The first thing you notice is she’s done something with her hair. Her tousled dyed blonde look had been cut shorter to its dark brown roots and there were highlights. Maurie, and her new haircut, had plowed through the Edinburgh airport with the determinations of a seasoned business traveler. While keeping up with the slender FBI agent was a challenge, you were grateful to at least follow in her wake. When she walked, she left a trail of bodies; hapless baggage handlers, drowsy tourists who happened to be lingering too close to the coffee stand and beleaguered taxi driver, who, after some fiercely combative words, delivered the two of you to a cheap motel in a hamlet two hours into the countryside.
You had hoped to catch a glimpse of Scotland from the air but the plane ride which had started unconscionably late in Seattle had finally delivered you into the rapidly dimming grey of twilight. There was a glimpse of stone and a lovely glittering of yellow street lights next to the green and the sea before the smothering rain swept in with the rolling darkness.
Maybe the highlights were her actual hair color. You are beginning to doubt yourself now – clearly there was a cut but the way the color blended where it framed her sharp eyes. Maurie had hardly said one word the entire time. Well, that’s not fair. You both had tried some awkward chitchat near the beginning but she was clearly wound too tight, her voice clipped, her gaze always darting away. She had clearly transmuted her inner turmoil into rage at anyone unlucky enough to be vaguely underfoot so you had resigned yourself to analysing her new haircut.
Maybe the highlights were her natural color, the shorter bits had a different shade, an almost chestnut compared to her longer deep brown. The spluttering 1980s honda lurched to a stop outside the diminutive motor inn. The driver muttered something that sounded vaguely like, but clearly wasn’t, “There-ya-go” as Maurie jumped out into the pouring rain to retrieve her bags from the trunk.
You squint at the accommodations – the neon sign for the lobby, the dull off-white paint on the numbered doors. If it hadn’t been for old stone sidewalks and the decidedly British looking light pole on the corner, it could have been right out of Forks or Centralia.
“Not terribly hobbit-y.” you grumble, pulling yourself out of the car and into the deluge. Maurie is already putting in a code into a little box next to room number six, for probably the third time judging by the velocity with which she is punching the numbers.
There’s a click and the two of you tumble into the room with its 90s wallpaper only slightly redeemed by it’s ’70s furniture choices. Two queen beds, a decent sized tv and a bathroom that looked way smaller than you had hoped.
“Well – at least it’s going to be quiet.” She rolls her suitcase over to the bed nearest the door.
“Oh! Did you . . . did the FBI do something . . .” you ask. Maurie barks off a little laugh.
“Hah! No, we’re barely on a per diem here.” There had been some talk initially about some sort of pay for your assistance. Ryan was thrilled, a little extra cash could always be put to good use, although you suspected that he just wanted to invest more money in Jared and Sarah’s Llama Hat business. The venture was surprisingly successful although not quite enough to warrant buying a larger share, but no matter. When Pitts and Maurie arrived, there was no discussion of money, simply free tickets to Scotland with your name on it and flexible dates.
If nothing else, I get to see Scotland. I could scout out that perfect follow up trip with the family. It was good reasoning but you knew in your heart of hearts, it wasn’t why you were here.
“Hey.” Maurie throws her suit jacket haphazardly over a chair, the light silhouettes her slender frame. “You hungry?”
You shake your head. The meals on the flight had been terrible but filling.
“Me neither.” Maurie glances away, mouth pressed tight. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay.” The door closes and the fan whirs to life.
You had dressed comfortably but you take the opportunity to check your suitcase and take off your bra. Maurie had said to bring professional clothes – she has credentials as a mining inspector and that was your cover story for . . . for what exactly?
Maurie had said the goal was to locate how they were using the pocket dimension to get the Rhodium. Pure information gathering, no arrests, she had said, but this felt different. At the airport, you were surrounded by people but here – if something went wrong, you were in another country and at the Talverton estate, everyone would be on their payroll.
You smoothed out your skirt and nice blouse and refolded them into the suitcase. Maurie had assured you they would have backup and people would be monitoring the situation but you were skeptical. Aside from Agent Pitts seeing you off at the Bellingham airport, Maurie had not interacted with anyone else – no check in with Scottish authorities, nothing but tense quiet and anxiousness.
You absent-mindedly flip through the channels, trying to ease your frazzled thoughts. The fan clicked off and Maurie came out, a white towel wrapped around her body and hair. She marches over and plops down on the bed directly across from you.
“Okay. Look. I’ve been trying to . . . we need to talk.” You click off the tv and look her right in her clear blue eyes. She stutters for a moment, her cheeks blushing. She takes a big breath.
“Um . . . I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a terror and I just . . . I really appreciate you coming out here with me.” She gets up and starts pacing back and forth.
“Your welcome?” You say, confused.
“It’s just . . . ever since Marquis’ island, I can’t stop thinking about . . . ” she looks over at you guiltily. “. . . about being in that world. It felt more real, you know?”
“I know the feeling.” You close your eyes, feeling the soft kisses of snowflakes on your cheeks from London, the smokey lingering notes of the saxophone from Sea Breeze club, the sweet juice from a melon running down your cheek as Michael feeds you pieces next to the hot springs. You smile, so many treasures tucked away inside of you.
Maurie is still pacing, her hand firmly clamped on the towel, holding it in place.
“I thought it was something with the world itself – it alters our perception or drugs us or something but they did tests on me after the trip and there was nothing in my body so why!” Her voice suddenly snaps. “Why can’t I stop thinking about you!”
She freezes, her face turning white at the sudden outburst.
“Thinking about me?” You ask, startled. Maurie gives a sound somewhere between a groan and curse and covers her face with both hands, letting the towel flutter precariously. She flops down on the bed and pulls a pillow over her face.
“I’m the worst fucking FBI agent in the world.” She mutters. You crawl onto her bed, peeling back the pillow.
“It’s okay. I’ve thought about you alot too.” You say softly. In her eyes, a churning sea of emotion; hope and fear, desire and concern.
“Pitts asked if I needed to bring you – ‘an untrained civilian into a potentially dangerous situation’ and I lied and said yes.” Maurie’s voice is barely a whisper, a confession. “I said I needed you to navigate the world we might enter but that’s not really true.” Her lips tremble.
“I asked you to come because I was hoping . . . I was hoping we could . . that if it was in the other world, it would be okay. But all I could think about on the plane, on the drive here and in the shower is . . . how much I want to kiss you.”
You lean in, and press your lips to hers. She is soft and yielding, but a fierce urgency runs through her body as she runs her slender fingers through your hair and pulls you to her. You lightly run your fingertips along her jawline and neck, kissing softly where your lips find purchase.
“Brenna . . .” she moans softly. “Come with me under the covers.”
And you do.
###
During the night, the rains finally wind down to a soft drizzle. Maurie was up before you opened your eyes, wearing her button-up shirt and panties, she’s negotiating with the half-functional coffee pot. Finally, she pours two styrofoam cups of black sludge and brings yours over, the steam whisping up in the cold morning light, and leans in for a soft kiss.
“How’d you sleep?” She asks with a sly smile. You give her a grin, sitting up.
“You know exactly how I slept.” You take an experimental sip of the coffee before making a face and setting it down. You pull yourself out of Maurie’s bed and rummage through your suitcase, retrieving your long blue skirt and light blue blouse. Maurie drinks in the view as you get dressed.
“So I’ve got our credentials there on the table. You’re now Brenna Woods and I am Maureen Langston, with the ICMM.”
“ICMM?” You ask.
“The International Council on Mining and Metals. Basically, the Chamber of Commerce but for mining operations worldwide. We are doing an annual audit to keep their certification for exporting material out of the EU. We’re expected to look at workplace safety issues, that sort of thing. I’ve got us an appointment with Gerald Campbell, I believe he’s the site manager, although in his last phone call, he said that Joseph Talverton might stop by so we will have to be careful.”
She buttons up her pants and straps her firearm to her ankle holster.
“The important part, and Brenna? I mean this. The important part is we are just looking around. We find out where they are getting the Rhodium and then we get clear so that Interpol and the local authorities can make the arrest, okay? Say as little as possible and no heroics, alright?”
“No heroics.” You repeat solemnly. You hear tires on gravel outside the motor inn. “That’s our driver.” She says, grabbing her suitcase. “Let’s go.”
###
Gerald Campbell, a rather dour but efficient Scotsman, met the two of you at the gate of the property. His off-white business truck with “Talverton Resources, INC” on the side doors was old but clean. The three of you set off along the winding gravel road the threaded its way between fog-soaked bogs and towards the foothills of Ben Macdui, what Mr. Campbell insists on calling a mountain but would barely qualify as a stubby peak on the peninsula.
“There.” Campbell jabs a stubby finger over towards a rather modern looking house with tall windows and two large garages. “That’s where the family estate was back in the day. Long before I worked here, obviously, but there was a castle. Well, more of a keep than a castle, but it was there and you can see the road?”
You and Maurie crane your necks in the other direction, following the sloping valley parallel to the foothills. “That’s where the old village was, before the big fire in the 40s. With the castle gone and the quarry blasting away at all hours, they decided to rebuild everything over by the freeway so they’d have a place to sleep. Now, we stay up all night complaining about the clatter from the trucks on A9!” He barks a short laugh and you and Maurie join in.
Maurie has been all business, handing over the papers and taking notes, but everyone once and a while, you catch her staring at you with a soft little half-smile on her lips.
“Here we are.” The gravel road dissolves into a quarry, wide and flat with half a dozen buildings scattered around the site. The Rhodium is processed on site, Campbell had explained, although the recent lode they had accessed produced high quality materials that, “required very little refining.”
You did your best to nod sagely as the discussion rapidly devolved into acronyms and technical details of a professional mining operation as he pulled to a stop and got out of the car. As the three of you approached the nearest warehouse, Maurie cut to the chase.
“This new vein you tapped, can we see it? Our initiative this year is foreman safety, you know how it is,” Maurie said apologetically, “they’ve always got to have some special initiative or program.” Campbell nodded sympathetically but he didn’t immediately change course.
“Let me check and see where we are and if that is a possibility. I know they were doing some blasting down there and I’m not sure if we’ve done the structural inspection yet.” He steps away, turning on his radio and muttering into it.
You and Maurie poke inside the large warehouse, a garage you realize, for some sort of large conveyor belt machine.
“You think he’s going to let us into the mine?” You ask. Maurie glances through the window to where Campbell is still talking, one hand on his hip.
“He doesn’t look too worried. I bet they have something prepared just in case.”
