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New Cthonic 9.1
🕑 Added 2025-05-31 19:25:52 +0000 UTCIX
Oak Crescent Hunting Lodge stood to the west of Dudlin, stretched palatial across a long ridge overlooking town, such that when the sun set upon the residents, its black silhouette outlined in the dying red light might be the last thing a man saw before dark. Rooms upon rooms, pens and barns for horses, long sloping lawns, tennis courts, carriage houses, and detached farm homes all placed upon their master the burden of a considerable staff. To live here was to defy modesty. To own it was to embrace ambition.
“Okay, Swilling,” she said, mulling the man’s warnings in her mind, “fair enough.”
Marina hovered above the mansion, arms crossed and lips pressed tight. She had to give it to the colonel; perhaps the man had poisoned her with his paranoia, but she could certainly see how someone might move here with feudal ambitions in mind. It was an estate fit for a king and must have cost a small fortune to maintain, much of that going to the wages of locals. With landscapers, housekeepers, contractors for repairs, and more, she had to wonder just what the Lodge charged for a stay to remain profitable or if the owner was happy to lose money in order to maintain his seat of power.
Swilling suggested she keep her guard up around Troyer, but it wasn't like she could avoid the man. He was one of the two official 'Stakeholders' listed for the Bulletin along with the mayor of Dudlin, who would, presumably, send her his way regardless. Mostly, she supposed, it would mean she'd have to find somewhere that wasn't this ultra-luxurious resort to spend the night.
“In and out like the DMV.”
Marina sighed and floated down to the main entrance. ‘1899’ was carved into the large stone newel of the stairs up to the grand double doors. She’d be quick about this, find out what information Troyer needed from the mystery cave, do her due diligence, and be on her way.
There was still a lot to be done before actually heading into the woods. For her own safety, common sense told her to talk to someone who'd been to the Cave already. But she wanted to speak with Salem Cooper's parents and peers as well to better understand what his pre-Bridging shock responses were and if they could indicate what his Meta-Plane had been. From there, she would get in contact with Dr. Morris. Marina would be relying on her heavily for the investigation. She liked to think of herself as an expert on Bridges and better versed in general on superpowers than most LSRs, but Rebecca Morris had devoted her life to the topics. The researcher would surely have some ideas for potential explanations and things to look out for, and the more information Marina could get her, the better.
The sad truth was that she was both impossibly out of her element with this Bulletin and simultaneously Salem Cooper's best hope. She had never investigated anything as an LSR, never solved a crime, or tracked someone down. For that matter, she had never read a mystery novel or seen a Sherlock Holmes movie. She had never done an escape room. She had never stuck it through an entire true crime docuseries. If pressed, she would admit that she had no Earthly idea what she was doing or how to do it. If she was being generous, perhaps on the Elemental Plane, things may have been different. There, she was a noble and a capable, if rusty, adventurer – on Earth, she was...less so.
But Marina was a Bridge. And more importantly, she was here. No one else was coming to save the day any time soon, and certainly no one with a shared metaphysical connection to the missing teen. She had to put her faith in that connection and trust in her natural tenacity to get her through this. She was alone in unknown territory, surrounded by powerful men playing politics in the shadows, and woods overfull of monstrosities. The situation called for confidence. She needed to behave as though she had all of this firmly in her grasp. Half-steps and hesitation could mean catastrophe for her and Salem Cooper.
She shook out her shoulders and took a second to prepare the correct mindset. “Be bold. Seize control. This is your day.”
She would blow in and out of here like a storm.
Marina threw open the tall double doors of the Lodge and called forth a great gust to sweep in ahead of her – an entrance with style to set the expectations. She was not a woman to be taken lightly. She was Wind itself. Lo and behold! she was saying. I have come!
The gust rushed through the grand lobby, up the twin stairs, and across a dozen or more taxidermied animals and mounted heads. It kicked the dust up off the weathered Persian rug in the entryway, set the grand chandelier above to swinging, and scattered papers off the front desk. Though, incredibly, it failed to wake the young woman behind it, sleeping with her head in her arms. No one else was here. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been very many cars parked outside.
Ah, that was right, she remembered, Troyer had closed for business until more was known about the Cave.
One of the crystals stringing the chandelier came loose and fell to the ground, shattering noisily on the parquet flooring. The front-desk woman woke with a start at the noise. Marina quickly sent a wind to still the dangling light fixture while the receptionist was blinking off her sleep, and strode forth, hands in her pockets, looking unbothered by it all. She decided it would be best to pretend as though nothing had happened.
The receptionist was younger than she’d expected, a very hard-lived early twenties or late teens maybe, and squinting in pain, quite clearly hung over. She rubbed at one of her eyes, the other swollen and likely black and blue beneath the heavy layer of concealer the girl had applied to it. Marina noted that she’d done a good job with the makeup, likely the result of past experience.
