Just wondering. I’m, uh, not always sure what kind of impression I’m making. If that makes sense? I just want to make sure.”
“Oh! No. No, you’re fine.” It probably wasn’t very kind to take comfort in someone else’s discomfort. “I’m just… um.” nervous around hot guys . “Y-you know. I get shy sometimes. Nothing to do with you.”
“Right.” Gerry looked relieved, and in a flash the grin was back. “Well, good to know I’m fit to be seen in public.”
“Oh, definitely,” Martin replied, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Er, so what do you do? If I can ask. Sorry, I bet you’ve answered that a lot.”
“Once or twice,” Gerry said with a shrug. “At the moment I don’t do anything, really. I’m sort of… recently emancipated, you could say.”
Martin had no idea how to interpret that. “From… what?”
“...Family drama,” Gerry replied after a moment. “I’m sort of in that period of figuring out where my life is going, now that I’m actually in control of it, you know?”
Martin’s voice caught in his throat for a moment.
“Think I might have an idea, yeah,” he said quietly.
He’d been hurt when Mum demanded he move her into the care home, of course. It had felt like a permanent sort of failure, like a confirmation that he would never please her, and she was tired of waiting for him to be good enough.
But he had also been relieved .
“Hope things are better for you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Gerry said. “Stay-at-home trophy boyfriend is a hell of an improvement on where I used to be—uh-oh.” He went still, suddenly focused on a point over Martin’s shoulder—roughly in the direction of the drinks table.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hang on, Jon’s about to drink the spiked eggnog, I better stop him.” With that, Gerry swept off before Martin could get another word out.
His face felt warm. There was no mirror in sight, but Martin just knew he was blushing. God , he was hopeless. An absolute embarrassment. Why was he allowed to go outside? What idiot gave him permission?
If Gerry had noticed he was nervous then it wouldn’t take him long to realize why, and then he’d tell Jon and Jon would be rightfully upset with him for ogling his boyfriend even after being told he was his boyfriend—
Martin breathed.
He was fine. It wasn’t that bad. He was Martin Blackwood, and if Martin Blackwood was one thing, it was pleasantly forgettable.
Martin refilled his snack plate and retreated to a corner of the room to recover. A few more of his coworkers stopped by to exchange pleasantries. Still more wandered past, just close enough for snippets of conversation to reach him. Hannah just got engaged to her boyfriend of five years. Jason got a scratcher for Christmas from some uncle he barely spoke to anymore, and managed to win some decent money. Megan was dating someone new.
Within ten minutes his embarrassment had died down, and Martin felt ready to venture beyond his corner again. As he stepped away from the wall, another conversation drifted into hearing range.
“—said it before, you worry too much.”
“I know, but I shouldn’t have let her pull me away. I didn’t mean to leave you in a room full of people you don’t know.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s fine . I’m fine. Look, see?”
An arm landed on Martin’s shoulder, and by some miracle he managed not to jump. Gerry was back, this time with Jon in tow.
“I am perfectly capable of chatting with strangers without you,” Gerry was saying primly. “Tell him, Martin.”
“Um.”
“I see,” Jon said dryly.
“No, really! We were having a great time while you were off getting bullied,” Gerry went on, apparently blind to Martin’s growing crisis. “Because I’m the best at first impressions. And I have good taste in conversation partners.” Before Martin had the chance to parse that statement, Gerry turned and flashed a grin at him. “Am I a delight to be around? Be honest, I’ve got a thick skin.”
Well if he wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now. “ Um .”
As soon as the words made it through his scrambled brain to actually register, alarm set in. Was—was this guy flirting with him? In front of his boyfriend? Martin shot Jon a helpless look, but instead of the glare he was expecting, Jon was rolling his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.
“You’re being a menace,” he informed Gerry. To Martin, he said, “Sorry about him, he can’t help himself.”
“I absolutely can,” Gerry said cheerfully. “Everything about this is a conscious decision.”
“Martin, right?” Jon went on, ignoring him.
“That’s me,” Martin managed to reply.
