As usual, I had plenty of options for research, but no firm leads. While there were other avenues, what most interested me were Mithae and portals, black market ops (and maybe seeing if I could locate that Theodore guy), or Appalachian folklore.
I wanted to look into the words I’d picked up from Drake’s lab, but if anyone with an ounce of suspicion towards me were to look through my search records, they’d clock that I’d developed a brand new interest in obscure mithecal terms after a meeting with our department’s most prominent mithecist.
I had similar paper trail problems with black market ops information. While it was unlikely to be a topic I could look up in my own home, if anyone found out here it would raise… questions. To begin with, I had no evidence that it was connected to my actual case. And if more of the truth came out, I’d have to justify not reporting a crime.
Besides, there was an inherent danger with both options: if Dr. Martins (or Ffloyd, as he preferred to be called) saw my research materials, it was inevitable that he’d mention it to someone else, and by the end of the day it’d get back to some stuffy board member who’d try and write me up for not doing my job. Or worse, it’d get back to Stanton, and he wouldn’t be mad, he’d be worried.
Ffloyd wasn’t a bad guy by any means, but he was cantankerous, had an excellent memory, and the attitude that confidentiality didn’t apply during his shift—aren’t we all coworkers, compatriots? And for a deaf guy he sure was good at eavesdropping.
I’d never say so out loud, but he intimidated me.
Appalachian folklore it was.
The Research sector was in the middle of the CENCA base, with its materials and devices and assistants spread across three floors (the top two floors of that section were dedicated to Corporate). They had also started invading the Basement, but that was more related to practical applications, and so sanctioned by the scientists and mithecists. Research’s heart was on the second floor, with a central desk that loomed like a military command center over the large, open, ballroom-gallery-assembly hall type room, complete with a wide staircase on either end and a balcony circling its upper reaches. Or, well, it would have been open if it hadn’t been filled with a maze of bookshelves. It had been laid out by what I could only assume was a whimsical geometrician—the shelves formed themselves into little rooms and nooks and crannies in a sprawling pattern of varying shapes. The question had been brought up before about changing its organization for better efficiency, but that hadn’t gone anywhere. In the first place, it was difficult to rearrange since the shelves were bolted into the floor. And there was something of an urban legend about how moving the shelves would create some kind of disaster in the building, because the base itself liked how it was organized.
Personally, I didn’t know if said disaster would be the months of chaos that remodeling would take, or if there was some truth to the building being semi-sentient. It wasn’t an unheard of occurrence, as the Guesthouse proved, but, for being a bunch of employees in an organization made to deal with extra-normal phenomenon, CENCA folk could be a superstitious lot. Whether that was a sign of wisdom or paranoia varied widely on a case-by-case basis.
Standing at the top of the grand, wide staircase leading down into the main sector, I could see over the tops of the patterned shelves like a king surveying the rooftops of a distant town. It was an impressive sight, and delightful if you were someone who grew up in libraries. Beyond the expanse of shelves and ladders and the backs of colored tomes, there were corridors and rooms further inside the building, trailing expansions of the lobby, with each room dedicated to the most-used books on more niche topics. Somewhere in there stood an entire room dedicated to a single encyclopedia collection on the variety of lizards across Mithaedrir—the updated edition that came out last year had almost changed that to two rooms. There was an overflowing wealth of material on anything and everything related to the extra-normal, from our dimension and countless others, a treasure trove of knowledge stored and collected for over a century. If you were an agent coming in for research, it was comforting to know that there had to be something helpful in there—but it did give you pause to wonder if you’d be able to find it.
Usually on my Research visits I preferred to keep to myself, for reasons beyond Ffloyd, but all this concern about paper trails made me decide to leave one more deliberately. Without acting too out of character, it could be good to show that I was, in fact, diligently working on my own case. Just in case anybody checked.
Swallowing my sudden spike of anxiety, I approached the central counter; to both my relief and consternation, Ffloyd wasn’t there—just Moira, as composed as ever in a purple, satiny button-up blouse-thing. It was a relief, because I never knew how to talk to Ffloyd and not come out highly confused; it caused consternation, because I didn’t know how to talk to her, either. Plus, as mentioned, Ffloyd had an excellent memory and knew this place like the back of his long-fingered hands, and Moira had only been hired on recently.