“What was that?” she asked through a yawn, glancing around at the mess of loose papers on her desk. “What the fuck?”
Marina leaned against the desk and made a show of checking her watch for the time, face betraying nothing. The receptionist’s first response was to roll her eyes at the gesture. Then, remembering where she was, she stiffened and sat up, plastering on a bland, customer service smile.
“Hi, may I help you? We’re closed to guests, sorry.” Having taken a better look at the very pretty stranger in front of her, she naturally assumed Marina was one of the Lodge’s wealthy clientele. “If you have a reservation, we’ll have to reschedule you. Sorry for the inconvenience. To make up for it, we’d like to offer you an additional two days to your stay or an upgraded room.”
“That’s interesting.” Marina seized on the opening. “And when is Troyer expecting to wrap this up by?”
The girl blinked, the question jarring her out of her script. “Sorry?”
“When’s the earliest I could reschedule?”
"Oh, uh, we have openings for next weekend, but any guided hunting tours are postponed for another ten days. We could book you for one on Thursday if you'd like."
“Ten days!” she said with a derisive laugh. So much for postponing business until the mystery of Salem Cooper’s disappearance was settled. “How optimistic of Mr. Troyer.”
The receptionist’s face tightened at the jab. At least the man inspired some defensiveness in his employees. “We can equip you for hunting next weekend, and you’re welcome to head out on your own, though it’s not recommended. Our hunting guides just need a little more time to get acquainted with some recent changes in the environment, for their safety and yours.”
“Theirs, maybe, but not for mine.” Marina gave a toothy grin, putting all of her pride and confidence into the expression. The front desk woman gulped and reflexively made herself smaller, hunching in a little. “Lift-Off. Here to see the Stakeholder for the Cooper Bulletin.”
"Lift—" The girl froze. Her eyes flicked to the front of Marina's bomber jacket and squinted hard at the letters. "Oh shit, whoops. Um. Holy shit, so sorry, I broke my glasses. Wow. Lift-Off!" The customer service tone and smile were gone, replaced with genuine excitement mixed with some embarrassment. "I'm supposed to give you some stuff." She looked around at the many papers, folders, and various documents strewn chaotically about her. "Fuck. Uh, oh yeah, a room key!" She snapped. "I'm supposed to give you a room key, too! And then I'll just…" she glanced helplessly at the mess. "I'm Barbara, by the way, but you can call me Babs; everyone does. Would you like anything? I can call for some drinks or food."
Marina waved her off, knowing that she shouldn't. Regardless of whether Swilling was right and Troyer was a seditionist, the responsible and safest move would be to stay clear of it all entirely. She wanted no part of super politics. "No, thanks. And no room key, either. I'm more of a bed-and-breakfast kind of girl. I don't suppose Dudlin has one?"
It was asked in earnest; she didn’t know how small a town this was. But Marina couldn’t say what answer she wanted. Responsible and safe was all well and good, but a part of her – a large part – wanted to be swaddled in the luxury of the Lodge, had yearned for it the moment she set eyes on the estate, and couldn’t care less about Swilling and his warnings, couldn’t care at all about human would-be tyrants. She was of the Elemental Plane; why should she worry about their schemes? It was all boys and their dick-measuring, frankly. She was here for her fellow Bridge and for the battered people of the region. She didn’t have to concern herself with everything afoot here, and certainly not the palace intrigue.
Babs beamed. “We do! Mrs. Applegate will be thrilled to have you. That’s so sweet of you, really, staying with her. She’ll probably go full grandma over you. I don’t think she gets many guests.”
Well, shit. “I can’t wait. That sounds perfect for me; I could do with a cozy country retreat. I hope she's a good cook. I'll be a big eater for the next month."
“The best! They’re talking about banning her from the chili cook-off to make it fair. You’ll love it; it’s much more authentic country than the Lodge could ever be, ‘cause, you know, the money and all.” She gestured vaguely at the grotesque luxury surrounding them, taunting her, perhaps. “Would you like to take a seat? Mr. Troyer’s in the kennels, I think, but he said to call him the moment you arrived. I’m sure he won’t be long.”
Marina thought of the dust scattered in a conspicuous arc around the entry rug, the broken shards of crystal, and the mess at the desk. One of the mounted stag heads was now hanging at a slight tilt. "I'll wait in his office," she said decisively. It was a power move, she told herself. If she wasn't staying here, then she may as well let the Lord of this place know her station. Certainly, it had nothing to do with the image of him walking up to her, surrounded by the clutter of her previous stunt.
Babs was taken aback. The request was an egregious violation of social norms, but she’d likely been told explicitly to agree to any of her demands. “Oh. O-Okay? I’ll just…call to let him know.”
“Yes, of course.” She gestured with her arm to the grand staircase framing either side of the lobby. “Lead me there. I’d love to know more about you and Dudlin.”
