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Gertrude recognised the sound; the long creak, the slight squeak of the hinges. Not for the first time, she felt the insane urge to call out and perhaps advise Michael that some oil might be the way to go, but she saw no reason to antagonise the damn thing. She was still unsure who she was speaking to, regardless. The thing that now wore Michael’s face was not Michael, because Michael Shelley was dead. In a cruel twist of fate, it couldn’t be denied that the thing spoke like Michael, and acted like Michael, and outside of its own little domain, it even looked like Michael. Therefore it was always slightly disconcerting to turn around and see it, standing there in the Archives like Michael had done so many times before, except now the angles were all a little too sharp and Gertrude thought that this new Michael was also, perhaps, a little bit too tall – quite the feat, for somebody who had been six foot six to begin with.
“Good evening, Michael,” she said tiredly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
It didn’t reply right away – something else that Gertrude was used to. The fact that it didn’t reply told her that it really didn’t know; it seemed, sometimes, to be just as bewildered as she was. She often wondered if it intended to appear here, or if something within itself just simply decreed that here was where it should be. How much control did it really have, over where those doors opened out on? Was it possible that, on occasion, it was just as much at the mercy of itself – or whatever it had become – as anyone else?
Gertrude slid a couple of files back into their places on the shelves, stepped down from the small ladder, and wiped the dust off her front. Then she took a moment to ready herself, and emerged from between the shelves to see Michael standing at her desk, peering at it with its head tilted, though nothing on the desk’s surface could possibly be of interest to it.
“Archivist,” it said, and when it looked over to her Gertrude saw a brief kaleidoscope of colour in its eyes, something that glinted with a malicious edge. She had been on guard before, of course – always wise, when dealing with such creatures – but now her awareness heightened. She stopped where she was and waited. “You are working late.”
“It’s organisation day,” Gertrude said flatly.
Michael looked around, straightening up to its full height. She watched as its eyes travelled over the piles, the overflowing boxes, the chaotic shelves. Its mouth twitched slightly in something that might have been a smile, and then it looked back at her with an expression on its face that told her it didn’t believe her one bit.
“There’s method in my madness,” Gertrude said. “I won’t bother to explain.”
“Michael used to defend you to the others,” Michael said quietly. “Did you know that? You’ve been running this place as a mess for years, and they all used to talk badly of you for it. Senile little old woman, forgetting her own organisation methods. Michael would always stick up for you. He was the only one who ever believed you when you said that you knew where everything was, and yet he was the only one of them who could never even begin to guess just why you did things the way you did.”
“Yes, yes,” Gertrude said, a little irritably. “If you’ve come here to lay it on thick, I don’t see the use in going over everything again. I did what I had to, and I wish it hadn’t been necessary, but it was. You are hardly the thing I would expect to be acting the most blameless, considering the whole thing came about from a ritual that, if successful, would have seen you and yours rule the world.” She looked down, buttoning up her cardigan. “Don’t come here and try to pretend like you give a damn about Michael. I know well how you feel about humans.”
“But I am Michael,” it said; in a flash it was right in front of her, almost bent double as it peered down at her. “I am Michael now, thanks to you, Archivist. Wasn’t he so sweet-hearted, once? Wasn’t he so kind, so trusting, so nice? Imagine, then: you betray somebody who would have always been too kind to hate you, too gentle for such a nasty, nasty thing! But then, he gets fused… with the likes of me.” It laughed, and Gertrude felt that nasty twinge of pain in her head, like a thousand tiny nails in her skull. “Would you say you were in trouble, Archivist?”
“I suppose I would be worried about it,” Gertrude said, “if not for the fact that you appearing and making such threats is almost a bi-annual thing at this point, and yet you’ve never done anything more than run your mouth.”
“I have heard things,” Michael said, its grin far too wide. “I have heard that you and yours might be planning something soon enough. Is that right, Archivist? It makes sense. You, running around, destroying every ritual you can get your hands on… and I have a long, long memory. I remember the last time. Are you not due?”