Maurie’s instincts were right. Campbell returned and after securing hardhats and reflective vests, the three of you made your way into the mine using a modified golf cart. Campbell took a right at the first intersection and led you along a well-lit tunnel to a dead end where three men were operating a front loader, scooping up blasted material.
“There might be some dust from the blasting but our boys are doing it by the book down here.” Campbell said proudly. Maurie hops out of the gator and waves at the men with the front loader,
“Kill it.” She signals them as they turn off their motors. Dimly you hear the sound of tires on gravel as a second gator pulls up behind yours. Maurie holds out her hands dramatically, giving you a little bit of a cocky smile. Oh fuck – is she showing off for you? You give her a worried look, but aren’t sure she can see it between the gator windshield and the sea of glittering dust motes suspended by the work lights.
“Mr. Campbell, I appreciate all the work you’ve gone to, but I’d rather not waste these gentlemen’s time. You and I both know this vein was depleted back in 1997.” You suck in your breath through your teeth as Campbell’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
“Now could you please show me where the real work is being done?” Maurie asks, her voice shaking the dust still suspended in the headlights of the gators. “I’d hate to have to escalate this situation to a higher authority.” She sticks one hand in the waistband of her suit jacket, managing, for a brief moment, to make the reflective vest and hardhat look cool.
“Well done Ms. Langston!” A woman’s voice, firm and commanding, sounds off from the second gator. The crunch of feet on gravel heralds the approach of a tall dark woman. She strides even with your side of the gator. Her hair is curled slightly at her shoulders, her neck tall and elegant. She wears sturdy khaki pants and a black blazer.
“Or should I say, Ms. Tennison? I agree, let’s stop wasting time.” Her hand rests on the door of the gator, blocking your escape. She turns, her lips quirking with just the hint of a smile.
“But really, it is Mrs. Sampson who I am most interested in.” Her eyes lock with yours, an intense jolt of adrenaline surges through your body.
“My name is Josephine Talverton, and I have a business proposition for you.”
###
With a few clipped Scottish remarks, she quickly dispatched Campbell and the workers, before taking you and Maurie back towards the mouth of the mine in the gator. Maurie, squeezed in between you and Josephine, seemed momentarily speechless; although it was unclear as to whether that was due to the bad intelligence as to your host’s gender, or the fact that Josephine rocked a blazer like no one’s business.
“With your email address at the ICMM being less than two weeks old, and the Rhodium mining business being a pretty narrow field, I figured you were industrial spies but Mrs. Sampson herself?” Josephine threaded the gator through a small gap between suspiciously well-placed conex boxes and into a wide slowly descending chamber, as wide as a 747, with well light rail tracks along the left side.
“Me?” You ask, mind racing. Josephine shoots you an inscrutable look.
“The specialist on Lost Souls constructs? I understand through a mutual friend that you were the one Selena employed to extract your former employer, Daniel Quilp, after he had become lost in his own city? Please tell me that you are she, otherwise I’m afraid I must shoot Jerome.”
“What?” Maurie says, recovering from her stupor somewhat.
“My head of research for Talverton Inc, you will get to meet him on the inside.” Josephine gives the gator a little goose as you swing around a corner and deeper into the foothills.
You steady yourself as the rocky road and volatile situation are doing a number on your stomach. Okay, obviously somewhere along the line, the tales of your exploits have gotten a little jumbled, unless there is someone else out there who did get Quilp out and if he is out . . . he knows where you live.
You fight the urge to grab your cell phone but surely this deep in the rock, you aren’t getting a signal.
You take a deep breath. One problem at a time. “I apologize for the deception.” You say. Maurie gives a tight smile. Yes, less is more. Josephine continues undeterred,
“Well, I would call it an opportunity.” She pulls the gator to a stop – at the end of the tunnel there is a wellhouse. Not some modern metal thing, but an ancient stone octagonal building.
“Now I am going to assume that you are here on behalf of your employer to scout out our operation, see if we resolved the resonance issue, and bring back a few schematics and layouts so that they can cash in. Perfectly understandable. I also expect them to have you two sign some pretty scary NDAs to that effect and I would hate to void your contracts.” She gives an odd off-kilter laugh and you notice the tiny beads of sweat along her hairline.
She hops out and starts off at a brisk pace towards the house.
“Jerome! Look alive! I have brought our Dr. Venkman and Egon!” She shouts. A short earnest man with sharp cheekbones and clear blue eyes shuffles out of the wellhouse, dressed in a workman jacket thrown over what looks vaguely like a wool tunic. He speaks to her briefly in hushed tones, showing her some paperwork from a clipboard.
“Dr. Venkman?” You echo stepping out of the gator. Maurie punches you in the arm as she slides out.
“Ghostbusters, dude.” You and Maurie approach Josephine and Jerome just outside the doorway to the well house.
“Precisely, Ms. Tennison. I have a ghost problem and I need someone to fix it.”
She locks eyes with you. “I promise to show you every part, every operational schematic and every duty shift log if you can banish these ghosts from my lands. For that service, I will pay you an outrageous sum of money. In short, you will get paid twice for the same bit of work – a consultant’s dream.”
Josephine gestures to the well house. “The building itself is the gateway. My great-great-great-great uncle Alister Tennison found a strange bit of metal out in the bog and like the damn fool he was, melted it down and used it as brackets on building timbers.”
“Luckily for him, the well dried up long before he figured out how to activate the construct. It wasn’t until I took possession of the property that I was able to correctly identify the resource we had at our disposal.”
Josephine turns back to you. “I apologize, I do wax on a bit. Surely you must discuss this opportunity with your partner. Jerome has some sample contract language if you feel that is necessary to begin but I feel confident moving forward on a handshake at this point. You are one of a select few that can be considered experts in this field, and I don’t intend to let one of those rare few walk off this property without tapping your expertise.”
She gives you another intense look and then turns on a heel, and strides towards the door.
“Jerome can handle all the details. I will see you at Talverton Keep, Mrs. Samson!” She shouts over her shoulder and then with a leap, vanishes across the threshold of the well house, gone in a blink of an eye.
You and Maurie retreat to an appreciable distance from Jerome, who politely shuffles a few papers on his clipboard and tries not to look in your direction.
“What’s our move, Brenna?” The playful smirk was gone and Maurie was all FBI agent now.
“She makes me nervous.” You stare at the empty spot where Josephine had disappeared as if daring her to rematerialize. “But ghosts! Castles!” You can’t keep the infectious grin of joy from your face.
“Okay, we need to find out how she is mining the Rhodium, right?” You ask.
“That’s it – no heroics.” Maurie answers.
“Then this is perfect!” You reply.
Maurie’s face darkens as you explain the plan.
“Look, of the two of us, I should be the one going through the well house. Which one of us is the law enforcement professional here?” She argues.
“Neither of us is, at least according to our hosts, and let’s be honest, that illusion is a lot easier for me to maintain than you. If something goes south in there, I want you coming in with the FBI cavalry.”
“And for all their promises,” Maurie looks away embarrassed, “I’m not sure Quantico would get saddled up unless I made it happen.” She nods. “Alright, but just in and out. We just need enough to know how the works and then you come right out. No . . .” she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You know . . . Hanky panky.”
“Really? Hanky panky? Maybe a little over the shirt petting? Might get to third base?”
“Fuck off Brenna, you know what I mean.” Maurie’s cheeks are bright red. “I know what it’s like in there. It’s like a drug.”
You cup her cheek and pull her in for a kiss. “I’ll be alright. I’ll be back here before you know it.” Her lips are fierce but brief.
“Now, go find a cell signal and call my family.” She jogs off towards the gator. You turn towards Jerome with his clipboard and beyond him, the well house.
###
“So you’re Jerome,” You peer over your glasses at the youthful researcher, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other. His jacket, two sizes two large, hung on his wiry frame as a fist of jumbled black curls threatened to obscure those piercing blue eyes.
“Dr. Jerome Kerr, ma’am.” You hand him back the clipboard, signed contracts and all. He could almost be cute if he weren’t so nervous.
“Alright, Dr. Kerr, tell me about the time difference. I’ve been burned by it before.” You try to sound authoritative as the two of you reach the wellhouse threshold.
“Time differential, yes. Of course. It’s five to one. And please, call me Jerome.” Jerome answers. The arched frame made of hewed stones seemed small and suspiciously harmless – if you had not seen Josephine vanish not moments ago, you would not think it out of the ordinary in any way.
“So yes, every five days inside is one day out here.” He reiterates.
“Did you set it at that rate?” You ask. Jerome nods eagerly.
“It was a right pain in the arse getting that set but we’ve found that five to one gives us enough competitive advantage at the mining site while still allowing for a rapid response here to a crisis if necessary.” He gives the gator with Campbell and Maurie a wave as they head back to the surface.
“We should have everything you require at Talverton Keep, so . . . ” he awkwardly gestures towards the gateway.
“Right.” You take a deep breath and gather your skirts in your hands. “Here we go!” You give yourself a few steps head start and leap . . .
. . .
right . . .
. . .
Through. You feel lightly touch down on the polished wood floors of the well house. Passing through the archway felt no different than just a sudden breeze on your face. Compared to the stomach hurtling skydive of the Hotel Murano furnace or the jolting lurch of the Cabin in the Sky, this was downright therapeutic. You glance back. The stone archway from whence you arrived shimmers slightly with energy but beyond it, a verdant valley.
You slowly survey the scene, through the wellhouse windows, drinking in a world of pure gold and green. Thick green firs and broad leafed oaks, dripping with moss stretch out on rolling hills over wide meadows of purple heather and long green shrubs, interrupted only by the wet ponds and puddles of the scottish moor.
You take a deep breath, soaking in the warm smell of fresh rain on green leaves. A stone path leads from the well house, past a shed and stable and down a little hill into the valley. The setting sun sets the sky ablaze and silhouetted in the marbled light is Talverton Keep.
It’s tall parapets and steep dusty grey walls looked foreboding in the distance but despite the Bierstadt of a landscape surrounding you, you could not tear your eyes away from the castle. It held you fixed in place, unable to turn away.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The only warning of his arrival was the telltale breath of wind passing a moment before – barely enough to stir your hair. Jerome has left his workman jacket behind, now garbed in his brown shift and carrying a decidedly modern rucksack.
“The Keep never looked that good in my lifetime. I remember when I was a boy, the old ruin was there and me and me mates would mess around there till our parents called us home. Of course, then the community league had it demolished to make way for the bypass and that was that.” He steps past you and out onto the stone road, jostling you with the rucksack.