“Um, right.” The receptionist stood shakily, hand still reaching for the phone. Marina immediately started walking toward the stairs, forcing the girl to follow and fast walk to catch up and actually lead. Luckily, she’d guessed right, and the office was up a floor – that would have been terribly embarrassing otherwise.
Her first question had nothing to do with the Bulletin, but as a woman with superpowers, she felt a certain obligation to address it. "What happened to your eye?" It was best to ask now when she had the girl off her footing, unable to make more than quick excuses.
“Oh, you know,” the brunette said nervously, “had a few drinks.”
“Ah. Boyfriend?” Babs missed a step, catching herself on the stair railing and all but confirming Marina’s suspicion. “Want me to throw his car in a lake?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” the girl corrected weakly.
“Good. Let me know if he gives you trouble.”
“…thanks.”
They walked in silence for a few beats. There was no non-awkward way to have the conversation with a stranger, not that she'd found, at least. Marina contemplated changing topics to Salem Cooper, Dudlin, and the Cave, but she could see the girl was working up the courage to ask something.
“Would you really?” Babs said finally. “Throw his car in a lake?”
“Yeah. Want me to? It’s no big deal,” she lied. It would be incredibly taxing, but appearances were important. “I saw a few small lakes nearby on the flight over.”
Babs smiled her thanks back at her. “Awesome,” she whispered. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. You know where to find me.”
The receptionist brushed a strand of her brown hair behind an ear, her gait and posture becoming more at ease. “Your skin is amazing, by the way. I think it might of stopped me from even seeing your name tag, to be honest,” she said, slipping into a friendlier, more natural babble. “Or maybe I just didn’t believe you were real. I mean, an LSR in Dudlin is crazy. Thanks a ton for coming. The Salem business is real sad. How’d you even hear about it, anyway?”
She ignored the question; Marina had promised the boy privacy, and she meant to keep her word. "What can you tell me about him? What's what on his disappearance?"
“Man.” She sighed. “Small town and all, but I didn’t really know him like that. He was stupid good at painting, though, ‘specially for his age. I bought a little watercolor of his at the flea market once. He would of made it out of here, probably; that's what's saddest about it all." Babs shook her head. "You oughta ask Ginny Ennis. She's gone a little," she frowned, "weird since he went missing, but they were really close. And she's been to the Cave, too – bagged the first tunnel wolf kill. Which is fucking crazy – I mean, she's like a hundred pounds soaking wet. You should read her blog about it. Pretty cool, got pictures too, when they load – no thanks to the damn Forestry Service. You'll be cursing them out with the rest of us pretty soon; fuckers got me going to the library and reading shit. All the good DVDs keep getting rented out. Hey," Babs spun around, walking backward down the hall, "you rescued the Guard from Big Momma, right? Did you see her? What's she like?"
“Concerningly large.” She tugged her guide to the side to stop her from running into a potted plant. The girl blushed and spun back around. “Ennis – any relation to the Mountain Prophet DJ?”
Babs paused in amazement. "Wow. Didn't think you'd have heard of him. Guess he really is the second most popular Appalachian specialty short-wave radio station in the country. Yeah, Ginny's his daughter, a reporter, like her old man. Not so amateur anymore, either – Mr. Troyer paid her ten grand for the monster."
“Who knew journalism could be so lucrative.” It looked like she had her next stop scheduled. Marina had assumed she would be headed to Cooper’s parents after the check-in with Troyer and had been dreading that conversation, but perhaps it made more sense to do some preliminary investigations before meeting them. “Mind writing down the blog address for me?”
Yes, first, she would check in with Ennis, get a peer's perspective on Salem's personality changes and shock responses, and then she would see his parents. Or, no, then she would call Dr. Morris and get her expert opinion so she could share it with them.
Marina bit her lip. She ought to at least do a preliminary scan of the Cave, as well, right? Even a little good news would take the bite out of admitting to the Coopers that she was the reason their son had run into the woods before his disappearance. Or, and here was a very interesting idea, she could just not mention that fact at all. What’s done was done. They had to act fast in the present, not linger on the past.
Coward, spat her conscience.
Yes, said the rest of her. What of it?
She was still negotiating with her conscience, that damn stubborn animal, when they reached Troyer’s office. Babs had led her to the end of a hall, where the space opened up into a lounge and viewing area, seats arranged facing large bay windows that looked out on the rolling hills. Troyer had thoughtfully occupied a room off to the side of the lounge, effectively turning the entirety of it into the grandest waiting room she’d ever seen.
Babs gestured to a beautiful antique armchair next to an end table with a few art books and an ashtray. “Here you go!” she said cheerily. “There are all sorts of smokes in the table drawer; help yourself. They’re the good ones, fancy enough that a girl got fired for dogging them once. The maids put these funny little packets in the drawer to keep them from going dry, too.”