“Hello,” I said, stepping to the counter and awkwardly waving to catch her attention.
She looked up from a large book sprawled out behind the counter and, to my surprise, gave a large, genuine-seeming smile. “Oh, hey Ms. Townford, how can I help you?”
“Oh, um, you can call me Jeanne,” I replied. I couldn’t tell her that Ms. Townford was my sister, and I was not her.
“Well, okay then,” Moira said, making her way toward me, “how can I help you, Jeanne?”
Mentally I fumbled for my script. “Yes, um, I am trying to figure out some leads on my case—you know, with Talsic—and I’m trying to start by looking up any potential references to silveries, but also take into account the possibility of related extra-normals that aren’t similarly named, if that makes sense. Right now I sort of have a lead—well, honestly more of a hunch—but could you direct me to the folklore section? Specifically the Appalachian folklore section? If we have one, that is, since, y’know, we’re in Canada.”
Not exactly how I had imagined it coming out of my mouth, but close enough.
Moira hummed contemplatively. “I can point you in the right direction, but do you have any more concrete requests? Like any books in particular? It could take a while to comb through a whole section.”
“Um….” Should I ask for books on the moon-eyed people? But that wasn’t a solid lead, exactly, so I didn’t want to over-emphasize it. “I guess if you have any general indexes or encyclopedias related to the topic, I can look up specifics from there?”
It was still going to take ages to comb through, but that could at least give me some context for future searches. And maybe for some conversations with Talsic.
“Sure, that works.” Moira moved over to a large, clunky computer that looked like it hadn’t been updated since fossilized dinosaurs were fresh meat. “I don’t suppose you need any referrals for mithecal plants, do you?”
I hesitated. I hadn’t even thought of that angle. For a second, I considered it, then dismissed it as soon as I came to my senses and remembered to focus on what I actually knew. There were no plants (currently) involved in this case. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”
Moira shrugged, clacking away at a keyboard the color of aged sand. “Flora is more my specialty than fauna, so it’d be easier to recommend something. Perhaps unsurprisingly, flora doesn’t come up that often with field agents, unless it’s like, I don’t know, poison or something.”
“Ah. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Eh, the mithecists help keep me busy.”
If plants were involved—but I knew I was grasping at straws. “Is that how you made friends with Drake?” I said, without thinking.
She tilted her head at me curiously. “Yes. Has he mentioned me to you?”
I hoped the heat rising to my face wasn’t too obvious. I wasn’t sure I could say “oh, no, I just watch you guys when you don’t notice I’m there” without sounding like either a creep or a loser. But observing people was a large part of my job, so it wasn’t that weird, right?
Instead of trying to explain myself, I grasped at something more convenient. “Oh, um, yeah, actually. See, I got a few kittens recently, and he said you know stuff about them.”
Her face lit up like I’d just told her she’d won a lifetime supply of her favorite coffee. “Wait, really? How many? Do you have pictures?”
“Uh…” I looked down at my phone. The only things I ever took pictures of were evidence, really. “Three, but no pictures. They were in a box so I took them in.”
“Awww,” she said, loudly, as if I had showed her a picture, anyway. “What are their names?”
“Their… names?” I looked back at my phone, as if that could somehow help me out of this. “I… uh…” ‘The Mottled Black, White, and Brown One’ and ‘The Green Eyed One’ probably weren’t going to be accepted as viable names. “I didn’t… think of that.”
“You didn’t name them?” Moira gasped in what I hoped was mock horror, leaning over the counter and continuing in a louder voice than I was used to. “AND no pictures? Are you sure you’re really cut out to be a cat owner?”
I must have looked like a threatened owl, because she drew back and laughed apologetically, clicking manicured nails on the wooden top. “Sorry, sorry, I was joking. Didn’t mean to startle you. I can get a little loud, too, when I get excited, which you probably weren’t ready for.”
“Oh,” I said, mustering a grin and a little honesty. No use in souring another coworker relationship—even if the sudden loudness was still rattling uncomfortably in my nerves. “That’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Since I don’t know you yet, I’m still figuring out what’s a joke and what’s serious, and that can take a while since I don’t have a lot of friends for context.”
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I guess that makes sense.”