“Sorry Mrs. Sampson, I do go on. The horses are over here – do you know how to ride?”
The brief expression of panic that flashed across your face was answer enough.
“Uh . . . ”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you up and the horses know where to go.” His eyes are earnest and his slender arms steady as he helps up to a sturdy looking dusty mare, already saddled in the stable.
“Besides, if we go slow, we can talk and I have so many questions for you.” and with a kick of his heels the two of you trot down the stone path under the fiery sky.
The horses set a steady gait as the path winds its way through the valley, the stirring of the purple flowers mirroring the fiery post-sunset kaleidoscope above you.
“Jerome, I’m curious about the Rhodium operation, I understand there was metal in this area but the vein was depleted.” He flashes a quick awkward smile.
“Wow, cut right to it, huh? Quite the professional – I like it.” He gives you little finger guns which are less effective when holding the reins of a horse.
“Sorry.” You apologize, he laughs.
“No, no. Keep it up and we will make an honorary Scott out of you yet, you worthless Yankee.”
“Yankee? Ha! America can go fuck itself! How’s that for blunt?” He belts out a laugh, startling a pair of preening crows in a nearby tree.
“See, you already know your lines!” He gestures towards the foothills behind the Castle, where you could see a dark wedge of the mountain was gone. In the fading light, you could make out a few flickering lights – campfires or maybe cabins set into the mountain – but it was too far.
“If you want the work logs and the dusty iron carts, and all the dreary details of how to build a modern resource extraction operation with 16th century technology, I am afraid I will be of no help at all.” He rubs the back of his head, his mess of brown hair becoming even more tangled.
“For all that shite, you want McCormac. He’s a local boy too although he was a good ten years ahead of me in school and a hell of alot bigger. Kids in my class still talked about him, said he was a wicked good football player. When I went off to University, he stuck around working construction. Imagine my surprise to be working with THE Sean McCormac here – you never really escape your hometown, I guess.”
“Well, not exactly your hometown.” The stone path split off down into the valley. Following the trail with your eyes, you see it lends to a small village tucked snug against a dark forest. The village, a collection of thatch roofs, stone and cob cabins wrapped around a town square with a well. Jerome pays it no mind, continuing on the original road up towards the castle.
“So, tell me, how did you get into this . . field?” Jerome asks, his clear blue eyes peering at you. You twist a little bit in your saddle and hear a popping noise from your light blue blouse. Shit, you probably ripped something back there. You are grateful for the ever-deepening twilight.
Best to keep it closest to the truth. “I actually just fell into it. Quite literally, actually. My first jump was unintentional. I accidentally came into contact with a . . construct.” You hope the momentary fumbling for a word was masked by the steady beat of the horses hooves.
“You say, ‘Jump’, is that the standard term that specialists use?” You nod. “And did you get recruited? Or were you a freelancer before? Did you receive professional training or . . .” He catches himself.
“I’m sorry, it’s just . . . it’s been mostly me up here about this stuff. It’s rare we get a visitor and certainly not someone we can . . . you know . . .”
“Someone you talk to about your pocket dimension?” Your laughter echoes on the cobblestones, widening as you approach the bridge over the fast-churning river that encircles the castle.
“I’m afraid my contributions to the mining operation are simply telling McCormac, on this side, and Campbell, back at home, that nothing that passes through the well house can be larger than six feet wide by 11 feet tall. It means lots of smaller batches, they use very sturdy wheelbarrows for the actual transfer and I understand that it makes it easier for processing on the outside but really not my area of expertise.”
“Now, if you want to talk about transdimensional thermodynamics, I’m your guy.” Jerome continued. “I mean, that was my work before this – Josephine hired me when I was still . . . how’d she describe it . . .still a ‘talented but unmotivated graduate student’ at Edin. But since then, I’ve had to pick up some linguistics and electrical engineering and of course, much much more on the theoretical physics side of things . . .”
RIPPP. Oh no. You glance down, your long blue skirt now has a gash, longer than your hand, on the side. You look around but no tree branch nor piece of your saddle had caught you.
“It’s the polyester in your skirt. The resonance is taking it apart. I’m sorry, I should have asked before we began – clothes are some of the hardest things to remember. Modern garments have so many plastics in them these days.”
You look over at him in wild alarm.
“I’m sorry, the resonance?!” You ask.
“The resonance? The resonance! The force that shakes apart all objects, materials and machines that did not exist at the time?” You look at him in confusion. He pulls up his horse to an abrupt stop. Your horse prances forward a few steps before looking back and stopping in confusion.
“You mean to tell me that other worlds . . . that this isn’t a thing that everyone has to deal with?”
Jerome is shook. “What . . . did I screw it up? Was it . . did my original inscription, was the language unclear?”
“Now hold on.” Your mind races, frantically cycling through your experiences. When was there ever a time where you brought something into the inner worlds? There was always your clothes but those usually got lost pretty soon upon arrival. You crack a wry chuckle.
“Josephine is going to sack me for sure if she had to rig up a whole operation out of coal and twine because of me.” Jerome is muttering to himself.
“No . . . no. Let me think.” You answer.
There was the well under the hotel, you are pretty sure that Caroline had a toolbag or something. What happened to that? Fuck – did you leave it somewhere? The Cabin in the Sky – nothing came with you and nothing really came out. There was the snow globe with Kate, but both of you had just come out of the car, you really didn’t have anything in your hands or pockets, except maybe your phone. Did that come with you? No, you left that behind in Danny’s workshop.
The bandolier – you brought that with you and it came back no worse for the wear. But that was made of cloth and metal, not exactly modern materials. The zipper was plastic, was it? Of course one of the zippers had popped off, but was that before or after your trip.
The two of you slow to a stop as you cross the big stone bridge. Before you, the metal bars of the portcullis and the thick wooden doors of the castle.
“Hello up there? Who’s on tonight – is that you Moniyan?” Jerome calls up to the stone guard tower above the gate. A round faced man with a shaggy red beard pokes his head out.
“Oh ‘ello Dr. Kerr! No such luck tonight – you’ve got my ugly mug instead”
“Oh bloody hell, it’s Monro.” Jerome mutters to you under his breath.
“What’s wrong with Monro?” You whisper back.
“Who’s the pretty lady? I didn’t know that you were that kind of monk, maybe I should have joined the church instead!” He makes some sort of gesture that is thankfully hidden by the narrow framing of the window. His laughter is joined by a few others deeper inside the guard tower.
“That’s what’s wrong with Monro.” Jerome answers. You are suddenly quite aware of the strip of your upper thighs that are now catching the torchlight, thanks to the damage to your skirt.
“She’s a guest of Lady Talverson, Monro.” The smile ran away from Monro’s face and he stood up straighter.
“Sorry, Dr. Kerr. Just having a bit of fun, you know?” He thumps a polearm thrice and you hear the movement of men, then the groaning of metals and chains as the portcullis is lifted and the heavy bar behind the doors taken aside. A man in a green tunic pulls the heavy doors open just wide enough for a horse to pass through. Thankfully, your mare knows this dance well and easily navigates the two step into Talverton Keep.
“Good evening ma’am.” Monro salutes as you pass through and into the courtyard. Jerome leads you to the stable and helps you dismount, his gentle hands making the awkward task of untangling horse and rider as effortless as shedding a coat. He sets you down, his cheeks flushed at the sudden intimate contact and you shamelessly linger a moment before stepping away towards the keep.
“We’ve prepared a room for you. We sent ahead a raven as soon as you arrived on site this morning so the Caste staff has had at least a couple days to anticipate our arrival, so I imagine that Josephine will have had an elaborate dinner arranged for you tonight.”
His eyes travel the length of your body and you realize your blouse now has a second rip in it, providing an unexpectedly tantalizing glimpse of the side of your right breast.
“I’ll have some clothes sent to your room. Ah, here’s Isla,” a raven haired willowy girl, no more than nineteen, had appeared out the twilight of the courtyard and opened the wood side door to the keep.
“Isla, will show you to your room and provide you whatever else you require.” He gives you a warm handshake.
“I’m so grateful that you are here, Mrs. Sampson.” His eyes are the deepest and clearest oceans you have ever seen. “I can’t wait to get to know you better.” Your stomach does flip flops but you summon the best professional face you can manage.
“It’s a pleasure, Jerome, and please, call me Brenna.” His smile is sudden and heartwarming.
“Brenna it is, we will talk more soon.” And with that, he departs. You turn to Isla.
“Do you have any things, ma’am? Luggage and whatnot?” You shake your head and ponder your next step.
“I don’t have any luggage but I would like to see where I’m staying. Take me to my bedroom please, so I may get ready.”
Isla gives you a curt nod and leads you up the winding stone staircase of the keep.
“Careful miss, the steps can be slippery with the rain.”
Despite your best efforts, you quickly lose track of how many floors have passed by until a narrow window presents a glimpse of the courtyard, now far enough away to make your head spin. The iron lanterns on the outer wall of the keep sway in the wind – casting a thousand rippling shadows on the inky river and the forests beyond.
There! Your eyes are drawn to movement outside the castle walls – a lone figure running through the scrub brush and muck on the far bank of the river.
In a blink of your eye, the shadow leaps up and clears the castle wall.
“Isla!” You cry out in alarm. She rushes to your side.
But when you scan the courtyard, the figure is gone.
“Miss?” She peers at you with deep doe eyes, concerned.
“. . . nothing.” You step away from the window,”I’m so sorry.”
“No matter miss, looks to be frightful weather tonight. Your room is just over here.”
You pass through a wooden door and along a narrow corridor. You fight the urge to walk sideways. It’s a castle, not a bunker at Fort Worden, but the feeling is the same. Isla turns a sharp left and takes a short step up to another wooden door.
Inside there is a small hearth, already lit, a simple wooden table with two chairs, a carved wooden bed with warm linens and clothes! You rush forward in excitement, running your hands over the cotton slip, long brown skirt and dark green petticoat.
“But how did they get her so fast?” Isla shrugged.
“Lady Josephine told us this morning to be ready for your arrival. And when the Lady wants something done, we hop to it. I’ve long since stopped asking questions. For my own self, begging your pardon, I’m just grateful to be working here rather than down in the village.” Isla says, then gives a little hop to the side and looks down at her feet.
“Sorry miss, shouldn’t talk out of turn in front of the gentry..” You shake your head.
“No, no. Speak freely Isla. I’m just like you, just someone doing some work.” You start to pull your shirt off but in one final act of defiance, it gets snagged on your bra and rips a jagged cut from the neck hole to the small of your back.