There was an edge of desperation in Babs’s voice. The woman was fully aware that Lift-Off had no intention of taking the seat. She had heard her tone of voice and seen her cutting blue eyes when she’d declared that she would wait in Troyer’s office. In order to make a power move, you had to commit, plain and simple. It was a requirement – a hard binary. A power move told the other party that it was you, not they, in control of the situation; to stop short was an inherent failure more embarrassing than doing nothing at all.
Marina crinkled her nose at the chair and put on a lemon-sour half-smile as though it were the ugliest thing she'd ever seen but was being too polite to come out and say that. The receptionist reflexively mumbled an apology. She turned a blank, utterly neutral expression to the younger woman, gaze focused on some far-off distant point. To Babs, it was a piercing, ego-crushing move, a total, wordless dismissal of her without even the decency to look away. In truth, the Bridge's focus was elsewhere as she reached out with her senses to the other side of the door, feeling for a way to turn the lock. Damn, it required a key; this would be a bit more complicated.
“Mm. Yes,” she said, forcing herself to feel the disgust required to sell it. What, sit out here like a scolded schoolgirl outside the principal’s office? Who did she think she was? What did she think she was? Storms did not sit around smoking cigarettes for the convenience of wealthy men.
Marina grabbed the door handle and paused, faking as if she'd thought of something. She turned back to Babs and spoke slowly so that her power could focus on moving the delicate innards of the lock without breaking it. Unfortunately, it made her sound incredibly condescending, but c’est la vie – eggs and omelets, or whatever. "Ah, do let Mr. Troyer know that he is welcome to take his time. I will be reading Ginny Ennis's report on her blog, and that may take a while." Wait, that made it sound like she was a slow reader. She put on a withering smile. "Damn Forestry Service, eh?"
“Ha…yeah.” Babs stood around nervously, clearly unsure as how to tell the woman the door would be locked, and if it might be less embarrassing for them both if she just left.
Marina experienced a lifetime chart-topping awkward pause as it took another few agonizing seconds for the lock to finally click. She disguised the silence by pretending to have caught something interesting out of the corner of her eye out the window and disguised the sound by quickly turning the knob and pulling the door open.
The faux disgust vanished instantly from her face, replaced by genuine joyous relief. “Well, it’s been great meeting you! Be sure to stop by my BnB after work. I’ll swipe a few of the nice cigarettes from here to share, yeah?”
The receptionist was struck silent by the whiplash, opening and closing her mouth in confusion.
“Great, see you then!” said Marina, letting herself in and closing the door.
She immediately pressed her back to the wood, put a hand on her forehead, and let out a long, tired breath. Power move, she reminded herself. You had to commit, nothing for it.
There was a whisper on the wind. Something called to her, a faint request repeating in her ear. Her eyes snapped wide.
The office was long, more of a combined study and meeting room, and beautifully well-appointed, carefully crafted to give the appearance of old wealth. Immediately in front of her were a number of chairs and sofas and little tables with a large, brass antique orrery hanging above them, suspended from the ceiling. Lining the walls were console tables with various masculine decorations, fine rifles, daggers, ships in bottles, and the like, along with bookshelves that were too tall to be practical, filled with leather-bound books and more relics from bygone adventurers. At the far end of the room, with tall windows behind it, sat Zachariah Troyer's great mahogany desk.
Inside and beside, on top and under all of it, was the quiet. It smothered this room like a living, hostile entity. Once the heavy door had closed behind her, Marina could hear nothing of the outside world, could hear nothing but her own heartbeat – and the whisper, just on the edge of her perception, repeating, pleading, again and again. What was that? A sound? A word?
She tossed her hair, calling forth her Breezes. One was sent to the hallway, instructed to inform her if someone was coming, and the rest she tasked to find the whisper. To her surprise, not only did they need no clarification, but they, at once and together, rushed to the opposite end of the room, swirling about something behind the desk. Her stomach dropped at the implications. Marina closed her eyes and focused on the sounds she was hearing through her ears, contrasting them with her innate sense of vibrations in the air.
This was no illusion or ghostly enchantment; something was vibrating, though not the air. The barrier to the Elemental Plane was pinched, or being pinched, rather, infinitesimally so in a way that her power mysteriously interpreted as a sound.
Her footsteps, muffled by the thick rugs laying atop the hardwood, were like thunderstrikes to her ears, pushing her to move quicker. She didn’t know how far the kennels were, what Troyer had been up to there, and how much time that gave her, but she had to know what was happening. For her own curiosity, if nothing else, Marina needed to see this through. Opportunities to discover new aspects of her power were vanishingly rare – this one just happened to come bundled with potential insight into the de facto ruler of Dudlin.
The Breezes circled a mounted plaque between two of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Troyer's desk, positioned where it was so that it would hang imposingly behind him when seated. On the plaque were two framed pictures, an engraved message, and a sword in a jeweled sheath.