The computer whirred like it was gasping for its last breath. We both directed our interest at different patches of floor, letting the machine’s symphony play out in silence.
That had definitely been too much honesty. I cleared my throat. “But, um, you are kind of right. I’ve never had a pet before, so I’m still figuring this all out. I do like the kittens, though. They’re very cute.”
Moira’s shoulders relaxed, and she left off her carpet studies to look at me again. “I know, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kitten that wasn’t adorable. Oh, but sorry, I got distracted. I still need to print off the list of potential books to search through, listed very roughly in order of relevance.” She deftly clacked a few more keys. “You’ll have to tell me more about the kittens later! Let me know if they get names.”
One interpersonal crisis after another. For my own sanity, I was going to ignore my part in this conversation, but I was still going to have to figure out how to avoid taking pictures without being weird about it. I didn’t want the clear, consistent lack of a third kitten to raise suspicion. Maybe I should just get a third kitten? No, that would mess up the deprehender data. “Could you, um, maybe recommend some books for taking care of pets?” I asked, partially to avoid awkward silences and partially because I did, in fact, need help. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I probably should. For their sakes.”
The printer, a beast that looked even older than the computer, coughed and whizzed its way to consciousness.
“Well, I don’t know if any of the manuals on extra-normals could really help,” Moira replied with a chuckle, “but I can hook you up with something. It might be more online stuff, though, since that can be an easier and quicker way to consistently get updated information.” Her voice sounded more measured, more at ease, but I could see the quick, side-ways glances she was throwing me.
“Right, yeah. I guess I was just thinking books because, you know.” I waved a hand at the surroundings.
“Makes sense. Between you and me, I think this place has a similar effect on Ffloyd, too.” She turned to collect the papers from the printer’s maw. “Either that or he’s just… old fashioned. He is pretty handy with the data systems in the computer, but I’m not entirely sure that he even knows the internet exists.”
I chuckled obligingly. Taking the papers, I examined the list of books and resources and their shelving information. The first one caught my eye immediately: Folklore Across Dimensions.
Bless you, Moira Bentley, I thought to myself.
She must have seen me staring at the top of the page. “It’s because my dad’s English,” she offered, absently twirling a lock of hair around her finger.
“Pardon?” I looked up. Did the English have a particular affinity for… American folklore?
“My name. That’s why it’s not an ‘authentic’ Indian name.” She put heavy air-quotes around “authentic.”
“Ah,” I said, still not understanding. Looking down at the paper, I realized that, right above the titles, there was information across the top about the researcher that helped me—Moira Bentley. “Ah,” I said again, with more assurance. “That makes sense, thanks.”
With a shock, it occurred to me that Moira’s sudden awkwardness might be because she was as insecure about talking to me as I was to her.
Pieces suddenly clicked into place. At my house, she’d been professional and direct, and here, surprised in her own workspace, she’d ended up informal and even nervous. I wasn’t much older than her, probably, but I knew I had what people had been known to call a “severe” face, which made me look older; and I didn’t use make-up, which apparently made me look older still. And I was Stanton’s partner, who was technically a board member—but it was unlikely that she knew it was more to babysit me than a gesture of high confidence.
This new thought that she could have viewed me as an experienced ‘senior’— to the point of intimidation—almost made me take a chair. Surely the fiasco that she herself had helped document would have shown her otherwise? And surely she knew the rumors about me?
Or maybe she was intimidated because I was a wild card and could be dangerous, and part of my work involved high-grade weapons.
It also hit me, simultaneously, that her faint accent wasn’t Indian. It was British. I, like an idiot, had just assumed otherwise.
My only consolation was that I had never said anything about it to her, but I still wanted to disappear into a puddle all the same.
“All these titles look great,” I said, smiling more sincerely. “I think this will be very helpful. And if I have any questions about plants, I’ll know who to call.” I tipped her a mock salute and instantly regretted it as being too over the top.
Moira didn’t seem to mind. She smiled back. “I’m glad! Let me know when you name the kittens.”