“Damn it.” You mutter and with a SPROING, a bra wires punches through the bottom of your left cup.
“Here, let me help.” She is there, by our side pulling the slip over your head, her long skillful fingers doing up the laces on your petticoat.
“Did you grow up here?” You ask.
“Aye. My father is a baker down in the village but with two older siblings, he has more than enough hands around the stove. Thankfully, Lady Josephine arrived soon after I came of age and put just about everyone to work.” A gust of wind rattles the window, you walk over to latch the shutters.
“When did Lady Josephine arrive?” You ask gently, exploring a basket on the table, covered in a wool wrap.
“Any other odds and ends, you’ll find in there. A brush, some smallclothes, the like.” Isla explains and then pauses to think, running a hand through her raven dark hair.
“She comes and goes as she pleases, I understand she has another holding south of here, but she returned to be the Thane of Talverton Keep . . .three winters ago.” Isla returns to the door as you hear steps on the stone corridor. Isla exchanges whispered conversation with another, unseen person before turning back to you.
“Dinner is ready to be served, are you ready for Lady Josephine to receive you?” You take a deep breath and glance around your accommodations, before yielding to the grumbling of your belly.
“Yes, I believe I am.”
###
The dining hall was actually much more modest than you expected. The table, a long narrow carved piece, is layered high with a variety of roasted vegetables and meats, fresh loaves of dark bread, steaming. Simple metal plates and utensils were laid out around the table, four settings. All this, illuminated by the flickering candles in the chandelier above. Outside the window, the rain was coming down steadily, rattling the wooden shutters just enough to be irritating.
You are beckoned in by the warmth of the gentle hearth, it’s orange light filling the space, heat radiating through the stones beneath your shoes.
Seated at the head of the table is Josephine Talverton in a long dark dress, with full trailing sleeves. The change from the suit jacket to period clothes is dramatic but with her fierce eyes, she retains the regal bearing of a woman in charge.
As you approach, she stirs from a hushed conversation with Dr. Jerome Kerr.
“From what I understand, this can be addressed if we speak with Nyree . . .” Jerome says but she cuts him off as you approach. She stands and fixes a warm smile on her face.
“Welcome Brenna. I’m so grateful you could join us. Come, eat. The food is absolutely divine.”
She waves you towards the seat on her right.
“Of course it is, that’s how it always is with these places, right? More delicious than the real thing?” Josephine continues. Her voice is light and playful as she refills her own bowl with a roasted root stew. You join them at the table.
Jerome catches your gaze, with a little hunger in his eyes but a genuine smile on his lips at your arrival.
“Was the room alright? Will it work for your stay?” He asks.
“Yes! It’s great, thank you.” You answer, picking at a few of the platters, inspecting for meat.
“We’re good, Isla, you can go.” Josephine waves the ladle at Isla with good humor. “I can manage a ladle on my own.”
Isla, who had tucked herself near the door, gave a little startled yelp. “Yes, Lady Josephine. Sorry, Lady Josephine.” and beat a hasty retreat into the kitchens through the side door.
Jerome points towards the stew. “You are a vegetarian, right? I think I saw that somewhere. The stew is safe – I asked Miss Cassiday about it when we got the room set up.”
You give him a grateful smile, taking a bowl and a full slice of the dark bread. Pumpernickel? No, it smelled deeper, earthier.
“Thank you for the clothes.” Josephine gives you an apologetic face.
“Sorry about yours, I should have warned you. Apparently, that’s not as much of a concern in other pocket worlds?” Jerome shoots you a slightly worried look but you are ready, the long walk through the keep providing ample time to get into character.
“Each world is different, the rules can vary on any number of factors – from the way the water tastes to the entrance and exit experience.” You begin. “Speaking of which, I really must say, the arrival by your well house was one of the smoothest entrances I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying. Refreshing and instantaneous.”
Jerome’s face transforms from mild concern to a slight blush on his raised cheeks.
“It had to be smooth, couldn’t have any cargo shaking loose in transit.” Jerome answered, more to his soup than you or Josephine.
“Don’t let that shy boy act fool you, Jerome is mighty proud of his work. As well he should be.” Josephine adds.
The soup is delicious, warm and filling, although the rain and wind are beating out a tattoo with the shutters.
“Also, thank you for the shoes!” You say, grabbing a second helping of the bread.
“I’m glad you like them, that was my idea. Can’t bring sneakers in but we can make something decent out of what we’ve got here. The materials must be local but the idea of laces and tread, that’s just an innovation.” Josephine takes a drink of wine from her goblet and waves it towards the fourth, empty, seat at the table.
“Where’s McCormac?” She asks.
“Sean got held up at the dig, some issue with the workers.” Jerome answers. “Probably Caelen, him and his sister are always getting the villagers all worked up.”
“Why do you think I shoo-ed Isla along?” Josephine answers. “The walls have ears. Whatever the situation, McCormac will handle it.” You take a sip of the wine, strong and warm. The hearthlight plays on the ceiling, the candles splutter in time with the wind on the shutter.
Somewhere, deep in the castle, there is a sound. Not quite a howl, not quite a moan, but a sound that felt like gulping bile and biting aluminum foil. It hangs in the air, an ugly, disturbing sound and then the echoes fade.
Jerome turned to Josephine, but her face betrayed nothing but the faintest impression of sweat on her brow and the smallest trimmer of the lip but in a moment it was gone and replaced with a firm smile.
“Well, I think that’s a good enough sign that we should get down to business, eh Brenna? Dr. Kerr, please bring our esteemed consultant up to speed on our current predicament.” Josephine pours herself another glass of wine as Jerome begins.
“When I had done the initial etching on the well house minarete . . uh . . . ” He glances over at your confusion.
“Minarete?” You ask.
Jerome pulls out a roll from a basket and peels off the crust, flipping it over in his hand.
“The initial brackets that we had recovered from the well house needed to be melted down, attuned and then recast before we put them to use.” He takes a large hunk of cheese and with a knife, slices off a slender shaving.
“We remade the metal into a minarete.” He places the shaving all the way around the husk of the roll, a thin lining around the inside of the circumference. “We etched the metal with the parameters of what we wished to create.” Jerome flipped it over, holding it aloft for a moment over his plate like a breaded floating saucer.
“When we completed the etchings and activated the metal – the archway of the well house had become our portal to this place.” He pushes a small roasted potato underneath the shell of the roll, from one side of his plate to the other. “A pocket universe fixed in place.”
“Not just any universe; my ancestral home, in the year of our lord 1532, right down to the abysmal autumn storms off the North Sea.” Josephine said. “Dr. Kerr really pulled off a miracle here.”
“It’s a brand new field,” Jerome said. “A sustainable transdimensional portal – universe made to order. The possibilities – well, I’m sure I don’t have to explain this to you, but yes. It is very exciting.”
“That’s all great, but can someone please tell me what the fuck made that sound?” You demand, somewhat shocked by your own forcefulness. Clearly you were a little more rattled than you let on.
“Yes, sorry, getting there.” Jerome apologizes and you can swear you see Josephine smile behind her wine glass.
“We chose this time and place because we wanted the original vein completely untouched, however able to be retrieved,” Josephine explained, taking up the narrative. Her eyes were expressive and deep, but you found yourself watching her lips, the way they wrapped themselves around her words and firmly pushed her thoughts into the air. Focus, you urged yourself.
“We wanted a local population that could readily be brought to task assisting with the mining operation but without a significant language or cultural barrier. Where better than here? The twilight years of the iron age, at the dawn of the renaissance. Late enough that we don’t have to introduce the concept of material extraction but early enough that we can eliminate any serious resistance with minimal fuss.” She gives you an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, it sounds so terrible when I say it that way, but business is business and they aren’t really ‘people’ in here, right Jerome?”
“Ehhhh . . .” he gives a waffling gesture. “I’m not sure we can say that. They certainly have agency, free will . . .”
“Maybe.” Josephine interjects. “They could be simply following the parameters you set forth in the minarete.”
“They have substance, they have conscious thought, I’m honestly not sure that we can say they are not people.” Jerome turns to you. “What do you think Brenna?”
The question catches you off guard and you take a bite of your soup to consider.
You reflect back on Kai, the sweet girl from the clam divers, who vanished when you returned to the real world together. Or maybe she became a tattoo on Eric’s arm – that part was unclear.
You remember the voices in the pirate’s hold, speaking of a crashed ship of lost souls, clearly an intelligence. But that was all of them at once – what of the individuals themselves?
Your thoughts turn to Mary, wanting so fiercely to define her own life in the City of Glass. Her resolve – like a tightly coiled spring inside of her, ready to burst out. Was she driven to escape her original programming or simply living out another story? She seemed so intense, so alive, pressed up against you in the steamy bath in the London apartment, straining to be something new and different. Her soft lips pressing against yours . . .
You shake your head, coming back to the present.
“I can’t honestly say whether or not the people we interact with on the inside can be considered ‘people’ but I do know that they should be treated with respect.”
Josephine thumped the table as Jerome jumped in.
“See, we don’t know. You hear that Josephine, we don’t know. That’s what I’ve been saying – it’s not something we can definitively prove.” says Jerome.
Josephine holds up her hands in mock defeat. “Aye, aye, put down the sword Jerome. The theological discussion is above my pay scale.”
“Respect.” A deep voice booms from the doorway. A broad man, clad in a thick workman overcoat strides into the room. “You both missed the important part. Mrs. Sampson is right, alive or not, they deserve our respect.”
Sean McCormac pulls off his gloves and beforing sitting, offers a hand. “My apologies for being late, Mrs. Sampson, my name is Sean.” His grip is firm and brief.
“It’s Brenna, please.” He nods and takes his seat.
“Everything alright?” Josephine asks.
“It’s been addressed.” He answers but does not elaborate, instead filling his plate. Josephine shrugs as Jerome continues.
“After we had done all the tests I could think of – verifying that it was truly a pocket dimension and not time travel or some sort of causality loop, establishing the time variances, etc, we moved in.” Jerome continued. “The keep was vacant at the time so it was a simple matter for Josephine to take on the role of her great great great great great . . .” he waves his hands onwards, “. . . great grandmother. Once established, we started putting the residents to work digging into the mountain.”
“There were some logistical challenges,” Jerome begins.
“Aye, just a few.” Sean gives you a wink.
“But nothing we couldn’t resolve with modern thinking, until a few months ago.”
“A few months RT. Real time. That’s almost a year here.” Josephine replies.