There were gardeners outside getting the Lodge ready for Spring, but Marina darted in close to the wall, positioning herself so that the multi-layered curtains would obscure her from their view even when pulled open. Her breath caught in her throat at seeing the pictures and the engraving, her mouth going dry. This power move of hers seemed suddenly a great deal more reckless than she'd intended and, maybe, could afford.
The engraving was simple: “To my dear friend. May this ever find you in your need. –Farshid.”
The pictures left no question as to who Farshid was. The first, the widest and largest, was of a military camp, with many dozens of men and women standing together. In one of the first of its kind, the photograph featured men and women in both American military uniforms and Ottoman, standing side by side. They were mixed together, arranged loosely by height, not nationality. At the center was a giant of a man, the sole one of them out of uniform, dressed in all his regalia, distinctly Persian tall felt hat and all, smiling, round-faced, portly, and jolly. In the far background loomed Lake Superior, dyed black with toxic bile from the Incursion. The second photo was one of Farshid and a handsome blonde man – Zachariah Troyer, she presumed – in his thirties or so, dressed in the colorful long robes that the Satrap was known to gift his entourage. They knelt together before an immense spread of food, one of the Persian man's enormous hands placed almost possessively on Troyer's shoulder, his smile one of victory. Marina had been shit at school, but even as a child, she could have recognized Farshid Moazenzadeh Tehrani, former Satrap of Tehran.
The nagging whisper was coming from the sword hidden beneath the jeweled sheath. It was not too long, with a gentle curve—
"Like a lion's claw," she said, remembering a line from one of her uncle's favorite 1970s spy thrillers. In one of the scenes, the main character had been captured by an evil yet honorable Ottoman, that classic trope, and was allowed to choose between two weapons for a duel that would determine his freedom. 'Take your fancy scimitar. I'll stick to the spear,' said the grizzled American hero.
“It is a shamshir, Mr. Knight,” quoted Marina, taking the weapon down reverently, “and gladly.”
The whispering intensified the moment her hand was on the hilt, practically begging her now to draw and listen – listen and speak. She obliged half the urge, pulling the blade slowly from its sheath, readying herself for what might happen.
There was no flash of light or great burst of energy; the sword drew out cleanly and quietly. But there, inscribed onto the steel of the weapon, were Words in different Meta-Languages, four in total, two on one side and two on the other. Three shifted and moved under their own power, tightly bundled together but forever in motion upon the metal. The fourth, in contrast, was so solid and motionless that it left lingering afterimages of itself in her vision as she moved the blade gently in her hand.
Marina stopped herself from repeating the one Word she could recognize, which nearly leaped to her lips unbidden.
“Impossible,” she muttered.
Her heart thundered in her chest, the rushing blood in her ears deafening her to the obscene silence of Troyer’s study. The Bridge had traveled across the Elemental Plane, not just the domain of Air, and she had seen the realm’s Meta-Languages so perfectly represented in writing but once, as the guest of a Djinn in his grand palace. These were not mortal approximations. These were the true Words.
Slash, pleaded the sword. Slash. Slash. Slash. It craved her command, needed to serve its wielder. Slash, it whimpered. Slash, it screamed.
Marina peered hard at the Word, her sky-blue eyes reflecting brilliantly in the steel, and scowled. It was not a slave’s place to command its master.
The whispering ceased. She sheathed the shamshir and rested it back in place, taking a small step away from the plaque.
How? How could the Words be contained in physical matter? The thought of learning to do so herself felt impossible. She couldn’t even conceive of where to begin with the task. And what in God’s name was Troyer doing with having that, that artifact, just sitting in the open?
She took another step back and closed her eyes. Her mind was buzzing, whirling chaotically with fears and suspicions, but this was not the time. Marina needed to think.
"Think, you moron," she hissed at herself, "Think. Think it through." Right, yes, she needed to start small, start small, and work out what was happening in tiny steps, starting with the simplest.
The Words could be written on the steel because the Lion of Tehran had wanted them to be. Farshid was one of the strongest and most beloved figures in living memory. His charming tour across the States and Canada after the Incursion soothed the last remnants of public paranoia; he’d rebutted decades of propaganda through old-fashioned, human affability, kissing babies and winning eating contests at state fairs. If there was anyone who could have it done, had the favors and the wealth to make it so, it was the man once deemed ‘Jewel of the World’ by the Sultan himself.
The blade hung in the open for the reason stated on the plaque – ‘May this ever find you in your need’ – Zachariah kept it by his desk, close by, in case it was needed. And. And. She slapped herself to keep her brain from momentarily grinding to a halt. And because it, frankly, wasn’t that…useful – to most, at least. It wasn’t an artifact, or rather, he’d chosen not to present it as one, hiding it in plain sight. This way, it was a mere curiosity to the average man.
