by Ira Robinson
"When your father was lost to us, she, against our best efforts to stop her from doing so, used dark magic to try to bring him back, and her failure sickened her beyond anything we or anyone else could do to fix. When you were born, we decided to watch you closely, not just because you had the potential to be a member among us, but because there was the risk that dark magic could have become a part of you."
"Wait, what?" She crossed her arms. "Are you saying I am a demon spawn or something?"
"No," he replied, raising his hand. "But that kind of possibility was there." It dropped as she relaxed a little. "Magic is not like the movies, Sam. It's powerful, dangerous, and it always runs the risk of contaminating the one using it. You are, right now, seeing the effects of what can happen when magic goes wrong, and your mother was amongst the highest degree and dynamic wielders of it we've had."
"I still have a hard time believing all of this," she said. The surreal effect of sitting in a darkened room with perhaps the most authoritative person in town, talking about energy and monsters, made her heady. Of all the things she thought she could have encountered, she could not have imagined it would have gone this way.
"I know you are, Samantha," he continued. "That's why I am going to allow you access to the Archives, to help equip you for what's to come."
"Archives?" Sam perked up, sitting straighter in the chair.
Mortimer nodded as he signaled for the guard.
The door opened and the man stepped in, an inquisitive but attentive look on his face.
"I have let the Curator know you can have access to information we have about revenants, as well as anything else that might help with your current situation, but nothing more." Before Sam could ask why, he added, "While some in the Society want you to be a part of it, others would rather not think about what to do with you at all."
He held up his palm as she sputtered in offense. "It's not an easy decision to make. Change does not come easily to us and there are always risks." He nodded to the guard, who placed a hand on Sam's shoulder.
Sam jolted slightly at the touch, but realized there was nothing more she was going to get out of the old man. Her 'interview' was over.
As she got to her feet, he did add, "Once this crisis is over, we'll take the time to figure out what place, if any, you might have with us."
As the door closed she asked herself if she would even want to be a part of their little club.
So many secrets hidden behind lies. Would she allow herself to associate with such a thing?
The guard waited for her to make a move.
After a moment, she said, "Hey, about that sandwich..."
Chapter 26
The cafeteria the guard led her to was small, well-lit, and devoid of anyone else.
He stood nearby Sam as she took a few minutes to make a sandwich from one of the loaves of bread waiting on the counter top, filling it with some salami and cheese she scrounged up in the refrigerator.
She tried to ask him a few questions as she chewed, but he seemed content to say nothing more than a grunt or two to everything. He probably had standing orders to give her no more than was necessary, and would stick to that command.
No matter. She had been told a great amount during her stay with the Society; most of it was difficult for her to process. She had no basis of experience for the idea of the supernatural, yet she had been exposed to more of it than she could have imagined. How was she supposed to deal with it?
She was, apparently, under the gun for time and had none to spare to put it all into place, let alone try to find some way to protect herself from the descent into darkness she was on.
She gulped down the food as fast as she could manage and was tempted to go for another one, but contented herself with chasing it with a glass of water.
Maybe the answers would be found in the Archives. She could package everything together, box it up with a nice little bow.
"I'm ready," she said to the man, who nodded and walked away from the empty cafeteria with her in tow.
Down the corridor they once again trod, this time toward the room she occupied since... how long? A day? Two?
They passed that door; she did not try to look into it. She knew it well.
At the end of the hall, there waited an opening much different from the rest. This one was made of metal and, as the guard inserted a key into the receptacle by it, she recognized it as an elevator.
It took a few moments for it to open. It was large enough to hold a dozen people comfortably.
He used the key again on the panel near the exit, turning it slowly until the lights lit brightly. There were no numbers, each button having a single letter. They were not, however, in any order.
He pushed one of them, marked with an A, by the bottom, and the door slid closed rapidly. Only a second later, the movement of the elevator car began.
She could not tell how fast they were moving, but the sensation was there. The panel gave no indication of what floor they were on or how deep they were going, but it took over a minute for the trip to happen. The soft jolt of the car's brakes locking into place signaled the stop.
The escort drew the key and the portal slid open, giving Sam the idea it could be a security feature. The opening revealed yet another corridor beyond, the lighting dimmer than that upstairs.
The two stepped from the elevator and a soft buzz came from the box in the wall next to it as the door shut. The guard started walking, paying no attention, but Sam could not help feeling nervous at the closure. She had no clue how deep they had come, but it had to have been a great amount. They were riding in it for enough time to have, perhaps, crossed over fifty floors, if they were in a high rise.