“I have no intention to destroy the world, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Gertrude said tersely.
“But the Eye is due a ritual, no?” Michael asked. It straightened up, its movements jerky, like bad stop-motion. Gertrude had never seen it quite this disjointed before. Outside of its domain it could often get away with appearing almost fully human – was it just not bothering? Or had something agitated it to the point where it didn’t care? “Things may have changed between us, Archivist.”
“Oh?” Gertrude asked. “Well, now I am intrigued.”
“If the Eye is planning a ritual,” Michael said, “it goes without saying that the Archivist would be at the centre of it.”
“You would like to think,” Gertrude said, “but I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“Well, you might not!” Michael said, widening its eyes. “This business does have a nasty habit of thrusting people into situations they neither wanted nor asked for, hm?”
“Alright,” Gertrude said, sighing. “You have made your point, Michael.”
“Perhaps I don’t particularly want to live in the Eye’s world,” Michael said thoughtfully. “I don’t think there would be much for me there. It would be frightfully unfair, given that you ruined our chances.”
“As I said,” Gertrude repeated wearily, “I have no interest in seeing the world fall to any one of the Powers.”
“But choice has nothing to do with this!” Michael said. “Whether you know or whether you don’t, what I know is that your kind are due, and that you have a very good chance of being involved. Now, why would I wish for that to continue? Yes, I have threatened you many times before, Archivist, but I was in no hurry. Now, I find I might be.”
“Is that it, then?” Gertrude asked. “Have you finally come to kill me at last?”
“Yes,” Michael said simply.
“You could very well join the back of the queue,” Gertrude said. She took a small step backwards. “Michael?”
“What?” Michael hissed.
“Who are you?”
For a brief moment, Michael’s face went blank. It was almost like some kind of factory reset, Gertrude thought; it froze completely, a look of utter nothingness on its face, and while there would never be anything to say – it truly did not know – the Eye would still try to get its answer. It gave Gertrude enough time to slip past and head quickly for the door, though as for what she was going to do, she had no idea. Michael could always find her, no matter where she went; she supposed she would have to outrun it long enough to think of something, or until it got bored. It would never give up on trying to kill her, she knew that much, but time operated differently within its hallways. Should it decide to retreat back and try again later, months could pass before she had to worry about it again – and by that point, she might have been able to think of something.
She heard movement behind her as she slipped through another door; judging from the noise, Michael had briefly decided to take its frustrations out on some of her shelving. She supposed it was doing her a favour when it came to her organisation – nothing created chaos like actual chaos, after all – but she frowned to think about any of the statements being damaged by those sharp fingers. The last thing she needed was for Elias to show up, wondering what the hell was going on, though perhaps his arrival would persuade Michael to try again another day. Elias was notoriously protective of his own, and Gertrude knew that despite the fact Elias presented a very small physical threat, a lot of the various entities and avatars – Michael included – were wary of him. She could hardly blame them. It was called being sensible.
With quick, practised movements, she felt around the floor, found the latch of the trapdoor, and pulled it open. With speed impressive for her age, she swung herself over and down onto the ladder, pulling it shut behind her. It was completely dark, and she had no light on her, but she knew the area well – and, of course, she had other talents to draw on. She couldn’t say that her abilities allowed her to see through walls or darkness, but she certainly had a good idea of what was around her, and her sense of direction, if she knew what to focus on, was remarkable. She stood for a moment at the bottom of the ladder, listening carefully, and then turned purposely to her left and began to walk.
Gertrude came down here often enough that nothing was overly unnerving, but it was all unpleasant. It smelled somehow both musty and damp, and she could hear the sloshing of her feet as she walked through puddles or aligned with the water tricking or dripping onto the uneven stone floor. Every so often something squeaked or scurried or scuttled, and she tried to tell herself that the tunnel amplified the sounds. The rats down here were probably not the size of large cats, even if they sounded like it; then again, she had seen some big ones in her time, waiting in a Tube station and watching them hurrying around on the tracks.