Marina looked back up at the sword skeptically at that thought. But, no, it was true. Most wouldn’t know the value of what they were looking at. The sword came across as fantastically powerful to her because she could both read and Speak the Word to command the blade. But that was all. She could understand the other languages when spoken to her on the Elemental Plane, but she did not truly know them. They were not emblazoned on her soul and mind by her nature as a Bridge. The other Words in their written form meant nothing to her; she had not heard their whispers, and she could not order the shamshir to perform them. So then…
Her eyes flicked back to the photograph from Lake Superior as she recalled what little information Colonel Swilling had given her of Troyer: former translator for the Seals, retired after the Lakes to do arbitrage, records suspiciously well classified.
Troyer could read the other Words. Farshid would not have given the man a gift that he couldn't use. He had to have some deeper understanding of them, something that could not possibly be done by any sane human being on their own. His brain either would have dribbled out of his ears, or he'd be raving mad after learning four Meta-Languages. He must have had some power over languages, probably an innate ability to understand and speak any that he encountered. No, not probably; that had to be it. When you ruled out occultism or scholarly study, which you had to by virtue of the number of languages, there was no other explanation.
Holy shit, did she just do an investigation! She did, she realized! She'd figured out Zachariah Troyer's powers on her own; even Swilling, with all his resources, hadn't managed that. And Marina had done it with only context clues and a little bit of breaking and entering.
“Oh, fuck.”
Marina took three quick steps, crouching down to put Troyer's wide mahogany desk between her and the windows. She'd been standing there, hands on her hips in full view of the gardeners below, like an absolute tit. The panic was rising once more. She knelt on one knee and sank her fingers into a rug, enjoying the simple comfort of the silk on her palm. Then, with a start, realizing her mistake, she stepped onto the hardwood and ran her hand across the Persian rug, brushing the silk threads she'd disturbed to be uniform with the rest.
How nice, how wonderful, she’d put her brain to work and solved a mystery. Good job, Marina. Now she just had to use it again to get herself out of this mess.
It was not a minor faux pas to break into a man’s study and sus out his powers without his knowledge or consent. LSRs registered with the government and consented to quantify and publicize their abilities, but even there, most fibbed on the tests and admitted to the least of what they could do, just enough to get their license. The limits to your power were closely guarded secrets by necessity. It was a way to protect yourself.
Troyer could not learn that she knew both his power and its upper limit. Universal translation of human languages was one thing, extremely useful but not particularly threatening for others to know about you; universal translation when it included Meta-Languages was another entirely. The occult implications were horrifying. Flawless spells of binding, the ability to call on multiple sources of magic, and the unique privilege to study spellcraft without the dangers of trial-and-error – those alone elevated Troyer to around her vaguely defined ‘tier’ of superpowers. Couple them with immense wealth and his connections in the Empire, and the man was in a rarified class unquestionably beyond hers.
Marina continued shuffling along the hardwood, smoothing any evidence that she’d walked on the rugs with her hand. When she couldn’t reach, she very carefully used the air around the threads to correct those that had been freshly pushed down by her feet.
Once she was back at the meeting room subsection of the study, she allowed herself a moment to think and breathe. Not much time had passed since she'd entered the room. Troyer would not be here for at the very least a few minutes, probably longer, depending on what the state of communications was in the Lodge and if Babs took the time to tidy her desk before calling her boss. There was no need to panic; it would only make her coverup worse. She had to be as methodical as she'd been with the shamshir earlier.
Marina opened a drawer in a small end table with an ashtray upon it, brow raising at the selection within. As she'd expected, Troyer kept cigarettes for his guests to peruse, but, speaking as a connoisseur of high-end pharmaceuticals, the entirety of the Methuselah line just sitting in a drawer was borderline blasphemous. There were only a handful of approved sellers in North America, and every fresh batch sold out within days. Other pharmatech companies sold cigs that could heal the throat and lungs, but Methuselahs were the only without the usual astringent chemical aftertaste. They were a hot commodity amongst the wealthy. She swiped two of each flavor for later sharing with Babs and then took another and lit it. Chugging the cigarette with deep inhales, Marina quickly burned it down to where it would have been had she simply walked in, sat down, and started smoking.
The key, she figured, was to come across as so unaccountably arrogant that she wouldn’t have even bothered to investigate the office, so much so that she hadn’t even walked over and cracked the windows before lighting up. Anyone who knew what she did of Troyer’s abilities wouldn’t have dreamed of such disrespect, and thus, that was the only serious option available to her. Others could tactfully navigate a conversation without revealing that information, but she was confident that she could not. Marina was no social climber, and Troyer had, for a time at least, been in proximity to the legendarily cutthroat inter-Satrapy politics of the Empire.