Finally, mercifully, Gerry’s arm left Martin’s shoulder and draped around Jon’s instead. “He says he helped you find newspapers once,” he said. “Morden.”
Jon went still, eyes widening. “Oh, that was you?”
Martin smiled awkwardly, wondering why these two were making such a big deal about newspapers from Morden. “I mean—yeah, just… my job, you know.”
“Right,” Jon said softly, then surprised Martin with a warm smile. “Well, thank you.”
“A-anytime.” God, his face was warm. Was there a socially acceptable way to melt into the carpet?
As if in answer to his situation, Martin spotted Rosie halfway across the room, finally on her own. That meant Hannah was free. Hannah was a safe place to get his face under control. Moments later, he spotted her as well. “Oh, there’s Hannah, I haven’t said hello to her yet,” he said. “Sorry to run, good to meet you, nice talking with you—”
“Right, of course,” said Jon.
“See you around,” Gerry added.
He didn’t mean it, Martin told himself as he made his escape. That was just a thing people said, obviously he didn’t care one way or the other if he saw Martin again or not.
…But what if he did? Wouldn’t that be nice?
She only meant to make a brief appearance.
It was required, of course. All institute functions were mandatory for department heads, and Gertrude Robinson was no exception, for all that she wasn’t so much the head of her department as the department in its entirety.
One of Elias’s petty little power plays, of course. She knew that he derived some twisted pleasure from subjecting her to the same standards of mundanity as those in his employ who didn’t spend their time averting one apocalypse after the next. But if she wasted time agonizing over every little concession that brought him joy, she’d never get anything done. If Elias had a reason to smile at her expense every now and then, it wasn’t the end of the world.
So to speak.
Gertrude was a patient woman, after all. Every moment Elias spent orchestrating schadenfreude for his own amusement was another moment’s head start for her.
She arrived two hours late, stepping into the gala room largely unnoticed. The atmosphere was relaxed—perhaps a little too relaxed. Someone must have tampered with the drinks again. One corner of the room was getting a bit rowdy, though not quite to the point of necktie headbands. Yet. Still, the rest of the attendees were giving that corner a wide berth.
Scanning the room, Gertrude spotted Elias standing near a cluster of other department heads. He was already looking at her with an oily smile on his face, and she let her eyes pass over him without a change in expression. But before she could turn away from him fully, she spotted the barest hint of motion in his face. His head turned, and his eyes flickered to the side, then back to her, before he turned back to whatever conversation he was holding with the head of HR.
Frowning, Gertrude followed the general direction of his brief glance, and saw what he had been indicating almost immediately. It was impossible not to; Gerard Keay had a way of drawing the eye.
On reflection, this was her first proper look at him in person. Mary had never brought him around over the course of their brief acquaintance, and after Mary’s first death, Gertrude had purposely kept her distance. All of her knowledge of Eric’s son had been from her own research, news reports, statements that sort of thing.
The man before her now was a far cry from the pale, shadowed shell of a man she’d seen on the news after Mary’s ritual. His head was high, his spine unbowed, his face filled out and healthy. He looked more like Eric like this—the old Eric she’d known at the very beginning, when they were all so young and idealistic and too soft to know better. She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but she could see the eager friendliness in the way he chatted away with Sonja from Artefact Storage.
And then Gertrude blinked, and Gerard was looking at her.
She saw him freeze in place, eyes widening, before apparently getting pulled back into the conversation. But as Gertrude made her way through the party, keeping an eye on Gerard all the while, she could see him tracking her across the room.
Sonja moved off, and Gerard turned to whisper to the man beside him—Jonathan Sims, of course. A moment later Jonathan was looking at her as well, with less surprise and more cold hostility.
Jonathan Sims was not, it seemed, a forgiving man.
What followed was a whispered conference between the two of them that was serious without turning angry. From what little Gertrude could tell, it wasn’t even a proper argument. After about a minute, they seemed to come to an agreement; Gerard pressed a kiss to Jonathan’s temple before heading in her direction, while Jonathan shot a glare at Gertrude but did nothing to stop Gerard from walking away.