“Alright,” I said, and, after a moment of deliberation, unsure of what else to add to the conversation, I turned and walked away,
Even as I made my way into the labyrinthine depths of the archives, I was still turning over the interaction in my head. It was under very different circumstances and for very different reasons, but that sudden impulse to explain herself before I had a chance to ask—that was familiar. Was I reading too much into it? Almost certainly. But still, my mind flashed back to being a young officer, when I looked like a child and was only half as cynical as I was now. I had done a lot of explaining back then: I was old enough to be here, I did know how to use my weapons kit, I was a full officer and not a cadet, and yes, I was an orphan, and yes, I knew the job was dangerous, and yes, I was here on purpose, and no, I wasn’t going to leave if I got scared—I was a person to be talked to and not just wondered at. We were both of us young girls feeling out of place, awkward, painfully aware, trying to cut to the chase and get the questions over with.
I just hoped, for her sake, she wouldn’t turn out like me. Maybe then she could grow out of that and into herself, and not be stuck feeling like a lost child forever. I had stopped explaining because I didn’t think anyone cared to listen—maybe she could stop explaining because she felt confident enough not to care if anyone listened.
But that was all for another time. It wasn’t like I could do anything for her, either, besides being a very comprehensive demonstration of how not to behave.
With a sigh, I put these cheery contemplations behind me and traced the numbers on the nearest doorframe. A few passages down, I found the door to the folklore section for the southern United States, verified the numbers on the frame against the ones on my paper, and pushed my way into the smell of old paper and dust. A nice smell—comforting, familiar, nostalgic. A feeling more like home than my sister’s house had ever been.
It was time to see if there were any needles in this barnful of hay I was wading in to.
Disappointingly, Folklore Across Dimensions was just about folklore theory, about how folklore was formed and how multiple dimensions affected that, and what that could tell us about human consciousness and the innate desire to tell stories. Also that many dimensions had similar extra-normals, but that was somewhat beside the point.
It was the kind of book I would have been fascinated by when I first started as a CENCA agent, or when I’d been a teen. The thought made me wistful; so even though it didn’t seem like to be a treasure trove of case-relevant information, I decided to keep it with me. After all, sometimes understanding background ideas could help you understand the larger picture—and who knew? maybe I’d have some time to read for fun.
There was a small table in the book-lined room, so I set down my papers and my notebook there, and Folklore Across Dimensions, and got to work selecting other candidates for the information I needed.
There were a lot of generalized books, too broad in scope to be helpful since that meant it’d take hours to find what I was looking for. But finally I was able to track down three relevant encyclopedias of American monsters, extra-normals, and folktales. One was a book the size of a cinder-block, the other was even bigger and filled with a mix of photographs and illustrations, and the other was a multi-volume affair grandly titled “The Complete and Conclusive Guide to American Extra-Normals.” It had two whole volumes on the Appalachias.
When I found the shelf, though, a volume was missing. I chewed my lip. I wasn’t sure if it was one I needed, but it did have the ‘M’ section, which meant I couldn’t double-check the “moon-eyed-people” entry.
It was curious. Many of these books weren’t allowed to leave the building, and encyclopedias were high on that list of restrictions. So that meant either someone else was using the book (marking one astounding coincidence), or it had been misshelved. Or stolen, the paranoid part of me whispered, but I figured I’d focus on the misshelving issue, first. And, well, the Research sector was so meticulously over-organized that half the books could easily fit in at least five other different sections, so if someone had elected to re-shelve this one volume themselves without the supervision of one of the librarians, then it wasn’t unreasonable to assume mistakes had been made.
Fortunately, I had a lot of experience with libraries and esoterically arranged book-mazes, so I should probably be able to track it down, myself. And re-shelve it correctly, too.
Hypothetically.
Since the volume I was looking for wasn’t in the clearly marked section on folklore in the American South, that left me with a few options: other sections dedicated to oddly specific encyclopedias, general folklore compendiums, international folklore, and a few other odds and ends that had less to do with folklore and more to do dictionaries, encyclopedias, bestiaries, and fiction. Part of me resented that I might waste an hour or so on this, and part of me was glad to have a more low-stakes task to work on—in a library, no less.
I didn’t waste an hour, though. It took me about 15 minutes to find it in sitting area adjacent to a section for cross-referencing popular fiction portrayals of global extra-normals with extra-normals we had established records of. Furthermore, it was shoved into the very back of an old-fashioned, roll-top desk. Under normal circumstances, the fact that it was in both a sitting room and a desk implied that the book was in use; however, there was a thin layer of dust across the cover, and its position indicated it’d lain forgotten for ages.
