Chapter 3 #4
The second message contained a link and a jumbled mix of characters that could only be a password.
The site it led to was like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream, packed with nested threads, each containing links and files, information about books that weren’t available in any library, and streets that didn’t seem to exist. The messages here didn’t bother attempting to sound anything but unhinged, for there was no threat of moderation.
Some of them are still here. They never left.
Sure, but those aren’t the ones kidnapping people. Everyone knows someone whose grandmother has a bush you’re not allowed to touch. The ones who can move back and forth are the threat.
Keys change hands. Always have. They don’t like to stay put.
Pretty sure I bought leggings from one a few years ago. Tbf, they were nice leggings.
Silva closed her eyes, dropping her head back.
What are you doing?! These are conspiracy nutjobs.
None of them are going to help you. She kept clicking, digging into the nested threads, feeling a bit more foolish with each one that opened.
Look at this. Stores and auctions. They’re collecting memorabilia! This cannot be serious.
It was silly and foolish and full of individuals who likely believed there was a secondary civilization living inside the planet, but the more she clicked, the clearer the pattern that emerged.
Portals themselves are common enough; they can be anything. But crossing them requires a key. Or permission.
Buried in the crackpot theories and garbled stories were nuggets of information she could use. She was certain of it.
Gates that lock up nothing. Fountains with no bottom. Staircases that don’t lead anywhere. They’re not hard to find, but you must know how to access them.
She went back to the posts she’d scoffed at on first glance, the posts mentioning auctions and shops.
The site was encrypted in such a way that she could not take screenshots, so she fetched one of the pretty little journals she had amassed, bought with good intentions and then never used, forgotten about until she’d purchased another.
Recording each of the shops she found, Silva bit her lip when she came across one with a Bridgeton address.
When she finished, she exited the VPN browser, closing the sketchy site.
She wasn’t foolish enough to exist as anything but a random string of letters and numbers on that dark web platform, but a legitimate business would surely have a legitimate homepage, newsletters and catalogs to which she could subscribe.
And now you have a whole list, she thought, opening her regular browser, no secret login required.
The invitation had arrived nearly a month later, folded into the pages of a used book she didn’t remember purchasing, a slim volume of Elvish poetry that smelled of dust. The card fluttered out when she opened the front cover, cream cardstock smudged in what looked like soot.
Estate liquidation. Private collector. Discretion assured. There was no name, only a date and time, the address listed showing her an empty storefront with boarded-up windows when she looked it up on her phone.
Something had shivered up Silva’s neck, and the flutter beneath her breast shifted insistently.
She knew the smartest thing to do was to throw the card away, put all of this away, forget about the last several years of her life and focus on the life still in front of her.
Start learning to be happy instead of constantly looking back.
Around her, the house shivered in the blowing winter wind.
It was too open, this new community, too exposed to the elements.
Cambric Creek experienced winter, but not like this.
These grey skies felt endless and brittle, and she would waste away here if she didn’t do something.
Whatever you need to do to survive in this world.
Her wedding ring felt heavy on her hand, that tiny shackle of security.
She needed the security, at least for now .
. . but she also needed to do something.
“Are you happy?”
Tannar’s voice had been a whisper behind her ear later that same night, the question making her turn with wide eyes. Something curled in her belly. Guilt, Silva thought. Or perhaps merely panic that she’d missed a line somewhere.
“Of course I am,” she insisted, turning in their bed to face him. Silva of the Daytime, guileless and easy to please. She shifted closer, closing the distance between them, lest he detect the actual width of that chasm. “You never have to worry about that.”
He would have been easy to love, if she were still that same elf she’d been just a few years earlier.
This was all terribly unfair to him, probably, she thought as she turned her face up, waiting for his kiss.
Then again, it wasn’t as if she were the first female of any species in history to marry for security.
She was fairly certain a marriage like theirs would have been the norm just a few generations back.
Her own mother had given her permission for this exact situation.