Gertrude moved away from where most people were gathered—away from the center of the room, from the tables, from Elias and his current entourage, from the corner where the drunker attendees had gathered—and waited for Gerard to join her.
For a while they simply stared at each other. Gertrude glanced briefly at the ridiculous jumper he was wearing before focusing on the rest of him. He was tall, less skinny than she had expected but still deceptively lanky. She knew from several statements made over years past that there was strength in those limbs. His hands were calloused and scarred with old burns, the knuckles tattooed with eyes. His body language was stiff and guarded, but he looked at her with open curiosity.
Gertrude wondered what he was getting from her.
“Pleasure to meet you, Gerard,” she said at last.
“You too,” he replied easily enough.
“Is it, now.” Gertrude glanced past him to Jonathan, who was still glaring daggers at her from across the room. “Surprised you’d say that, given what I’m sure Jonathan has told you about me.”
Gerard shifted uncomfortably, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “He’s told me plenty,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to come to my own conclusions.”
“And what conclusion would that be?”
“Guess that’s what I’m here to find out.”
“I see.”
“So,” Gerard went on. “Jon says he asked you for help dealing with my mother, and you turned him down flat. That true?”
Gertrude raised her eyebrows at him. “Do you not trust his word on the matter?”
Gerard didn’t reply. Not because he was unsettled by the question, she noted. He simply looked at her, waiting impassively for an answer.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s true. It seems to have irreparably destroyed his opinion of me.” She paused. “Has it destroyed yours, as well?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” Gerard replied. “Why’d you tell him no?”
Gertrude hesitated, considering her words carefully. “I don’t take chances with the Web,” she said. “I did once, when I was young and foolish and thought it might be a useful tool. But I’ve since learned to avoid it whenever possible, and Jonathan was quite literally trailing spiderwebs when he came to me. I didn’t want to risk being drawn into one of the Spider’s plots. It’s never ended well.” She paused again. “You might consider that yourself.”
It didn’t land; truth be told, she hadn’t much hope that it would. “Just because someone’s marked doesn’t mean they’re serving it,” Gerard said testily. “Jon’s marked because it tried to eat him when he was a kid.”
“I think you’ll find that most servants of the Web were nearly eaten by it as children,” Gertrude said dryly. “I think it might be the Web’s main recruitment tool, actually.”
Gerard was quiet for a moment. “So that’s it,” he said. “You got spooked by some spiders and kept away.”
“I apologize if you were expecting something a bit more exciting. At the time it seemed like a matter of due caution.”
“Yeah? And how’s it working out for you now?”
“Hm.” A moment later, the hum became something very near a chuckle.
“What?”
“It’s funny,” said Gertrude. “Just something your father would have said, that’s all. Dry as the Sahara, that man.”
Across from her, Gerard had gone still.
“He wasn’t particularly inclined to let me get away with anything, either,” Gertrude went on. “His idea of the greater good was… a lot more personal than mine, I suppose.”
She’d caught him off balance, though whether his silence would end in hopeful questions or a turned back… the odds were about fifty-fifty. Gertrude waited, idly wishing for a drink to sip on, but the Eye had helpfully informed her that most of the beverages present were liberally spiked.
“You knew him well, then?” Gerard said at last. His voice was steady enough, though his eyes were hungry.
“As well as you can know anyone you work with over the course of a decade or two,” Gertrude replied. “And before you ask, no, I wouldn’t precisely have called us friends. Especially not toward the end, before he… left the institute’s employ.”
“Before my mother killed him, you mean.”
Gertrude knew now that there had been several months between the two, but she nodded anyway. Correcting him would invite far too many questions. “Did she talk about him? Mary never struck me as the sentimental sort.”
“Not about him as a person,” Gerard replied. “She liked to reminisce about what she did to him, though. Never said what she did with his page—I had a look through her favorite book before we burned it, but he wasn’t there.” He hesitated. “She never said anything to you about that, did she?”
Eric’s page was long gone, burned to ashes years back. It was the very least that Gertrude could have done for him. “Difficult to say. She prided herself on being cryptic. I might have a couple of recordings of our conversations on tape, but… well. It’s been years since her last visit, as I’m sure you might have guessed.”
