by Elise Kova
She’d missed the name on the first doorway, directly across from where she’d emerged into the hallway. But diagonally across from there, where Wayne had come from, was a door that bore his name in blocky, gold-rimmed steel. Across the hall, “Samson” was wrought in copper wiring and welded directly to the door. The next one on the left read “Nico,” a blue jay perched on the scripted ‘o,’ painted with such a careful hand that Jo almost did a double-take to make sure it wasn’t about to fly away. The final doorway on the right had an ornate placard in wood with what Jo had to presume was a name, “Eslar.”
Six doors in total, counting her own.
They descended a long flight of stairs that fanned out into a central atrium entirely overlaid with marble. Heavy crimson drapes in what looked like velvet, framed tall windows that gave Jo the first concerning glimpse of the outside world. She stopped mid-step, staring.
“Is that real?” Outside was a rolling green field, a lake in the distance, mountains in a far haze. It looked like postcards she remembered seeing in history textbooks of California before the great earthquake of 2011 and the WWIII bombings that followed not long after.
“Reality is what we make it.” Wayne stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand in his pocket, the other flipping a coin. “So, who’s to say?”
“I’m looking for answers, not philosophy.”
“Trying to provide them, dollface.” He caught the coin mid-flip, went to pocket it, and then stopped. The brown-haired man looked at the token and then back to her, no subtle amount of mischief in the expression. “How’s about we make a bet?”
“A bet?”
“I flip my coin. Heads, you have to follow me around and listen nicely, no questions till the end of our tour. Tails, you get my nickel and I’ll answer anything you want.”
“So. . . I can ask my questions now, or later?” This man was the worst gambler she’d ever met.
Wayne thought about it for a moment, and then laughed. “Sounds right. What do you say?”
“Fine, deal.” What did she have to lose?
Wayne flipped the coin and caught it so quickly that Jo barely had time to register the slap of his right palm over the back of his left. He peeled away his fingers dramatically. She squinted at the strange-looking currency, trying to place it.
“Oh, bad luck this time, guess I get to keep my nickel and you just need to listen a spell.”
Jo walked down the stairs to confirm that the coin was, indeed, heads.
“Next up, the briefing room!”
They turned right and started down a long hallway. Unlike the atrium that was filled with light, this hall was shrouded in shadow. Low-lit sconces on the walls were held by ornately carved, golden hands. The marble floor of the atrium had been covered with a runner made of the same material as the curtains. It was as if she was in some high-class, old-world theater.
The “mansion” as Wayne called it, was large, but whoever built it couldn’t decide what aesthetic they wanted it to be.
At the end of the hall, two solid wood doors opened to a room that was much more familiar to Jo. Gone were the detailing and lavish designs. In its place was a floor that looked like obsidian, but must have been some kind of black, polished cement. A round table made of the same material was framed by eight executive-style chairs. They were appropriately made of matching black leather. It was the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a mob boss’s hideaway or CEO’s office.
“We only ever meet here when a wish comes in.”
A wish? The question sat heavy on her tongue. Despite her desire to ask it, however, she found herself frustratingly silent. Jo frowned.
“Snow—you met him before you got here—briefs us on the details of the wish.”
Jo wondered how often that happened, but again found herself unable to ask.
“Back here, this is the Door. Capital ‘D’. It’s the only one here that really matters because it’s the only way outside.”
“The only way outside. . .” she repeated, focusing on the steel door and alphanumeric keypad attached to the lock.
“But we’ll get to all that later,” Wayne said off-handedly, as if it wasn’t the most important thing he’d said so far. “Let’s go back to the Four-Way.”
Jo wanted to ask what he meant by “Four-Way” but she couldn’t seem to formulate her question right. By the time she thought she’d figured it out, they were back in the atrium with the tall windows, and Jo had her answer.
To her left was the stairway they’d come from initially. To her right was another equally opulent stair. Behind her was the “briefing room” and ahead, where Wayne seemed to be leading her now, was yet unknown.
“Up that way are the rec rooms. . . and not much else of importance.” He gestured to the stairs at their right with a nonchalant wave. “We’ll show you those later. You just woke up, after all. I bet you’re thirsty?”
“Yeah, actually, a little.” Jo was fairly certain she had not consumed any caffeine for at least ten hours and was close to death as a result.
Where the last hallway had been shrouded in darkness, this stretch was light. It was wide enough that couches and bookshelves could line the spaces between wide bay windows, creating multiple, small sitting areas. Jo kept her eyes trained on the picturesque scenes beyond the glass.
She certainly wasn’t in Texas anymore.
“Something smells good.” The scent that was growing on the air shot right to her stomach and a growl followed promptly, eliciting a chuckle from Wayne.
“Seems like your stomach’s woken up too. We can find you some food in the kitchen and settle that once and for all.”
“Kitchen” was an understatement.
The room they entered, and presumably the final one on the tour for now, was positively massive. It was a giant rectangle supported by columns on the outside, and ornately carved buttresses that stretched to a steeply pitched roof. Stained glass windows streamed color into the room from between each of the pillars.