She had to pass as too cocksure and dismissive of Troyer to care whether he had powers or not, and that meant, unfortunately, being incredibly cocksure and dismissive. Marina kicked her legs up, leaned back, and pulled up Ginny Ennis's blog. As the site began the long process of loading, she mentally prepared herself to be an incurious, too-pretty Hollywood bitch. It wasn't hard; she had plenty of examples from her recent past to work with.
Ennis's report was riveting, reading more like a Nineteenth Century explorer's log than a news article, even though the girl didn't get very far into the Cave. It gave her some ideas for what Meta-Plane had empowered Salem Cooper, but she needed more context. The tunnel wolves, as they were described by Ennis, alpha predators of the deep dark recesses of the earth, brought to mind stories of Nidavellir, home of the Dwarves of Norse Mythology. And there was the Cave's entrance as well, so ancient and yet so novel. The statue of the girl weeping tears of gold was so strikingly lifelike in Ennis's picture that it had sent a shiver down her spine. The craftsmanship could have been Dwarven, but she didn't know; something about it that she couldn't quite place made her think otherwise. The depiction of the weeping girl had an aura of heartbreak to it that felt too human.
The phone was down on her lap, and her eyes were closed in deep thought, a second cigarette burning in her hand when Troyer and one of the most rectangular men she'd ever seen in her life walked through the door. Zachariah Troyer had deflated somewhat from the youthful, strapping version she'd seen in the photograph, but he maintained a certain rugged handsomeness despite his age, and the grey hair suited him. He was dressed in hardy khaki work clothes that had been tailored perfectly to his proportions, making him look as if he'd come off the set of a high-budget movie about a rancher. The other man was built like a barn door, dressed simply, and was obviously uncomfortable being there. He wasn't as strikingly, Hollywood-handsome as Troyer, but, in spite of his hulking proportions, he had an approachability and softness to his features the other man lacked entirely.
“Lift-Off, glad to have you,” said Troyer in an amiable tone. If he was in any way rattled by her behavior, he didn’t show it. “I’m the Stakeholder for the Cooper Bulletin, Zachariah Troyer. This is our dog trainer at the Lodge, Moose. He’s also the author of most of this report, having been to the Cave twice.”
He held out a large folder to her. Marina thought she may have recognized it as one of those she'd sent flying off the front desk. She took the folder but didn't stand to greet him and ignored the introduction, instead voicing the thought she'd been mulling on when he entered.
“What’s the possibility that a landslide could have revealed the entrance to Salem’s Cave, or that it could have been sitting unnoticed for years?”
Moose answered, relaxing noticeably now that he knew they were getting straight to business. “Zero for both. Cave’s at the bottom of three hills and not deep enough in the woods that it would have been missed.”
"Hmm…" She took a small puff of her cigarette. That all but confirmed the Cave was the result of Salem's first manifestation of his powers. Could he have pulled it out of and deposited it here fully formed from his Meta-Plane? She flicked open the folder and started scanning the contents. "What do you need from me to mark this Bulletin complete?"
Troyer walked over to the windows to open them; she fought the urge to watch his reactions. “A video that shows the entirety of the entrance, the way down, and the massive cavern at the bottom. Because of the nature of tunnel wolves, I’d like it to include in detail the walls, floors, and ceilings of any passage narrower or with a clearance less than twelve feet in length. There are a number of anomalous creatures within the cave system that must be recovered and sent to a lab for processing. That includes the large glowworms, the crabs, and the firefly-like bugs, as well as any other you might notice while there. Document the entirety of the large cavern; that will be all that’s required for this Bulletin. If there is more to the cave system, then we will issue further Bulletins specifically for the purpose of exploration. Additionally, I need you to investigate a phenomenon while there that could potentially indicate Salem Cooper’s fate if he is alive. Moose can explain more. Out of respect for his privacy, I didn’t include details within the folder, so it’s good that you stayed for a meeting.”
“What about body recovery?” she asked sharply. Her leg was tapping rapidly, nerves fraying.
“If he’s dead,” said Moose calmly, “there’s not a body to recover. It’s been eaten.”
There was a long pause as the sentence hung in the air, the silence of the room returning to place a hand on the back of her neck. She scowled and took a long drag. The filter scorched her throat. She stubbed out the cigarette and fished another from the drawer.
“I’m curious,” said Troyer, “as to how this Bulletin caught your attention. Our small forest town is quite a distance from California, and not to be crass, but teens tragically disappear all across the country.”
He hadn’t asked a direct question, so she simply made a sound of acknowledgment and moved on, turning to Moose. “What’s this last phenomenon?”
The big man huffed, shot an annoyed look at his boss, and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. For someone so quiet and standoffish, he was surprisingly expressive in his body language. Must have made for an excellent dog trainer, she thought.
“Like for this to remain in this room.”
She nodded. “You have my confidence.”
He grunted. “Had a hard trip into the cavern from above – it’s all there in the folder. Next day, I wake up and I’m better, stronger.”