“Not the time to think about that,” she muttered, gritting her teeth. She hated rats. She bloody hated them. She didn’t think it was on the level of a pathological fear, like some people she had met, but she had never quite recovered from a bad landlord horror story in university – the house had had a rat infestation in the loft, and once she had woken to find one in her bed. Not in the bed with her, but close enough – running across the foot of it, slick and dark and beady-eyed. She was sure she could feel them now, brushing up against her feet, and she fought the urge to kick at them. The last thing she needed was for one of her shoes to go flying off into the darkness, never to be seen again.
The laugh reached her then – Michael’s, of course. Again nails raked down her skull, and she flinched, slowing down so her feet wouldn’t splash as much in the standing water. Not that it would do much good – Michael probably knew precisely where she was.
“Oh, Archivist!” Michael called. “That was a dirty trick you played.”
You should be used to that, Gertrude thought.
“Why do you bother, Archivist?” Michael asked. “I can see you better than you can see anything down here.”
It laughed again, and Gertrude was tempted to cover her ears. Only practicality stopped her – she needed to know where it was, and she needed to know how much noise she was making. It could probably find her without too much trouble, but these tunnels were strange, and their echoes were misleading. She crept quietly along, her eyes wide in the darkness, but there was nothing to see. There was no light down here at all: only the smell of damp, and the thud of her heart in her chest. For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that Michael might actually kill her.
Death was no longer a thing that terrified her. She had once feared it, in the same way that most beings capable of comprehending their own mortality feared it, but as she grew older and settled into her life she found herself possessed more by curiosity. It was that big unanswered question, and she supposed she couldn’t lose – either there was nothing, and she never had to worry about it again, or there was something, and she would get to see what it was. As her life had become more dangerous, she had had to come to terms with the reality of death; that it was no longer some far-off thing that would occur when she was old and grey and in a nursing home. It became something that walked alongside her day by day, but she got used to that, too. There had been several moments where she had been sure her number was really up this time, but after the fact – once she had had a strong brandy and one single cigarette – she had managed to file it away with the rest of the inexplicable and incomprehensible things she had seen; with all the rest of the things that shouldn’t have happened but had.
So there was no fear now – not of death itself. She worried about what Michael would do to her, because admittedly she didn’t know how it preferred to kill. She would be mindful of straying into its hallways, because she had an idea of what that kind of death would constitute, and she didn’t fancy the endless wandering until the inevitable. Not to mention she was in a good position to eventually find her way out, and she doubted Michael would want to take that risk. It would very well be likely to just kill her out here, and she had seen how sharp its claws were; how sharp its teeth. That was not the kind of death she fancied for herself, being torn apart piece by piece like that, and probably not very quickly either, but was it the worst death she’d ever witnessed? No, she supposed not, but she still did not want it for herself. In her line of work, her only realistic wish could be that when death found her, it did so quickly and relatively painlessly, and that after the fact, she remained dead.
The whole time she was thinking, she continued creeping carefully forward, one hand against the wall to keep her balance. She touched the slimy wall periodically, making sure it remained slimed stone and didn’t turn to solid wood; there was no sign of such a thing, so it was an utter surprise when she moved forward and found that a hand had closed around her – all the way around her, wrapping itself around her torso not unlike how one might pick up a small kitten. It did not lift her off the ground, but it dragged her forward with very little effort; in the dark she still could not see it, but she could feel its long fingers, and the sharpness of their points as they slipped through layers of clothing like a hot knife through butter.
“What a shame,” Michael said, though it didn’t sound overly upset. “It’s so dark down here that I shan’t be able to see what I’m doing.”
“How terrible for you,” Gertrude said wryly.
“Where were you going, Archivist?”
“To find the nearest Tube station,” Gertrude said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t dare try anything in a public carriage.”
Michael laughed, and again Gertrude winced, glad for the cover of darkness.
“I’m sure if I had, I would have made your successor very happy,” it said thoughtfully.