Gerard was silent again for a while. She could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes as he mulled over her words. The hunger hadn’t left him. It reminded her of how the Beholding made her feel sometimes—so ravenous for knowledge that it was difficult to think straight, like a starving man trying to make rational decisions in the face of a sumptuous feast.
The hunger she saw in him now was purely human. It was almost refreshing to see.
“If I asked you about him…” Each syllable was pronounced slowly, as cautious as another step on the surface of a frozen lake. “What he was like, who he was as a person… would you answer me?”
And here was her in, she realized—a little cynically, perhaps. It wasn’t what she had planned before, but it was a possibility she had hoped for nonetheless. “Of course,” she answered readily, truthfully. “We weren’t exactly close, mind you. But we worked together for quite a long time.” She wavered over her next words, wondering if they revealed too much. “I remember him talking about you from time to time, after you were born. He was excited about being a father. It’s why he decided to leave.”
Privately, Gertrude was relieved when he looked away; the mingled hope and want in his eyes was painful to look at. As she waited for her words to sink in, she cast another glance at Jonathan. He was pretending not to watch them, and doing a very poor job of it.
At last, Gerard took a deep breath. “And what would it cost me?”
Gertrude suppressed another sigh. He really was like his father, wasn’t he. Eric had been eager to bargain with her too, in the end. Only this time, she was the one with information to trade away. And unlike Eric, she had a bit more time to consider things.
“Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “Difficult to say, at this juncture.”
And then Gerard’s expression shuttered, and he… laughed, perhaps. It had most of the components of a laugh, just not the humor.
“Damn,” he said. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“What were you hoping for?”
Gerard heaved a weary sigh. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. His tone shifted higher in pitch, creaking in a rough imitation of her own voice. “ Of course Gerard, ask away, why would it cost you anything to learn about your dead father? Something like that, maybe.”
“I… see.”
“Dunno if it makes you feel any better, but I wasn’t really expecting it,” he went on. “Hope springs eternal, I guess.” His body language had remained closed throughout their conversation; now it seemed to tighten. “But, see, now I can’t help thinking—right out the gate, you’ve got an angle. You want something from me, enough to hold something like that hostage. Dunno what you want, but it doesn’t really matter for what I want, does it? ‘Cause now, how do I trust what you say? How do I know if you’re telling me the truth, or telling me whatever gets you what you want?”
“I wouldn’t benefit from lying to you about Eric,” Gertrude said gently.
“Oh, you could. Mum did. You kind of remind me of her, you know? You’re… driven. Goal-oriented. Not quite as bad, though. At least you’re trying to do something worthwhile, saving the world instead of gathering power for yourself.”
“You could be part of that,” Gertrude pointed out. “I really could use your help.”
“Guess so.” Gerard pulled a wry face. “Thing is, I’ve spent the past year surrounded by people who… well, don’t do any of that. Not the world-saving stuff, but the… angle stuff. I know I can ask them things, and they’ll tell me the truth, best they can.”
“You think they don’t have their own biases?” Gertrude asked. “Their own motives, in how they shape the truth?”
“I said best they can, didn’t I?” He wasn’t looking at her anymore. “It’s nice. I could really get used to it, I think.”
This time, Gertrude didn’t bother holding back her sigh. She knew when she’d lost, and there really was no salvaging this.
“You might want to return to your partner soon,” she said at last. “Frankly, I’m surprised he’s continuing to tolerate this.”
Gerard bristled. “Jon isn’t ‘tolerating’ anything,” he said. “I’m not here with his permission, I’m here because I made the choice to walk over.”
“I hope, for your sake, that that’s true.” With nothing else to fill the void left by failed subterfuge, sincerity leaked in. “...Take care of yourself, Gerard.”
“Have been, thanks,” he answered.
She watched him walk away, disappointment warring with the small part of herself that felt almost relieved on his behalf. Refusing her was the smart thing, after all. Her loss could only be his gain.