“Yes. That’s when they began appearing.” Jerome said. “At first, we thought that they were simply figments of the overactive imaginations of, well, sexually frustrated catholics.”
Sean snorted. “Oh, aren’t we all?” Josephine laughed but Jerome continued undaunted.
“But as the stories came more frequently, we knew it had to be dealt with – strange sounds in the middle of the night, animals gone missing or suddenly reappearing possessed by some terrible spirit. People talking in tongues, or seeing departed loved ones walking the streets at night. Then there was the first body.”
“Friar James. Good man.” Sean says. “Not really a church going person myself but I liked the fellow. Made a great wine.”
“His body was found in the town square, completely devoid of life or color. I conducted the autopsy myself.” Jerome said.
“That’s right – expert in experimental physics and serves as a physician – he’s our resident genius.” Josephine quips.
“Well, easy to be a wise man in the era of leeches.” Jerome says apologetically. “The good Friar had been manhandled, bloodied and then the life was simply drained out of him. Like he had spent two months wandering the desert with new food or water in the course of a single night.”
“And he wasn’t the last.” Sean, having made some progress on his meal, joins the conversation. “Since then, we’ve had other deaths, and more. This morning, someone had taken all the tools from the said and stacked them in a great big pile in the center of the worksite, one atop another in some sort of a pattern. I told the men it was nothing but a childish prank but they cursed it as witchcraft.”
Sean turns to Josephine.
“That’s why I was late actually. Caelan wanted to talk . . .”
“I knew it!” Josephine says.
“. . . about doing some sort of cleansing to the space – a folk tradition, it involves a book of prayers and some supplies from the parish in Lairg. I told him he could go, provided he took his own horse and was back by nightfall tomorrow.”
“So you understand why we require someone of your expertise, Brenna.” says Josephine. “I have a business to run, I cannot allow the continued disruption – but what am I to call? An exorcist? There is no 21st century solution to a haunting.”
“I can see the challenge. This will take some work.” You mind races with the possibilities but you remember Maurie’s words, no heroics. Get the details on the mine and get out. And you have that, mostly. But ghosts in a castle?
What the hell, what’s the harm in staying a little longer?
“I’ll have to do some investigating.” You say.
“Of course. Whatever . . whomever you need is at your disposal.” Josephine says, licking her lips slightly. “The sooner we can get this resolved the better.” The wind gives a ferocious roar and the shutters rattle hard and fast on their hinges and you swear you hear another distant rending moan – but it may have been the wind.
“With that, I best be to bed.” Josephine raises her glass to you in toast, her hand shaking slightly and her eyes shooting to the door. “I will see you all in the morning.” and with that, she sweeps from the room.
Her sudden exit quickly changes the energy of the room. Jerome apologetically gathers his things, offers a quick jib to Sean and then turns to you.
“Thank you for joining me for dinner, I can’t wait to spend more time in . . more time with you. ” he fumbles, blushing deeply.
“Be a gentleman first,” you quickly catch up to him as he crosses the hearth, “and give me a quick tour on the way back to my room. A big spooky castle like this, I’d probably get lost in no time.” The absolute delight in his eyes washes away the taste of the little white lie – of course you had kept track of which hallways you had taken to get here – you could probably sketch it if required.
Sean gives you a quick salute with his bowl of soup.
“Another time then,” his voice was friendly but his eyes held no mirth, just a piercing gaze. “Good night, Mrs. Sampson. I’ll be seeing much of you soon, I’m sure.”
Jerome was kind enough to wait until the two of you were a few paces down the long southern passage before he muttered back, under his breath. ” . . . seeing much of you soon . . . see what I mean about McCormac? So dramatic.”
UUUAAAHHHHHHGGGHAAAaaaaa. There it was again – the howling, rending moan like the shooting pins and needles through your spine. Jerome gives no reaction but you feel his arm tense under your hand.
“Okay, I appreciate the atmosphere but seriously, what is that?” You ask. Jerome gives you a smile.
“Let me show you.”
###
The torrents of rain look like a great grey sheet flapping in the darkness of night. Jerome had led you upstairs to a breezeway which connected with the parapet walk where three weary guards pass back and forth between the towers of the outer wall.
“There, watch the light from the east tower.” Jerome points and through the storm you see something fly in front of the light.
Dark, leathery wings, and then the sheets of rain and it was gone. You grip Jerome’s arm, peering into the darkness.
“Wait for it . . .” There it was again! A creature, dark fur with too many limbs and those wings, like a hyena had taken flight, briefly swooped across the parapet walk.
“What is it?” You ask. Jerome shakes his head.
“We aren’t exactly sure. It certainly doesn’t appear to look like anything that should appear in 1532 Scotland.” He gives you a conspiratorial smile.
“The townsfolk call them the Howling Birds.” He frowns a moment as his words disconnect from his mouth.
“Sorry, they call them Crith Eun.” He looks slightly apologetic. “Obviously, you aren’t fluent in Gaelic Scottish. The Babel Fish kicked in.”
You smile. “We call them the ‘Translation Microbes’. From Farscape?” He shakes his head.
“Sorry.”
One of the creatures circles the East tower and belches forth a piercing cry, shaking the window panes, before swooping down at one of the guards.
“Oh no!” You shout but the guard is already in motion, snatching a burning branch from the nearby beacon fire – swinging the flaming thatch at Crith Eun. SCREECH! It cries out and veers away, twisting its body to avoid the smoke.
“It’s the smoke from the heather branches.” Jerome points to the beacon fires, regularly spaced along the parapet walk. “One of the old women in the village remembered a children’s rhyme about it.
“Bluebells for love and Primrose for good dreams,
Heather for howling birds, their bite carries screams.”
“Their bite carries screams?!” You repeat back.
“I’ll admit, it sounds a wee bit more poetic in the Gaelic. But yes, if they get their teeth into you, there is some sort of venom there. The next couple of hours after exposure, subjects relieve some of their most traumatic experiences.” He gives a deep shudder. You follow the dark leathery shapes with your eyes – is this what you saw outside the castle walls? No, you are sure of it. What you saw ran . . . and jumped. This is something different.
The two of you withdraw from the breezeway and begin the trek back to your room.
“They first appeared about three weeks ago RT, they just swooped in out of the storm clouds and attacked anyone out in the rain. We had to institute a curfew – people were afraid. They still are.”
UUUUAAAAAHHHHhhhhhh. The howl shakes the castle walls but there was something underneath it, another sound, you can barely hear, a lusty cry – the scream of a woman in the throes of passion. You hold up your finger, straining your ears to hear it again but there was nothing but the rain and the wind and the storm.
“I hope you can get things sorted out, and soon.”
Jerome turns the corner and delivers you at the doorway to your room.
“Well, here we are.” he says. “I hope you enjoyed your little tour.” He peeks over your shoulder at your bedroom and there is a moment’s pause.
“Would you like to come in for a little bit? I think Isla left me a kettle to make some tea.” You ask.
“Come in?” He says cautiously.
“Yes, please come into my room Jerome and have a cup of tea.” You say firmly.
His eyes flash with that same hunger you glimpsed before, but it is gone just as quickly. He shuffles his feet for a moment.
“I’m not sure if that is totally appropriate, as a colleague . . .” but you are already in your room filling the kettle from a bucket of water and putting it over the fire.
“It’s just a cup of tea, if it makes you feel any better, I’m just pumping you for information.” You give him a saucy smile and set out the mugs.
“OooooOoo a little industrial espionage,” Jerome pulls up a seat. “Then I must admit, in the spirit of true honesty, that I’m trying to leverage our budding relationship into a shot at becoming a consultant myself.”
“Is that all? Damn.” You give your hips a little wiggle as you pour the tea. “I was hoping it was something far less boring.”
The tea is loose leaf, and fills the room with a warm earthy smell as it steeps. You return the hot tea kettle to a hook by the hearth and trim the flue so the hearth simmers down to a single log surrounded by glowing orange embers.
“Tell me more about the etchings on the minarete. What did you chronicle on the . .?”
You felt the word go out of synch before it left your lips. Your hand goes to your mouth instinctively, revealing your surprise.
Jerome arches his eyebrows, intensely curious. “Ah! Yes! Tell me, what did you try to say?”
“I was trying to say . . . carve.” You get it out slowly, articulating the word. Jerome nods.
“Etching.” He says. “We don’t know why, but for some reason the universal translator struggles whenever we talk about the details of applying pressure to the alloy.” The effect was becoming more pronounced. Jerome took a sip of the tea, thoughtful. “If I didn’t know better, I would say that it is a sore subject for the pocket world itself.”
Lightning crashed outside and a sudden gust swept into the room. CRASH! The tea kettle lurches forward, arcing towards you. You give an alarmed yelp and try to leap aside but in a flash, Jerome is there, knocking the kettle aside with a sweep of his arm.
The two of you collide, tumbling together in a moment, his body pressed against yours. He says something, distantly.
“Are you alright?” He repeats, his eyes searching yours. You feel his body pressing against you, the blood pumping in your veins. You swallow and shake your head.
“Yes, yes I’m okay. You moved so fast . . .are you?” He slowly, reluctantly, untangles himself from you.
“Only a little wet, I’m afraid.” He says politely, wringing the water from his sleeve. “Here, let me get that.” He strides to the open window, now spraying rain into the room, and with some effort, muscles the shutter back into place. For your part, you relight the lantern at the head of the bed.
You feel his eyes upon you before you turn, your cheeks burning hot. You turn, your long dress rumpled, the light low. His eyes, crystal piercing blue. The moment hangs, filled with unspoken thirst.
“I should . . . I’ve got to get a dry . .” he waves his arm somewhat awkwardly. “And I shouldn’t . . .” he bites his lip, his voice tight ” . . . I shouldn’t stay up late.” He takes the last sip of his key as you close the distance.
“Thank you,” you say, voice soft. “For coming in for tea.” His lips are there, so tantalizingly close, the magnetic connection pulling you in.
“Good night, Brenna.” His voice is warm and with the slightest of nods, he slips out of your room. You close and latch the door behind him. Before attempting to escape your dress, you fetch the tea kettle from where it fell in the corner.
“Yowch!” You snatch your hand back, waving the singed fingers in the air. You fetch the hot pad and maneuver the kettle back to its spot. You glare at the cockblocking shutters, now slightly ajar after Jerome’s haphazard repairs.
Castles can be damn obnoxious too. With that, you begin the tedious task of unlacing yourself.
###
You awake in a fervor. The evening’s activities had left you quite excited but you had dropped off without a chance to release some of that tension. A jolt of the outside wind brought you suddenly into consciousness, but with the hearth nothing more than a couple of red embers, the only light came from spluttering stub of a candle in the lantern at the head of the bed.