Gertrude squirmed around in a most undignified manner, allowing Michael to believe that she was merely fighting to escape. Instead she pulled one arm free of her cardigan, and began working on the other.
“And a lot of police officers very unhappy,” she said. “Do you know anything about my role in this apparent ritual, Michael?”
Michael made a low growl of annoyance in its throat. “No. It is merely an educated guess.”
“And where did you receive this education?”
“I hear plenty in my circles,” Michael said, before a sharp finger touched warningly against Gertrude’s lips. “Enough of that, now. You know how much I despise it. I might take out your tongue first.”
Gertrude moved her head back, and Michael allowed it. “A delicacy, in some parts,” she said.
“You are trying to wriggle out of that cardigan,” Michael said. “It’s a rather hideous thing.”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture me about dress sense.”
“I am very new to the whole concept.”
“You dress in Michael’s clothing,” Gertrude said pointedly. “He had no right either.”
Michael gave a theatrical sigh. “He would have never dared criticise you.”
“Sometimes I feel desperately sorry for him over that fact,” Gertrude said.
To her surprise, she felt Michael let go of her. She stumbled back a step, her back against the stone wall, feeling where it began to curve just at the top of her head. She supposed Michael was quite hunched over. She slipped her arm back into her cardigan, feeling several points on her body where Michael’s fingers had left shallow, bleeding cuts.
“Can you see me, Archivist?” it asked.
“My eyes are still human,” Gertrude answered.
“I think that adds to the excitement!” Michael said brightly. “Imagine that. The Archivist dying, because it can’t see!”
Gertrude heard the movement of air in the second before the blow, but she didn’t register it until afterwards. Michael’s hand had hit her in the upper chest, level with her collarbone; its fingers sliced deep, and there was a delay of almost a second before her body caught up with the wound and began to bleed. She let out a soft gasp of surprise, instinctively reaching up to press at the wound. The blood was warm against her fingers, though she didn’t think that there was yet a dangerous amount of it. Such luck would change fairly quickly if she didn’t find a way out of this situation soon – but what could she do? Michael would find her even if she managed to slip away, and there really was nothing she could do about it.
A hand grabbed her then, and in that moment she knew only the pressure. She tried to pull away, but it tightened its grip insistently, and she realised the hand was small; human. She looked down, but of course she couldn’t see anything – and then in a blink she could. Leitner was crouched right beside her, holding a flickering battery torch in one hand, and a thin booklet of paper in the other.
“Quick!” he hissed, but it was too late – the shock of seeing him, and Michael’s immediate notice of the light, made it impossible to do anything more. Leitner cursed – using quite an extreme word for him, to boot – and glanced back at the paper, vanishing before Gertrude’s eyes. Then she understood, but of course the realisation came a moment after it would have been useful.
She used the brief moment he had awarded her to throw herself to the side, while Michael was still distracted by the swift exit. There was not much else she could do; the light caused sparks to flicker behind her eyes, and she didn’t know where Leitner might appear next. Did the torch work, wherever he was? He had found her once, so logically he could manage it again. This time, she told herself, she needed to be ready.
“You brought a friend,” Michael said, now from very close in front of her. “Have you signed him on yet, Archivist? What are you going to feed him to, I wonder?” Michael paused. “I suppose you didn’t sign the other one on, did you? No, but you used him all the same… this might be very interesting.”
“Don’t give me that,” Gertrude snapped. “Your act as the crusader of all my victims isn’t very convincing.”
“I suppose you would prefer we stick to business?” Michael asked.
Damn it, Gertrude thought. You should have kept it talking, you silly old bat.
This time Michael’s claws struck her a little higher, scraping over the base of her throat. Only a little higher and she could have been in serious trouble; she crouched down, hoping that it would manage to fool it for even a moment. She would not be able to see Leitner again until the effects wore off, and who knew how much of the damn thing he had been able to read at a glance? The man could read so quickly it was practically a danger in situations such as these – one look at a page, and he might well have read it all.