Across the room, Jonathan left off eyeing her suspiciously and turned toward Gerard like a flower to the sun.
Eric was decades dead and years gone, but Gertrude was certain that somewhere, he was laughing at her.
He wasn’t… destroyed , or anything. His head was clear as he crossed the room back to Jon’s side, his inner turmoil at a minimum. There was no fog, no panic, no trauma reawakened. There was just a dull ache, a weight in his chest like someone had carved out his heart and stitched a stone in its place.
The weight remained when he returned to Jon’s side, but it was a little easy to grin and bear it.
“You alright?” Jon asked, his face serious.
Very old, very bad habits tried to put words in his mouth. I’m fine, I’m great, who else is there to talk to? It was only after months of practice that he could stop, swallow them back, and try again. “Think I might be ready to leave, honestly.”
The solemn expression became a proper frown. “What did she say to you?”
“Can we not?” Gerry asked, wincing. “It’s not like that—I basically told her to piss off without actually saying that, and I think… I think she means to.” He chanced a look over his shoulder at Gertrude. Her back was to him; she was already moving off, hopefully putting him out of her mind.
When he looked back, Jon’s eyes had softened. “We can leave.”
“You don’t have to look like that,” Gerry assured him. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Mentally or physically?”
“Yes.”
To Gerry’s relief, Jon didn’t press further. As they gently steered each other toward the door, their path took them past Sasha, who hadn’t strayed far since their introduction.
“See you on Monday,” Jon told her.
Sasha’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, you too.” The look she gave Gerry was friendly enough, but she couldn’t hide the note of wariness.
Gerry smiled back, trying to hide the strain. It could be worse, with Sasha. She was nervous but giving him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe in time, they could be proper friends.
He cast about the room and spotted Rosie, who caught him looking and left off chatting with a coworker to wave. They were nearly at the door when he finally found Martin standing by the drinks table without taking anything, all hunched and curled in on himself like he was trying to be smaller than he was. Gerry caught his eye on their way out and waved to him with a grin. Smiling shyly, Martin waved back.
He didn’t look back to see if Gertrude was watching.
“New friend?” Jon murmured as they left the room. To Gerry’s relief, the gawkers from before had long since dispersed.
“Hope so. You could talk to him more often too. He’s nice.”
“I suppose…” Jon trailed off thoughtfully. “Any particular reason, aside from the fact that he’s nice?”
“He’s lonely.”
Jon was quiet for a moment. “Capital-L Lonely, or…?”
“Just a bit. But a little bit goes a long way.”
Jon looked uncertain, but he nodded. “I suppose I can try.”
They made it downstairs, skirting quickly past a storage closet with suspiciously amorous noises coming from within, then escaped into the biting winter chill outside. Gerry tucked Jon closer against his side, and was rewarded when Jon’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Jon asked.
Gerry sighed, watching his breath emerge as a cloud of steam. “Dunno if I ever said I was.”
“…Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Jon’s hair was still warm from inside when Gerry pressed his cheek against it. “Probably should, though. Dr. Wyatt would have a field day with it.”
Jon didn’t physically tense against him, but his voice was carefully even. “That bad?”
“I asked her about my dad.”
“…Oh.” Jon’s arm tightened around him. “And she answered?”
“Yeah,” said Gerry. “She told me everything I needed to know.”
He stopped walking then. There were a few reasons: snow was beginning to fall, and he could see Christmas lights in the distance. The ache in his chest had moved to his throat.
He was getting used to it. Moments like these no longer felt like an exploration of the unfamiliar, or a vacation, or a reprieve from some looming doom. This was his life now. But still, once in a while, something tiny landed, like snowflakes and lights and a friendly face and a warm hand in his. And the scales tipped. And it was like the first day all over again.
“Gerry?”
“I love you,” he answered, watching the words curl out of his mouth, drift upward, and vanish. “I just…”
“I love you too.” He could hear the smile in Jon’s voice, worming its way into the ache and picking it apart like a stubborn knot.
Gerry pressed a smile and a kiss into his boyfriend’s snow-flecked hair.
“Let’s go home.”