Your body is on fire, nipples tight against the fabric of the sheets, your fingers tracing familiar patterns in your slick sex. You move faster and faster, the heat building in waves, you thoughts spirally. Jerome’s body pressed against yours. Michael thrusting in your body deep in the forest hut. Mary cheeks flushed, her mouth thrown back in a cry of pleasure.
Your hips start to buck, you pull at your nipples, your breath coming short and fast. Caroline’s lips on your clit, Lord Douglas throwing you to the floor, the taste of Maurie’s chapstick. You gasp as you push yourself higher and higher. Your body feels hot. Feels watched.
Your eyes snap open and there – at the window, there are two golden glowing orbs reflecting the candlelight. Adrenaline surges through your body and you go to scream, just as the orgasm hits you.
“UUAAGGHHHHHghhbnnnn . . .” your body shakes, helpless as you cum, hard, on your hand. The eyes never leave you, drinking in your personal pleasure like a thirty man escaping a desert. You breath, now shuddering gasps, recedes enough for you to snatch the covers, yanking them up to your neck.
The eyes blink, and then with a huffing sort of shuffle, they are gone into the still raging storm.
“Fuck.” You mutter and pull the pillow over your head.
###
“Miss Brenna.” Isla’s voice is whispered but firm. “I’m sorry Miss Brenna, but it is time to get up.” The willowing dark haired waif has brought a tray, with a hardboiled egg, a couple biscuits and some butter as well as a steaming beverage.
“Is that coffee?” You ask, confused. Isla nods.
“The southern drink Lady Josephine brought with her, yes. She mentioned you might be partial to a sip of it in the morning like her.” You sit up, giving Isla an impressive view. She blushes, suddenly glancing at the floor.
“Begging your pardon, Miss, but I must say,” this part comes out as almost a whisper. “You are a very beautiful woman.” You give her a surprised smile.
“Thank you Isla.” You fumble around and locate a thick cotton shirt and pull it over your head. Isla, still blushing up a storm, lays out the food.
“Tell me Isla, Lady Josephine must have let you know, did she have any plans for me today?” Isla shakes her head.
“No miss. I am just to provide you with whatever you need while you do your work.” Isla hands you a buttered biscuit.
“. . . so where shall I take you today?”
“I want to go to the village – get to the bottom of these hauntings.”
With only minimal assistance Isla helps you into a tunic and skirt that complement the shirt and after a brief moment to eat, the two of you head down the stone steps of the keep to the courtyard. The rain has dwindled to the all-too familiar misting. Isla offers a simple brown cloak that fits surprisingly well.
With only minimal assistance, you saddle up and the two of you take the stone road over the gushing dark river and into the woods towards the village.
Throughout the journey, Isla prattles on about her family. Her father, Lennox, who owns the bakery and her aunt who is a weaver. You try to keep the names and stories straight but you are quickly lost, instead enraptured by the peaceful brook, the sweeping evergreen trees and the approaching stone and thatch houses that make up the village.
Isla waves at a dour-faced man in the watch tower as you make your way into the village. He gives the barest of nods before returning to staring at the dark woods surrounding you.
“What is he watching for?” Isla pinches her mouth, her dark hair falling in front of her face.
“By day? Pict raiding parties coming in from the islands, although we haven’t had one of those since I was just a girl.”
You are still just a girl, you think, but keep it to yourself. The waif of a woman was barely nineteen.
“And by night?” you ask. Isla shudders.
“I think you best talk to Aileena about that.”
###
SCREEEEETTTTTT. The whetting wheel grinds away just outside the blacksmith’s shed. A stooped woman in a dark leather jerkin works an axehead back and forth. You dismount, a little shakily but you land solidly on your feet and the horse didn’t buck so you are feeling more confident about it. Isla takes the reins from you, hollering above the clatter.
“AIleena!” The grinding continues, the woman sparing Isla the briefest of irritated glances before noticing your presence. She pauses, eyes sweeping you from head to toe. She’s young, not as young as Isla but there is such an intensity there. She gives you a dismissive toss of the head and returns to sharpening.
“She’s always like this!” Isla shouts over the clammer to you.
“Like what?” Aileena shouts back from her work, not looking up.
“Like a RIGHT PAIN IN THE ARSE!” Aileena suddenly stops the stone so Isla’s words echo across the village square, disturbing two crows resting on the nearby roof. An older man, bald and jowled, leans out an upstairs window.
“Language, Isla!” He scolds.
“Sorry Malcom.” Isla calls out, shooting dangers at Aileena who pointedly ignored her, rubbing the axehead with a soft piece of leather beforefore working it back onto the shaft by her side.
“Well, that’s a horse from the castle, so either you’re some high-born lady come to gawk at us in the muck, or you’re here doing Lady Josephine’s bidding. Either way, I’ve got no want to speak to you.” With that, she turns abruptly to start putting away her tools.
“Aileena, this is Brenna. She’s here to deal with the hauntings. She might be able to banish whatever is causing all this.”
Aileena whips around, her eyes alight.
“The only thing that needs banishing is Lady Josephine! Her and her god-forsaken men. Talverton was a good town before she came and will be a better one once she is gone!” Aileena stomps off.
Isla turns to you. “Aileena is the best forest walker north of Hadrian’s Wall. She hunts game, helps lost travelers and finds herbs for Salden when people are sick. If there’s something going on out there in the woods, she will know where to look.”
“Second best.” Aileena says over her shoulder. “My brother is better.”
“Caelen?” Isla asks incredulously. “He’s not really . . .”
“Maxwell.” Aileena says firmly.
“Aileena . . . he hasn’t been home in over a year.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s gone!” Aileena snaps. There’s a pause as the two women glare at each other for a moment.
“Aileena,” you finally break in. “I’ve traveled a long way to be here. I am no high born lady, feel my hands.” You reach out and she takes your hand in hers. Her grip is strong but as she traces her fingertips across your palm, she is surprisingly gentle. You are grateful for the calluses you’ve acquired over the last eight years of parenting.
She meets your gaze as you continue.
“I’ve got no love for Lady Josephine – but I do need to know what has been going on here at night. Will you help me?” Aileena, still holding your hand, looks into your eyes, big and earnest. She blows a breath out her nose and gives a little shrug.
“Fine. But your nursemaid has to piss off.”
“I’m not a nursemaid!” Isla says indignant. You give her an apologetic look. She throws up her hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll be at my father’s house. It’s there, on the other side of the well.” She points across the town square. “I’ll take care of the horses. Just let me know if we are going to be here after dark.”
It is hard to tell, through the thick grey clouds, but you suspect it is almost Noon.
“You hungry?” Aileena asks.
###
Her house, a simple cob building with a thatch roof on the edge of the village, is everything you hoped. Herbs hang from the ceiling, simple wood furniture is set about the main room, and the thick walls mean the inside is warm and dry from the drizzle.
You hang your cloak up to dry on the peg by the door while Aileena assembles a plate of nuts, berries, some sliced root vegetables and some dried pieces of jerky. Ignoring the meat, you nibble at the rest while Aileena begins her story.
“It all began three years ago, when Lady Josephine arrived. The first couple of months were fine, we had just finished harvest season and having a new Thane was a welcome diversion from the winter gloom. But I knew something was wrong right from the start.”
Aileena shook her head. “Lady Josephine, and her men. McCormac, and that strange doctor of theirs, they may talk like us but they are not from here. They came and talked to us here in the village. They told us about the mine they intended to build and how it would all bring us riches beyond imagination. They had gifts too. Gold coin for the men, trinkets for the children.”
“What did people think?” You ask, gratefully accepting a cool glass of water.
“Hmf. Like the fools they are, my people clapped and jumped with glee. The Talverton’s had returned with a glorious task for us! Yes m’lady. Right away, m’lady.” Aileena gave a mocking curtsy.
“But I knew it was too good to be true. It wasn’t long before the voices started calling out of the woods.” Aileena shuddered.
“Anyone who was out after dark would start hearing them. A loved one – someone alive or dead – calling their name, asking for their help. They would go after them, and that would be the last we saw of them. We lost so many friends that winter.” Aileena gives a heavy sigh.
“Eventually, we were able to spread the word and that’s when the spirits started appearing. You would catch glimpses of them at the edge of the woods – people you wanted to see more than anything else in the world. And so many people would walk willingly into their arms.”
“I would search the next morning, following the tracks, trying to find where they ended up but no luck. We couldn’t even find their bodies. And that was just the start.” She shakes her head.
“Since then, our village has been beset by terrible things. Just last month Salden’s house moved in the dead of night. She’s our village healer or at least she was until that creepy doctor arrived, but she went to sleep and when she opened her door the next morning, it was on the other side of the village.”
“I heard Friar James died recently.” You ask. Aileena nods.
“Aye, never cared much for the man. Too much in his cups but still, what a way to go. Looks like he was scared right to death. Another loss at Lady Josephine’s feet.”
“You seem pretty convinced that this is all her fault.” You say. “Do you have any proof?”
“What more proof could I need? Talverton was at peace before she arrived and we will not know peace until we drive her from our lands!” She pounds the table, causing the plates to jump.
The door to the cottage swings open and in strides a young handsome man, carrying a large leather-bound tome and slender flask.
“I’ve returned, Aileena. The priest had the materials on hand . . .” his voice trails off as he catches sight of you. “Oh! We have company, I apologize.” He goes to put his cloak away but cannot tear his eyes from you and ends up dropping it on the floor.
“No trouble on the road to Lairg?” Aileena inquires. He shakes his head. “No. No trouble at all. And I got what we need.” You wrack your brains, where had you heard Lairg before.
“What you need. I’m not sure if it will work.” Aileena gets up and gives him a brief embrace.
“Brenna, please meet my brother Caelan.” You stand and offer him a hand, which he enthusiastically accepts.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss.” He says.
“I thought your brother was . . . missing?” You ask. Caelan gives Aileena a worried look before turning back to you.
“That was her older brother, Maxwell.” He says apologetically. An awkward silence comes and then just as quickly, goes.
“Brenna is here to solve the hauntings.” says Aileena. “On behalf of Lady Josephine.” Caelan’s mouth twists as if tasting something bitter.
“I just want to solve the mystery – if Josephine is the cause of all of this, then that is the problem I will solve.” Both of them look at you in shock.
“Do you speak truly?” Aileena asks, coming right close to you, her body inches from yours. “Are you serious about this?”