And she was completely under the whims of the man who brought her here.
She followed, not knowing what else to do, cautious and watchful for anything that might happen. Though they had given her no indication they wished to do her harm, the secrecy behind which this group of people worked and kept themselves left a lot to be imagined.
As above, there was stone here, with wood slats placed throughout to ensure stability. The corridor was hewn directly from the rock, either through machinery or a great amount of hands. For all Sam really knew, it could have even been something supernatural that made it all.
Unlike the floor she spent the most time on, the walls were decorated. Artwork and statuary were everywhere she could see. Alcoves were trimmed to allow their placements.
Most of it she could not recognize, with abstract imagery being used. A lot as they walked was covered in dust, kicked up, perhaps, by the passage of feet on the floor, though it was polished in most places to a fine gloss.
Symbols, as well, were etched into the rock. Some were roses, or semblances of them, but others had no meaning to her whatsoever. They might have been merely decorative, but, here and there, she caught traces of a glow on some. It came and went as quickly as her eyes could catch it, and the effect could have been nothing more than the way the lighting reflected from the darkened stone.
She could not tell the number of rooms on the floor; corridors branched off at equal spacing as the two of them walked through. They turned many times down them, to the point Sam could not reasonably figure out where the elevator was in relation to her position. If she had to make a break for it, she could find herself going around in circles, the notion of which again made her uncomfortable.
She tried to slow her pacing, to let herself get her bearings, but the guard drove them forward until, finally, after trekking through for what seemed more than five minutes, they stopped in front of a dark double door.
He opened it and stepped back, giving her leave to pass through before he did.
He closed them behind himself as she gawked in awe of the huge room before her.
Sam saw bookshelves lining the walls all around. More works than she could imagine were piled into every available space on the shelves, many thousands at least. The racks were over twenty feet high, with ladd
ers everywhere to allow access to the top.
Things other than books were scattered on the shelving, as well, with rolled up parchments and papers threatening to fall over to the dark carpeted floor.
Away from the walls, in the center area of the room, were computer terminals at desks, each separated by a partition. Over a dozen waited for someone to come along and make use of, but most were unoccupied. A single person sat amid the tumble of information, a middle-aged woman who only glanced for a moment before returning to the monitor before her.
The only other occupant of the archive was in the dead center, sitting at a circular desk with dozens of volumes. When she saw Sam enter the room, she stood and approached, her long, deep purple robe flowing around her as she paced.
Sam waited in place until the woman, older than she by far, came closer and took Sam's arm. She nodded, her silver hair writhing, to the guard, who turned away from them perched on a chair near the doors, as Sam was pulled toward one of the computer systems.
"Mister Howard told me to expect you," she said, her voice hushed. "I have set up this terminal with what you are allowed access to."
"Okay," Sam said, a little addled at the brusqueness. She was taken to the machine closest to the door and pushed to the seat that waited. Sam went down into it, and, even if it was not uncomfortable, it rankled her to be made to do it involuntarily.
"My name is Katrine," the woman stated, towering over her. She stood much closer than Sam enjoyed. "I am Curator of the Archive. If you have questions about how to use the terminal, you can inquire, but the information I have granted you access to is the limit of what I allow. Do not ask for more. You will not get it."
When Sam nodded her assent, the woman said, "Take what time you need. When you are done, you may leave."
She turned away from Sam and went back to her desk. The haughty attitude and brash manner reminded her of a Lord of the manor, and, though her demesne might be small, this queen brooked no disturbance to her rule.
Sam glanced around again before turning her eyes to the monitor on the wooden counter, skimming over it quickly.
It was a simple keyboard and mouse layout, with a window already open for her to make use of.
JACKSON MILLER DEATH
HEATHER MILLER DEATH
REVENANT
That's it? she thought as she stared at the file names. A hint of excitement ran through her, though, at the possibility of learning what she could not have previously imagined.
She deflated when she clicked on the first, that of her father. While it was obvious there was information there that could answer her questions, most of it was redacted. It gave her nothing more than what she already knew, though there were references to other files within the system.
When she tried clicking them, the links were dead, a blank page redirecting her back to where she started.
The file relating to her mother had the same results.
How the hell is this supposed to help?