No sooner had the words passed through her head did he appear again, crouched next to her. This time she was ready; they were at the same level, and Gertrude knew what to do. She allowed herself three words – the amount that Leitner had told her he found effective for most tasks – and then resisted the urge to continue, wrenching her eyes away. The tunnel around her stayed bright, but Michael’s eyes passed over the spot where she had once been without registering her.
“Let’s move,” Leitner whispered.
They crawled for several paces, and then straightened up, hurrying down the tunnel. Leitner glanced back often enough that Gertrude was worried he’d trip over and smash the light; she jabbed him in the back and he got the message, though he seemed to resist the urge to look back again with some difficulty.
For several minutes they walked in silence, and then Leitner slowed and turned the torch onto her. Gertrude looked down, seeing two deep tears in her shirt, the material soaked with blood.
“Is it serious?” Leitner asked. She could see the torch jumping wildly now they were standing still; Leitner was shaking like a leaf. “You’re not going to bleed to death or something, I hope.”
“I hope not too,” Gertrude said. She pressed tentatively at the wounds, feeling a sting, but nothing unbearable. “I don’t think it’s anything major. Thankfully it seemed to just be playing.”
“I presume that’s the creature you were telling me about?” Leitner asked.
“Michael,” Gertrude said, before sighing. “Yes. One of my regrets, for multiple reasons.” She balled up some of her cardigan in her fist, using it to dab at the wound across the base of her throat. “I owe you for that one. I found myself quite up a certain creek.”
“I’m sure you would have worked something out,” Leitner said. “I figured while I was in the area…”
Gertrude looked at him. “I would not have figured something out.”
The firmness of her tone seemed to shock him. He blinked several times, seeming to struggle with what to say, and then resorted instead to a helpless shrug.
“There are some things,” she continued, “that are even beyond me. I might be rather good at what I do, Jurgen, but even I have my limits. As I always say, there are bigger fish in the sea. I was always rather concerned Michael might be one of them.”
“It seems impossible to consider,” Leitner said.
“Then you’re a fool,” Gertrude replied, before sighing. “I am not invincible. If you have that idea of me, you will one day be disappointed.”
“I know you’re not invincible,” Leitner said, a little indignant. “I just meant to say that even though death is inevitable, it seems strange to think of it coming for you in such circumstances.” He paused, and then gave a breathless laugh. “I’m still trembling like a newborn calf. I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“There was once a time where these things were something you also stared down unflinchingly.”
“Yes,” Leitner said, “but I was an idiot then. Now I’ve learned sense.”
“Then I owe you an even greater deal of thanks,” Gertrude said. “You will accept my gratitude, Jurgen. I was in a bad situation.”
“Yes, well.” Leitner cleared his throat. “I suppose I’ll have to take it, then.” He quickly shone the torch back the way they had come, and then to the tunnel ahead of them. “I can hide you for the night, if you need.”
“That would be appreciated.”
“What will you do after?”
Gertrude sighed. “I suppose I shall have to tell Elias. At the very least, he’ll buy me a little time.”
“I thought you wanted to minimise contact with him,” Leitner said. “You know… in case he… does his thing.”
“I do,” Gertrude said. “Unfortunately the situation requires it. I suppose that’s what I get. Doing such things can never come without some kind of karmic balance.”
There was a pause.
“Do you believe that?” Leitner finally asked.
“Believe what?”
“That this is some… oh, I don’t know. Divine retribution for what you did. For what you had to do.”
“I don’t know if I believe it in those words,” Gertrude said, “but I do think I have less of a right to complain than anyone else might. I can see you want to argue. Save it for later. I have little energy for it now.”
“Right.” Leitner’s eyes went to the blood again. “Of course. Well, right this way. I’m sure you’ll find your accommodations most luxurious.”
To her surprise, Gertrude found herself almost smiling. This time it was only exhaustion that kept it from her face, rather than stubbornness, but she felt it all the same. Somehow it was there.