You take a moment to consider. What if the hauntings are a result of something Josephine has done? What would you do? Probably return home, tell Maurie and then the FBI would arrest the whole operation. Meaning that no one would enter through the well house for a while. Yes, that is something you could promise.
“If Josephine or her men are causing the hauntings, I will make sure they never return to Talverton Keep.” You promise, holding Aileena’s gaze. “I swear it.”
For the first time yet, Aileena cracks a broad smile. “Well then, let’s get to work!”
###
Caelan’s plan is simple – there was a flask of consecrated water and a book of prayers. You read the prayers and sprinkle the water. Together, the three of you made a slow circle along the edge of the village. Caelen, squinting to read the scrawling handwriting of the monk from Lairg. Aileena, glaring at any of the other villagers who dared approach while halfheartedly sprinkling the holy water and then you, pulling up the rear.
Talverton looked much the same from all sides – thatch roofs, stone buildings, laundry hanging on twine, and far too many animals under foot. The fast moving river that roars past the keep is a deep and fast moving snake, coiled along one side of the town. On the other side, a mossy thick forest.
The thick trees, heavy branches and wet underbrush would normally set you right to ease – but this forest wasn’t the reassuring douglas firs and western hemlocks of home. It was subtly, but fundamentally, different. It felt unsettling, and sinister.
“Have you spent much time in the forests? After sundown?” Aileena asks.
“A bit.” You answer truthfully. You had enjoyed a backpacking trip in the Olympics last summer with Ryan and the kids – not far but enough. Silas managed to bust his knee jumping off a rock and Lyra had gotten a worrisome-at-first-but-ultimately-just-fine bug bite, but neither one minded because the meteors that night were spectacular. Both children had stayed up late into the night, all oohs and ahhs, until all four of you mutually, and without any previous coordination, fell promptly asleep.
“Tell me about these woods, Aileena. What do I need to know about them?” You leave the question open-ended and aren’t disappointed. Aileena pauses and thinks for a moment, letting Caelan stumble on a few paces ahead.
“If you are talking about the land, this river cuts through the valley south here for good ways – the going is rough if you don’t know what you are doing but you can follow along the banks and get up onto that ridge there,” She points at the nearby foothills.
“And from there, you can make your way most of the way around our valley. It takes you about a day and a half, and then another half a day to get down but you can do it.”
“Aileena!” Caelan waves at her, twenty paces ahead. She gives him an exasperated look and springs some more of the holy water around her before setting off at a trot to catch up. You follow.
“If you want something from outside Talverton – you’ve got to either saddle a horse and ride to Lairg, which isn’t much bigger than us – or push your way through the woods to the ridge and ride it south towards Old Road. Either way, it’s a difficult journey.”
“What about boats?” You ask. “You’ve got the river right here, do you get many visitors up or down the river?” Aileena frowns.
“The village elders say that it is because the current is too swift, that the river is violent and dangerous and will smash any vessel to bits.” Aileena lowers her voice. “But I know what it’s really about. It’s Nyree.” She glances over her shoulder towards the woods.
“She’s . . . well, some say she’s the witch of the woods. She bends the river to her will and lives in the darkest parts of the forest. Malcom thinks she’s a woman who conjoined with the devil and curses travelers. Lennox say she’s a water nymph, bound to this glen ages ago by some horny old wizard. ” Aileena’s voice is low – but you aren’t sure if she is worried about Caelen or the woods themselves overhearing.
“What do you think?” Aileena gives the ground another splash.
“What I think of her doesn’t matter. She and I have crossed paths a couple of times, we stay out of each other’s ways.”
“So she was here before Lady Josephine arrived?”
“Nyree is no friend of our lady of the keep.” says Caelan, suddenly appearing at your side. “But she’s no evil haunting either.” He closes the book.
“We are done. The circle is cast, and just in time too.” He nods towards the west where the gloomy grey light of afternoon was already beginning to fade into evening.
“Everyone should be coming back from the quarry right now, with darkness not far behind. I’m going to grab something to eat at Moira’s and then find a spot to camp out where I can watch this line.” Aileena takes the book from him.
“Why not go to the watchtower . . . oh right.” Caelan nods.
“What?” You ask.
“Monro’s on duty,” Aileena explains, “and he’s . . . ”
“Dumber than bag of rocks?” Caelan offers.
“Worse, he’s a pig.” Aileena finishes. She gives Caelan an encouraging smile. “I hope it works.”
“Me too.” Caelan says. “The people of Talverton will never be able to unite against the real enemy while these spirits torture us. Once our minds are clear, we will our way to a better future.” Caelen’s eyes are alight with that same fire.
Aileena clasps his hand. “Talverton for its own, my brother,” and they briefly embrace. “I will go rest so I may take the second watch.”
“Your ride is here.” Aileena notes. Isla had approached with two horses but paused a good ten paces away, not willing to risk Aileena’s wrath by coming within earshot.
“I’m expected back at the Keep, I will see what I can uncover about Lady Josephine and her men to see if they are behind all of this.”
Aileena gives you a curt nod but her eyes are soft.
“Be careful, that woman is a viper.” She looks away for a moment and then the fire is back. “And if you betray us, I’ll slice your ankles and leave you for the timber wolves.”
“Aileena,” Caelan says indulgently, “Be nice.” He gives you a firm handshake.
“That was.” She says defiantly. “Mostly. You better go, Isla looks about ready to bolt.” It was true. Isla was fretting with the reigns and glancing nervously at the fast setting sun, peaking out beautifully beneath the thick clouds right at the horizon.
“Good thing you’re so beautiful. If you looked like Caelan here, she would have ditched you twenty shakes ago.” Aileena punches him in the shoulder.
“Piss off, sis.” He mutters darkly and turns back towards the town square. Aileena makes a jerking motion behind his back, grins and heads off towards her house. You make your way back to Isla, already lending a hand to get you up on the horse.
“We shouldn’t have stayed so late.” Isla whispers urgently. “The light’s nearly gone.”
It really was. You could have sworn when you started with the cleansing ritual it was midday but the fast-setting sun disagrees.
Time.
Time was moving faster.
In an instant, you knew it to be true, like a sinking in your gut. Was this a change from yesterday? You arrived at sunset last night but you couldn’t judge how long you slept. You awoke groggy but considering the circumstances, you didn’t think it was odd.
“Please, miss Brenna, a little haste!” Isla jolts you back to the present, as the two of you urge your horses through the town and along the surging black river.
By the time you reached the fork in the road between the keep and the wellhouse, the sun had vanished behind the low hills and casting deep shadows throughout the valley.
oooOOOOOOoooooooo! A wolfish howl echoes across the forest and already you are seeing shapes moving in the pools of darkness collecting behind every stone and tree. The bushy heather shook and rattled as the wind picks up. You pull your brown cloak tighter and give your steed the gentlest of thumps to the ribs. The horse leans their head into the wind and picks up the pace, going a steady trot.
Isla glances back at you, fingers white-knuckled on the reins, her eyes flitting this way and that – watching the skies. You follow her gaze – a few twilight bats swooping in the night but no sign of the Crith Eun. Yet.
Your cheeks are wet. How long had it been raining? Your cloak is heavy with rainwater and the horse’s hooves pound on the stones.
AAAAAOOOOOooooooooo. There – clearly a wolf – much closer but still behind you. Up ahead, you see the long stone bridge and the heavy wood doors. Swirling like angry clouds, you see the tale-tale movement of the Howling Birds.
“Come on – come on!” Rain pours down your chest and back – the wool cloak proving utterly useless against the deluge as the horses clatter along the road. You tug at the reins, trying to slow your ride but the horse is driven.
“Open the doors!” Screams Isla. The guardman starts shouting but you can’t hear him over the howling.
CRASH! Something big and leathery slams into you from above. You reel in your saddle, flailing wildly. Your fist connects with something, prickly fur and wet sinew. Claws scrap acros your arm, your thigh, before it tumbles away.
You hear the whistle of arrows through the air but your eyes are locked on the gates of the keep, hurting towards you.
“Open the fucking doors!” You scream. Isla is screaming now too, a cry of terror.
The gates groan, heavy twisting in the wood. Your horse rear up as you cling to their neck for dear life.
BANG! They crash into the wood, knocking the doors open in a clatter of wood and hooves.
“Woah, woah!” two guards, their polearms thrown aside, try to corrall you and Isla as your horses twist this way and that, in terror. “Easy there – easy!”
With soothing words and steady hands, they help you and Isla dismount while other men work to heave the doors back in place. Isla rushes over to you.
“Did you get bite – did they bite you?!” She demands, as you do a quick survey of the damage.
“I . . . I don’t think so. Scratched my arm pretty good.” Isla helps pull back the shreads of your sleeve.
“It doesn’t look too deep, probably claws. Either way, miss, you should have someone look at that.” She’s shaking, poor thing, but her focus remains on you.
“What about you – did they get you?” You ask. She shakes her head.
“No miss, I’m unharmed.” She says unconvincingly. She draws an unsteady breath. “If you don’t mind, miss, after I get you to your room, I’m going to go to the baths and take a nice long soak.”
She gives a laugh. “Scaring the life out of me, miss, that’s what you’re doing. When that bird hit you, I was sure you were going into the river. Lord help me, I’m going to be grey by spring.”
Laughing together, the two of you make your way up the winding steps of the keep, down the hallway and to your room. Isla stokes the hearth fire while you peel out of your wet clothes, wrapping yourself in a thick blanket while surveying your clothing options.
The stone stairs leading down to Dr. Jerome Kerr’s laboratory were narrow, cramped and uneven. Holding the candelabra up high to see the next step, you peer around the corner, the narrow hallway and low sloped wooden door.
You feet echo softly on the cool floor as you poke your head through the doorway. “Hello?” you call out, tentative.
The scene before you calls to mind a jumbled artist studio but instead of paints and canvas, someone has scattered bottles, pans, wire, half-drawn blueprints and smoldering projects.
“Brenna?” a voice calls out from deeper in the workshop.
“Is that you?” Dr. Jerome Kerr emerges, thick leather goggles pulled up onto his forehead, gently swirling a clear flask in one hand.
“Is everything okay?” He asks, concerned.
“Yes, everything is fine, I just wanted to see you . . . see your work.” You stumble slightly but the blush rising in his cheeks is worth it.
“Thank you – uh . . . come in, come in!” He says waving you deeper into the mess. “You caught me right in the middle of something. In fact, you might be able to shed some light on this.” You set down your candelabra and follow him to where he has gathered a table set up next to the fireplace with a pot over the heat. On the table he has several ingredients, a dark ground up powder and metal shavings. He swirls the flask in his hand a few more times and holds it up to the light.