When she clicked the link for the information about Revenants, her anger rose. Why were they intentionally keeping what she needed from her? They wasted her day with this, time she did not have.
The revenant file told her, at least, that encounters with the beings were very rare, with the last known occurrence being over a hundred years ago. Though she could see the dates involved, there was nothing about who it affected or how it had been resolved.
She shook her head and looked around again. The Curator was still at her desk, keeping a close watch on the stranger in her midst. Katrine made it clear there would be no more given to her, even if she begged.
The other woman in the room seemed to be paying no mind to anything else but what was before her. She, too, would probably be useless. It could make things worse if she tried to approach and ask questions.
For a few minutes, she mulled over what to do next. There was going to be no further answer forthcoming from these people, and the longer she stayed among them, the more frustrated she grew. She had to do something about her situation, but could not fathom what those steps should be.
To top it off, despite the sleep she was able to get during her stay with the Society, she was exhausted. The constant emotional turmoil she endured being with them was getting to her. So many carrots on a stick held out before her, only to be yanked away at the moment she could grasp it weighed her down, stifling her ability to even think straight.
She needed time, but it was something she knew she did not have, and that, too, disheartened her no end.
Sam stood, throwing the mouse across the desk as she did. It clattered around before coming to a rest behind the keyboard.
"I'm done," she shouted, facing the center where Katrine waited. The woman was already standing with the noise Sam made, face glowering and stern.
Sam was walking toward the doors, the stomping of her feet near-silent against the thick carpet beneath her.
"Then it's time for you to leave," she heard Katrine say behind her. Sam gave an ironic smile to the escort. He seemed to not notice as he opened the doors and waited for her to pass.
"Thanks for nothing," Sam shouted over her shoulder as the woman stood between the open doors with her hands on her hips.
"Let's go," she said to her guard. "I want to get out of here."
Chapter 27
The guard led Sam back through the long corridors at a slow pace.
She wanted to be done with this place as soon as she could, to walk away from the mysteries and secrets, the shadow's grip of the things she had been told while there.
More. There was so much more she needed to know, but she understood the answers she desperately sought would not be given here. Not as long as she was an outcast to them.
How was she to protect herself? How was she to get through not only the darkness that surrounded her, but growing inside of her?
That was the rub. No matter what she did, or how far she thought she could run, the thing that was her father put something dark in her, leaving it to fester. Abandoning it there until... what? For death to embrace her?
Until she became like him?
The symbols around her, the eyes on the statues and artwork she passed by, all stared at her. Was their glare accusing? Or was it pity?
When they finally reached the elevator door, Sam spun at the approach of rapid footsteps, each one echoing ahead of the woman coming down the stone corridor.
It was she who sat at the computers with Sam. Her long dark hair flew behind her from the fast stride with which she moved. She was dressed casually, a black button down shirt and jeans complimented her small frame.
"Wait a sec," she shouted as the guard stretched his key toward the panel. He turned to watch as the woman caught up to them, slightly out of breath.
She halted before Sam without glancing at the escort. She reached out her arm to take Sam's own.
"I just wanted the chance to shake the hand of a Miller," she said, giving Sam a soft smile.
As the woman's skin met hers, a rasping joined it, scraping against her palm. Her grip was strong and she stared into Samantha's eyes as her wrist moved up and down. One eyebrow raised before she released her clutch, her fist falling away.
Sam closed her fingers, keeping the piece of paper the woman left there enfolded within. She glanced surreptitiously toward the guard, who seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary.
"Thank you," Sam said as the woman nodded and turned. She shut her mouth as the stranger rounded a corner nearby and disappeared.
She put her hands in her pockets, letting go of the paper and said, "Ready."
The ride back to the top took as long as before, but Sam was antsy for it to move faster. Whatever she was given weighed heavily in her pocket. It was clear she wanted it to be kept secret from the man, but curiosity ate at her.
Again her escort used the key to slide the door open and, as they stepped away from it, she said, "I want to leave."
The guard bowed his head, but replied, "
Wait."
She remained where she was as he walked a few paces from her and brought his wrist to his mouth.
"She wants to go," he said to his upraised hand. She perked her ears when he cocked his own to the left. After a moment, he nodded, his arm drifting back down to his side.
"I'm authorized to take you where you want," turning on his heels and walking away.
Sam followed, catching up to him to step only a pace behind him. She stared at his ear but could see no receiver. Either he was kidding her with a fake conversation or whatever he used was exceptionally small.