I know you don’t love him as much as this other man, but can you love him enough?
Enough to build a life you’re happy with?
She could and she would. For as long as she needed to.
When she pulled her husband atop her, there was no hesitation.
Whatever you need to do to survive in this world.
It might have been easy enough to convince herself that this wasn’t what he’d meant, but Silva knew better.
He’d been pragmatic from the start, understood that survival took many forms. He would understand the choices she’d made.
Her dreams that night were a tumult.
In them, she could smell the smoke of a bonfire, heard the sound of music and dancing taking place all around it. Through the haze, she could see him. Tall and strong, reaching out to her . . . before he was swept up in the crowd, disappearing once more.
“Wait!” Her voice was a scream inside her own skull, stumbling over roots and hidden traps in the forest floor, joining the throng.
Silva wasn’t sure when arms came around her, only that one minute she’d been barely upright, and in the next, she was dancing with someone, someone with sharp teeth and snapping jaws.
Long fingers pushed into her hair, drawing her close, a hand closing around her neck .
. . I suspect you will be excellent sport, sweetling.
She woke with a gasp, barely able to hear anything over the roar of blood pounding in her ears, and it took several long moments to realize the thudding heartbeat that crashed against her insides belonged to another.
Beside her, Tannar stirred, but did not awaken. Silva attempted to steady her breathing, her hand dropping instinctively to the bump she didn’t have. It’s alright. We’re alright.
She didn’t have a choice. She needed answers; needed to find him. And she would do whatever it took to make it so.
***
“It’s so wonderful that we can do this,” Tannar’s mother exclaimed, hugging one of the other matriarchs at the door as the group made their collective departure.
As if you’re not going to see them tomorrow for lunch.
And probably the day after that. Her own mother was no stranger to the false niceties of the club, always keeping up expectations, but she and Silva’s grandmother were professional socialites compared to this group, never seeming excessively phony. Not like this.
Her mother-in-law kept her giant, plastic smile in place . . . until Silva stood before her, stretching into what could only be called a grimace.
“We love having you both over,” she insisted, pinning her son’s arms to his sides in her hug. Silva knew her own smile was wan at the mere thought of spending more time with her in-laws. “Especially if I know you’re only going home to eat take-out!”
Silva knew for a certain fact that the quiche on the brunch table had come from an area bakery, having ordered it for her own lunch on more than one occasion, and that made her smile brighten back up.
“There’s nothing at Spring Flour that can compete with your son’s love of noodles,” she said gaily, being sure to name-drop the bakery as she turned an adoring smile up to Tannar, who was already laughing his approval.
“It’s true,” he affirmed, meeting Silva’s lips before pressing a kiss to his mother’s cheek.
It wasn’t important to win against his mother.
This wasn’t a battle she was in for the long haul, and she knew she was only making things more difficult for herself by poking .
. . but she had been raised with standards, and she couldn’t abide amateurs.
Tannar kissed her again on the sidewalk as they turned to their separate cars parked on the street.
“Careful in the city. I’ll see you at home.”
“Love you,” she replied, beating him to the endearment. Silva waved to his mother as she pulled her car door open, exhaling once she was alone. “It’s go time,” she whispered. She had a key to acquire, and no one was going to stop her, quiche or no quiche.
The storefront was anonymous; the sort of place she would have passed a hundred times without seeing.
She’d parked a bit down the street, not wanting to draw attention to herself directly in front of the seemingly abandoned building, relieved that she didn’t need to be constrained by meters on the weekend.
Cities were always full of humans, and this one was no exception.
She’d worn her long wool coat, a spring green color that gave hope to the end of the snow eventually, and a fur wrap around her head to protect her ears from the biting cold.
It did that, and it also hid their length.
Her hands were concealed in leather gloves, and if she kept her head down, none of the few passersby on the sidewalk would notice she was an elf.
Good, she thought, hurrying up the block to her destination. It’s safer that way.