“There! See that!” You squint at the flask. “It’s impossible!” he exclaims with delight. You see little silver glints in the muddy water.
“This is iron shavings, melted down in a solution.” He begins. “However, when ground up with an extract from the yellow fungus that grows on the Aspen trees here and combined, it turns into Nickel. Not all of it, but enough.”
“Okay.” You answer, trying to follow. “And that’s impossible?”
“Nickel isn’t a compound. It’s not iron plus something else, it is a brand new element.” He turns towards you with a big grin. “According to the basic laws of chemistry, it’s impossible. It simply can’t be done, unless you are splitting an atom apart. Certainly not with the equipment I have here it . . .”
“. . . it’s alchemy.” you finish. “Turning lead into gold.”
“Yes!” He exclaims. “Alchemy! We’ve rediscovered alchemy!” He gives a whoop of delight and gathers you up in his arms and twirls you around laughing. His hand comes away wet.
“Oh! Brenna, you’re hurt!” You look down at the cuts on your arm.
“I’m sorry, I forgot. That’s why I came down here originally.” He begins rummaging through a pile of papers and linens. He comes back with a light linen bandage.
“I’m so sorry, what happened?” He comes close, his eyes wide and concerned as he gently holds your arm, soaks the bandage in something smelling of pine sap, and then presses it firmly to your wound.
You explain about the hair-raising ride back from the village and the daring escape from the Crith Eun.
He listens intently, tying the bandage in place with a bit of twine.
“Is it possible that time is running faster? I thought we were slower than the outside world.”
He shakes his head. “That has to do with the time exchange – what you are describing has to do with the internal time of this world.”
He puts the twine away and pulls up a seat. “Although, I must admit, I did not experience any time distortions myself – although I spent most of today in here manufacturing saltpeter.”
“Saltpeter?” You ask. Explosives. “Ah, for the mine.” you answer your own question. He nods.
“Ironically, I’ve used more of my chemistry experience here than experimental physics. Chemistry and biology, really. I was working on penicillin production a few days ago.” He smiles wryly, his white teeth flashing. “Just the bare minimum to bring this village out of the dark ages.”
He springs up, “Where are my manners? Would you like a cup of tea? I promise I won’t spill it on you this time.” He gives you a look, full of promise. “Or maybe something a little stronger?”
“Yes, that.” You answer, poking through the nearest pile of scrawling notes, stained with drips of some dark liquid, and the charred residue on a flat metal pan. “What are you doing down here?”
He’s at your side, a firm hand resting on the small of your back. He hands you a carved wooden cup filled with a dark, sweet smelling wine. You sip, a rich smooth wine that tastes of plums.
“This is good.” You say, looking at the cup in amazement. “And I’ve had some really good wines lately, this is great!” Jerome smiles, making a fruitless effort to tidy the table in front of you, finally succeeding in creating a small spot for both your cups.
“I’m testing the rules of this universe.” He answers. “All of this is me just pounding on the walls of this world and finding more and more questions.” He touches your arm, softly. “If you willing, I’d love a little help.”
Your heart beats loud in your ears, and you have trouble looking anywhere but those crystal blue eyes. A million words all rushed to your mouth but in a moment none of them could get out.
“Yes, I’d like that.” you finally manage. He smiles and immediately begins narrating.
“You and I talked about the initial creation, yes? Once the metal was installed, I . . . etched . . .” his voice was careful and steady.
“Yes, what exactly did you . . .” you do a little pantomime.
“It’s important, isn’t it?” He looks for validation in your eyes. “I thought so, everything I’d heard, whispered, about this said the phrasing is important. I kept it very plain, four sentences describing the location, the place, the time.” He glances over at his desk. “I have the precise wording in some of my earlier books. I was worried about a translation error, since all of it was in the language of its time, so we had an old historian at the University of Edinburgh take a look at it. We . . ”
He looks down at his cup, ” . . . well mostly, I. Josephine was involved of course, but I’m the one that wrote the words. I was very precise. Everything of this world ‘as it was’.” He takes a long sip of the wine and throws another log on the fire.
“Of course, we modified it since then – to align the timing and to alter a few things here or there but then I started noticing things. Things that were off that we didn’t change.”
He takes you to a pair of candles, with a brass tube suspended above them, dripping water into a beaker.
“Did you know that water here freezes at 16 degrees celsius, sorry, 33.2 degrees fahrenheit, and boils at 215 degrees? It’s just ever so slightly off. ANd that’s not the only one.”
He takes you a whirlwind tour of his workshop. “Friction? Slightly more. Gravity? Fractionally less. Wind resistance, slightly more.”
“The first year alone, I documented seventeen identifiable inconsistencies between this world and our world. It was incredible.” He shakes his head.
“After all those years of schooling, to be doing something groundbreaking like this, to be working in the field and discovering new things . . . I was going to get published. I was going to write a book. But then, in year two I started to replicate my experiments, as I brought or made more and more equipment. And the results were different!”
“The boiling temperature, the rate of photosynthesis, the wind resistance. All the things I measured were off, but in the other direction. Some more, some less, but things at shifted.”
“Oh no.” You say. “That must have been frustrating.” He grins.
“It was incredible – something we couldn’t explain? That’s definitely book material. But more troubling it means that this world is in flux. It is changing. The rules of the universe are still shifting.”
You ponder this for a moment as he refills your cup.
“So what’s your hypothesis?” You ask.
“I have several. First, that this is a brand new world and it is still cooling, like a biscuit right out of the oven. That’s why everything is still a bit in flux. Is that it? That’s got to be right, right?” He looks at you expectantly. You give him a non-committal noise.
“What’s your other theory?” You ask.
“The other is that I screwed up. At some point in the process, the handling of the alien material or forging the well house, I did something wrong and this is all just cracks in the foundation. The world itself is falling apart.” You peers at you intently. Expectantly.
“First of all, the alien material is more than just a substance. It’s alive – it’s conscious . . .” you reflect back on the words of Daniel Quilp from deep beneath the Black Lotus in Limehouse.
“It’s like coral. If you feed it and treasure it, it grows. It yearns for guidance. You gave it a time and a place – did you specify the residents? The people of the village.” He shakes his head.
“Just ‘as it was’.” he says.
“Perhaps that was the problem, it kept going and growing and expanding. It couldn’t just stay as it was – it’s alive.” You smile, enjoying the moment. “And nothing alive stays still very long.”
“Yes. My god. Yes!” He leaps to his desk and snatches a quill and some parchment. “Coral, adding more on its own. New pathways, new people, new rules to the universe.” He pauses, looks at you with wonder.
“You have got to tell me more. Take me under your wing.” He comes in close, his voice soft. “I’ll be your protege.”
You tilt your chin up, hands aching to hold him, to kiss him and tear his clothes to the ground. But you stand, inches from him.
“Is that what you want, Dr. Jerome Kerr, you want to be my . . . protege?” Your smile is playful as his eyes linger on your graceful neck and full body.
“No,” he admits. “But I do want to cross some professional boundaries . . .” his hand, hot and firm, pulls at your hips, pressing you to him.
He leans in and captures your lips, soft and fierce at once. You moan into his mouth, as he pulls at you urgently, grinding into your body. He breaks the kiss, cradling your face in his hands and his lips are everywhere at once, your neck, your ears, your lips again.
You tug at his shirt, urgently, pulling it over his head, and throwing it away. His body is sculpted, muscular and lean. You feel his teeth on your neck as he grinds against you.
You run your hands through his jumbled dark hair.
“Fuck,” you moan, reaching into his breaches to grab his throbbing cock. It’s hot in your hand, and hard, and damn it, you need it inside of you.
His lips are on yours, tongues gently caressing while your hand slowly moves up and down his length, his hips moving in rhythm with your hand.
“Don’t tease.” He says, his hands working beneath your skirts. You shove an experiment clattering to the ground and hop up on one of the tables. You are grateful you left your undergarmets upstairs as he gently strokes your sex, already sopping wet.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you from the moment I saw your picture.” He whispers in your ear, nibbling gently at your earlobe. His fingers find their mark, your hips rolling in time with your impending orgasm. “Seeing you, being near you. I can’t take it”
He lines up his cock, and pushes himself inside you. “I need you.” He presses forward, your mouth open in a deep moan, leaning back to give him the best access. He wraps his hands around your thighs and bottoms out, deep inside you.
“Ugn ugn ugn UGN!” You feel him surging, his cock twitching inside of you. He starts thrusting, fast and hard, shaking the oak table as he rails into you. You reach up and finger your clit as the sensation builds and builds. He leans in and kiss you, proud and needful.
Stars explode behind your eyes and you tear away from his lips with a gasp as the orgasm sweeps through you. You look up but he’s still inside you, thrusting.
“Ah AH AH!” He moans and you feel him clench, and a gush of cum floods into you.
“Oh Brennaaaaa” he sighs, pressing himself into you, his right hand on your breast, his left steading the two of you on the table.
He slides out of you with a messy plop as you adjust your skirt and try to put your breasts back in your shirt.
“I’m sorry – that was a little fast for me.” He says apologetic. “You just . . . I couldn’t help myself.” He looks at you, still hungry.
“No need to stop now.” You reach down and stroke his sticky cock, fisting him back to hardness.
He cradles your face, laying a tender kiss on your lips even as you lewdly work his body. “Let’s make a night of it.” he commands. You readily agree.
“Meet you back at your room, I wouldn’t want us to be spotted on the way back to mine and reported to HR.” He kisses you again, with fervor, his throbbing cock pulsing in your hand “Or I could just fuck you right now.” His teeth nip at your neck.
Your body is still racing, you grind against him. Finally, with some reluctance, you release his member, and try to put your clothes back in their proper place.
“See you soon Jerome.” You give him your sauciest look. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
###
The padding of your feet along the stonework of the keep is barely audible above the drumbeat of rain outside. It’s late, you’re unsure of the time, but the howling of the wind seems to provide an every constant shuddering to the stone building. You reach your floor when you hear it again,
“AAoooOoohhhhhgghhh! Aaaooggghhhh!!!” A ragged wet cry somewhere between full-bodied cry of a large animal and the orgasmic moan at the peak of ecstasy. It wasn’t the Crith Eun, this was something different. You are sure of it now.
You proceed, quietly, down the hallway, your ears attuned to the distant cries but no more rose above the din outside. You push open your wood door, throw a few logs on the simmering hearth and double-check the bolt on the window.