There was no wall beyond the columns opposite her; instead, the space opened to a massive patio complete with grills, tables, lounge chairs, and a pool that looked like it hung hundreds of feet above the valley. Fresh air—fresher than any she’d breathed her entire life—wafted in from outside, cool and crisp and painfully unlike the oppressive heat of home.
To her left stood a massive kitchen. A large island with eight stools supported two different sinks with more than enough room to work between them. Behind were two gas stove-tops and three ovens mounted in the wall. There was, however, only one microwave, an appliance Jo was ready to fight for, since her cooking skills had never much graduated beyond instant noodles.
To the right was a sitting area with leather couches, most of which surrounded a television that took up nearly half the wall. Next to that was a large billiards table, its frame catty-cornered to a smaller table decorated in black and white squares. The two were positioned right below one of the stained-glass windows, and the light shining through painted each in delicate splotches of color.
Everything around her was part new, part old—a mix of neoclassical cathedral and billionaire playhouse.
“Billiards?” Wayne said with a note of approval to the other occupant of the room.
“It appears so. Though no word yet on who put in the request. Not that it would matter, anyway. . .” Another all-too-pretty man spoke over his shoulder from where he was working two skillets filled—according to Jo’s nose—with bacon and eggs. He had brown hair as well, but it was a richer hue than Wayne’s and held more red notes. Messy waves straggled down over his ears, into his eyes, and ended at the nape of his neck. He stopped all movement and did a double-take when he saw her. “The new recruit is a woman?”
“I’m just as surprised to be here as you are to see me.” Jo shoved her palms into her jeans and shrugged. “Less surprised about the woman bit, however.”
“Please excuse my shock. . . You’re just the second one in fifty short
years. I had begun to think that all those remaining in the lineages were men only. . . But here you are, proving me wrong, yet again.” His eyes drifted over to Wayne. “And I do hope this foul creature hasn’t been harassing you.” The man turned off the burners and hastily crossed over to her, wiping his hands on a grease- and paint-stained apron before extending one to her. “My name is Niccolo, but everyone just calls me Nico.”
“Josephina, but everyone calls me Jo.” If sunshine were a person, it would be this man. His voice sounded like something she could only describe as melted chocolate and his eyes were much the same color. Jo took his hand and found it to be just as warm, albeit calloused, and his grip a little too strong on her narrow fingers. It was hard to feel uneasy, even despite her situation, in the presence of someone like him. “Where are you from?”
“From?” He paused, going still. A shadow quickly crossed over his face, gone by the time she noticed it. “Oh, the accent. Do I really still have a touch of it?”
“You do,” Jo affirmed. She was used to accents, worked with all sorts. But his was just a little too faint for her to pin down.
“Florence, Italy, originally.” He motioned to one of the stools. “Sit. Are you hungry?”
“She is. Heard her stomach grumbling all the way here.” Wayne answered for her, taking up one of the stools. He patted the one next to him. “Take a seat, doll. The tour’s over.”
Like a dam breaking, questions suddenly flooded from her. “What is this place? How is all this possible? Where am I? How did I get here from the LSR? Who are you people?”
Her hands flew to her mouth, and Jo panted softly. It was like an unnatural shroud of calm had been lifted and the more questions she asked, the more panic returned to her. Had she really been about to sit down and enjoy breakfast with these strange, suspiciously kind people, as though nothing was out of place?
“Wayne, you didn’t.” Nico gave the other man a disapproving look.
“What’s the matter?” Wayne held out his arms. “I had to show her somehow.”
“You know the rules.” Nico sounded like a parent scolding a toddler. But he looked to be at least two or three years younger than Wayne.
“Sometimes, rules are meant to be broken,” Wayne countered.
“Eslar will hear of this,” Nico said ominously, though Jo recalled a man named Snow being referred to as “the boss.”
“All right, Mrs. Grundy.”
“Who’s Mrs. Grundy?” Jo shook her head, dislodging the question. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Just tell me what you want me to do for your ‘society’ and I’ll get on with it.”
“We don’t have any wishes right now, but as soon as one comes in, I’m sure your magic will be very helpful.” Nico walked back over to her from three small plates of food, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He continued before Jo could correct him on the “magic” subject. Then again, someone so clearly insane likely wouldn’t listen to reason. “Foremost, let me apologize for my friend using his on you. He never learned the merits of being a proper gentleman.”
“I am the most proper gentlemen you’ve ever met.” Wayne shook his fist at Nico, but still helped himself to one of the plates.
“I know, it’s a lot to take in all at once. We’ll try to answer your questions, but I’m sure you’ll feel better if you get some food in your stomach. Wishing really takes it out of you, and you’re only freshly transitioned. But don’t worry—those last little necessities of humanity won’t be a bother for much longer.”
A plate appeared in front of her. Scrambled eggs, bacon—a basic breakfast that smelled positively divine when sweetened by hunger. Jo stared at it listlessly. Yeah, she’d had it “taken out of” her alright. She didn’t know if she was alive or dead. Awake or asleep. She felt exhausted and alert all at the same time.
Suddenly everything felt too much. There was that burning feeling right behind her eyes and the one thing she would not do is cry in front of strangers. She had to escape, regroup, and then find her way out.