“The injuries didn’t last?”
“No, I mean I was better at stuff all around. Could lift more, run faster, was like I was ten years younger or something. And,” he shot another sharp look Troyer’s way, “my power changed. Used to be able to talk to dogs. Now I can talk to dogs and cats.”
Marina leaned forward, replaying his words in her mind a few times. For the second time within this office, her mouth went dry. “Sorry?” she choked out.
What? How could Nidavellir grant him that? Perhaps if it came paired with an artifact, but simply waking up with the power? She’d never heard of anything on those lines from the place. What dimension could? Primordium was theorized as a source for many animal-related abilities, but then why was there the statue of the girl weeping gold? The Library and the Dreamlands were out as well. Those would have had horrific effects on the minds of everyone for miles.
"Troyer thinks it might be a temporary aftereffect of the glowworm toxin, but I don't think so. Had a…dream. Feel like something in the Cave wants us to stay, like maybe the longer you're there, or the deeper you go, the more it'll give you." Moose trailed off, staring at his hand.
“But, your power…expanded?”
“Yeah. Used to be able to talk to dogs, now I—”
“can talk to cats, right,” she finished for him. She had to read through this folder and call Dr. Morris immediately. Marina was out of her depth. Theories on superpower growth were endless, and it felt like they were all now colliding within her head. The researcher would have better ideas. She looked at Troyer, standing up. “Is that all? The rest is in the folder?”
He was leaning against his desk, thankfully covering the shamshir from view with his body. Marina wasn’t sure she’d have been able to stop her eyes from flicking to it if he hadn’t. “I don’t see how you can accomplish this Bulletin in a single trip to the Cave. Are you sure I shouldn’t prepare you a room?”
“Yes. No offense, just a few too many mounted heads for my taste.”
“None taken. It’s not an uncommon complaint. We have detached guest houses in a more down home, farm style as well. Barbara mentioned you would have an appetite for the next month – am I to take it the Guard gave you RA-17 for your troubles? We’ll be much better at accommodating your hunger than Mrs. Applegate. She is not a young woman.”
Marina was saved from answering by Moose’s dark chuckle. “The Juice, huh? Hell of a way to repay a good deed. Put it in my living will to just let me die.”
She smiled at the man thankfully. “I almost did the same.”
“Yeah, that’s ‘cause it was your first time. Second’s worse. Third’s worse than that. Et cetera. I’ll put a bullet through my head if they try to wheel that fucking bag over to my bed.”
The blood drained from her face. She opened her mouth to respond but was momentarily caught in a sense memory of the IV hitting her veins.
Moose laughed and looked chagrined. "Ah, shit, sorry. Shouldn't a said nothing." He stood up and offered his hand to shake. She took it on reflex and enjoyed the feeling of it dwarfing her own more than she would have expected. It was warm and rough, a bit like the man it belonged to. "Don't let Troyer keep you. Mrs. Applegate could cook enough for her twelve kids and a whole pack of grandkids back before most of them moved. She’ll take care of you fine. Ask for her poundcake – thing’s got to be half butter and a quarter heavy cream.” He avoided looking at his employer as he continued. “Mind if I walk you out? Ain’t seen somebody fly in years.”
“I’d like that.” Then, realizing how breathless and doe-eyed she had sounded, added, “I’ll trade you. I’ve never seen someone talk to dogs before.”
He mussed his hair shyly, a gesture that looked absurd on the giant. “You definitely have. But, sure, we can probably make that happen.”
“Good,” she grinned, “something to look forward to between lugging monster corpses back here.” She pointed at the drawer full of cigarettes and glanced at Troyer. “Would you mind if I take a few for the road?”
“Not at all. They’re there for guests. I only smoke cigars. One other thing, though. I didn’t see you respond to TomTwain’s request to hop onto the Bulletin.”
She looked at him, confused, while taking a generous scoop of Methuselahs. Power move. “TomTwain? My agent didn’t send me anything.” Goddamn Danielle.
“A medium of some renown in Appalachia.”
Moose added with almost childlike enthusiasm, transforming before her eyes, “The hillbilly detective! Novelist, famous liar, hobbyist crooner. Cheats at basketball. Honest at cards.”
Marina laughed. Well, if the big man liked him, why not? She wasn’t here for the payday anyway. “A medium could be useful. I won’t wait around for him, but if he gets here before I’m finished, then I don’t see why not.”
Troyer nodded. “I’ll make a note of it. That’s all, then. We’re ready to receive samples at the south barn whenever you bring them. Best of luck, Lift-Off. Our little community is counting on you.”
AN: Still editing rest of this chapter. Also working hard this week to open my schedule up. If I can pull it off, I'll have a good month where I can focus exclusively on writing.
Comments
Spessgot
ty!
Phil. P.
“But, you’re power…expanded?” *your
Erikbongo
Nice