“I just want to go home,” she pleaded softly.
“This is home now,” Nico replied gently. There was an apologetic note to his voice that only made the overwhelming pressure behind her eyes worse. This was starting to sound a hell of a lot more like a kidnapping.
“I’m not worth anything. I don’t know what you guys want. . . But there’s no money. My family can’t pay for me and my employers won’t.” The memory of being cut off and left to die at the hands of the feds seared hot, putting the hairs on the back of her neck on end—a recollection too real to have been a dream. That, combined with the mention of magic. . . What had she done?
“You are very much worth something,” Nico tried to soothe, cutting through Jo’s thoughts.
“And we’re your family now anyway,” Wayne added. So, her status had just rocketed from kidnapped to being held hostage by a cult. Perfect. Wayne gave her a broad smile, as if she should find the fact pleasing. Jo enjoyed it about as much as a lukewarm cup of coffee.
“I need a minute.” Jo stood, backing away from the bar. “I need. . . just a minute.”
Nico frowned, but he didn’t fight her on the matter and stopped Wayne from doing so with a look. “Of course. Why don’t you go back to your room, settle in. I’ll bring some food in a bit and you can get to know us all one at a time.”
“Right, perfect.” Jo backed away as though retreating from wild animals.
“Would you like one of us to escort—”
“No!” she interrupted Wayne. She’d had enough escorting for one lifetime. “No,” she repeated more softly, gently, trying to pile on notes of sticky-sweet don’t worry, everything is fine, I’m not trying anything funny. “I’ll be fine. You gave me such a good tour. I can find it, pretty simple, up the stairs, to the right.”
“Just so.” Nico beamed and set her plate aside, away from Wayne’s greedy and wandering eyes. “I’ll be there in a little.”
No, you won’t, Jo wanted to correct. She started back down the hallway hastily, breaking out into a run the moment she was far enough away not to be seen by the men in the kitchen. She didn’t want to happen on anyone else and she certainly didn’t want to head back to whatever room she’d woken up in.
There was only one place she wanted to go.
Out.
Chapter 4
Error 404
FINDING HER WAY back to what Wayne had called the briefing room was easy enough.
Its black decor and dim lighting were as dark and shrouded in mystery as before. Regardless, Jo hurried inside, closing the door behind her. When no lock could be found on the massive entry door, she grabbed one of the eight chairs around the table and shoved it roughly, at an awkward angle, beneath the handle. Not much of a barricade, but enough to buy her time. All she needed was long enough to get out.
Which apparently meant going through the Capital-D Door.
An anxiousness she wasn’t used to became fast friends with a determined desperation, one she’d spent many an hour with in the past. The feeling only increased as Jo turned toward the back of the room.
From an analytical perspective, the Door didn’t seem too outlandish, if a bit intimidating with its thick-looking steel frame. The lock, however, was both familiar in its keypad structure, and unfamiliar in coding methodology. The pad was alphanumeric, as she’d noticed before, but with no screen and no discernible locking mechanism. When Jo looked closer, it even appeared to be unused: no wear from the oils of fingerprint residue, no scuffs from pushing the buttons too hard. In fact, despite her familiarity with various decades of technological equipment, she couldn’t even seem to pinpoint when the keypad might have been made.
All of her tricks for figuring out a key code based off of sight alone were thwarted before she even had a chance to start.
Except the more she looked at it, trying desperately to analyze its structure, possible weak points, and unintentional clues left behind by lazy users, the more she started
to see. Each number started to match with an opposing letter like a line drawn in connect-the-dots. The seemingly endless list of “all possible combinations” began to shorten, some options fading away in unimportance. Suddenly, buttons seemed recently pressed where they hadn’t been before, as if she just hadn’t been looking hard enough.
It was like watching a movie in black and white slowly bleed into color, starting at the edges and inching towards the center until the whole screen had been filled. Within moments, the lock seemed almost laughably simple to decode. Jo couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the Society’s inadequacy.
Pulling her sleeve down over her fingers out of habit, Jo carefully plugged in the most recently used code, holding her breath when what she assumed was the last button gave.
For a couple of seconds, nothing happened. Jo’s heart jumped into her throat. But before she had a chance to panic, the keypad blinked three times, and a heavy click, followed by the whoosh of pressurization, echoed in the silence of the briefing room. Jo held her breath, slowly reaching for the simple, curved handle of the door, and pulled.
It opened easily.
Jo wasted no time, as if forcefully drawn across the threshold by an unseen hand.
She started by hurriedly closing the door behind her, letting out an involuntary breath of relief at the sound of it pressurizing and locking automatically. At least they couldn’t be quick on her heels. She wasn’t sure where the Society had taken her, but the green field and clean lake alone meant she was far, far from home. That also meant it would take her some time to find an escape route, make contact with Yuusuke, barter favors for transport from someone in the area. . .
First and foremost, she had to figure out where she was.
The moment Jo turned around and properly managed a look at her surroundings, she knew. Where she expected to be outside in a green pasture—at least in some kind of entry way—Jo found herself in a long hall of doors. It was industrial and dated, and nothing like the other areas of the mansion she’d seen. It shouldn’t be familiar, but it was.