Blowing some of the dust off, I examined it. It was a thinner book than I’d expected (which, in terms of encyclopedia volumes doesn’t mean much), and the dust jacket was creased and worn—in rougher condition than its brethren. And there were bookmarks in it.
Related to my case or not, I felt my metaphorical ears perk up. Now why would a random encyclopedia volume, on a random subset of American folklore, be chosen out of its lineup for enough special attention to noticeably wear it down? Had there been a case similar to my own in the past? That idea startled of a flicker of something like hope into my lungs. If a comparable case to Talsic’s had happened before, there’d be other experiences I could study and so increase my odds of success.
Pleased, I examined the volume as I walked out the door, back into the corridor—and straight into Dr. Holley Laurent.
With a Herculean effort towards self-control, I did not jump out of my skin.
“Hello,” I said politely, in lieu of an expletive and “what are you doing here?” Or visibly choking on the sudden overwhelming, heady smell of vanilla and jasmine that moved with her.
She sniffed, somehow managing to look down her nose at me despite being inches shorter than I was. “Be careful where you walk, okay?”
It was almost impressive how she managed to sound miffed, patronizing, and stiflingly polite all at the same time.
“Sorry about that,” I replied automatically, breathing lightly.
I lowered the book, letting it hang loosely by my side, and waited for her to keep walking past the door. Instead, she stood in the doorway, looking at me pointedly.
Apparently she was coming in here. Odd. It’s not like the Research Sector held a reading club. Still, I stepped aside and didn’t curtsy dramatically at her as she passed by with the air of a courtier ignoring a peasant. Obstruction cleared, I went to leave, but then her voice stopped me.
“Hmmm. You seem to be alright.”
I turned back, raising an eyebrow. “Thank you?” I said, unsure, a flush creeping up my neck.
“Why did you set up an appointment with me?” She said, like she were an attorney launching her final cross-examination.
I thought I’d put the reason in the sign-up form. Yet another piece of evidence that no one bothers to read the endless paperwork they make us submit. “Oh, right. I need to get a check-up before I go on to Dr. Baker. One of the policies.”
It had something to do with making sure to have a full physical and psychiatric evaluation to cover all CENCA’s bases; that way if something else happened after this, they could avoid giving me any kind of worker’s comp by insisting they’d already done their due diligence. Not that they said it like that, but if you’ve worked in one corporation, you’ve worked in them all.
Dr. Laurent pursed her lips. “They finally sent you to Dr. Baker, eh?”
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to make a joke for me or at me. Probably at me, the way she was eyeing me. “Yeah, I guess they did.”
“There are always so many convenient excuses for messing up, these days,” she said dismissively, and looked down at the book I was carrying.
Adrenaline spiked in my chest, and I clasped the book tightly in both hands to keep them from visibly shaking. “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said sweetly, before I could say something safer and get back to my job.
If she’d been directly disparaging, if she’d said to my face that she thought I’d made enough mistakes to be fired without a second chance, I think I could have taken it better. But something about her roundabout slap in the face set my teeth on edge.
She raised one make-up covered eyebrow at me, flicking her eyes back to my face. “Well, you know. All this fuss, and the hoops everyone jumps through with these new policies. It used to be that people just… had consequences for their actions. None of this coddling, or therapy-speak, making up all these so-called psychological problems.”
I raised my own eyebrows, her mock-reasonable tone grinding against my skin.
“I do believe therapy is real,” she amended superciliously, more as an opportunity to keep talking than because she regretted her words, “but the way everyone jumps to it so quickly? Back in my day, we used to just deal with our problems, you know? Unless it was actually serious. Now there’s an excuse for everything.” She looked pointedly at me and smiled without it reaching her eyes.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I replied with feigned innocence. “Do you think the Board is making mistakes with their employees? Or do you think that agents shouldn’t get health check-ups?”
Pursing her lips again, she raked her eyes up and down me, and lingered longer on my book. I resisted the temptation to hide it behind my back, hand it to her, or smack her with it.
“But is your health really at risk?” She replied, seamlessly blending confusion and condescension.
“I don’t know,” I shot back. “That’s probably why I’m seeing a doctor.”
She snorted. “Of course. Either way, I’m surprised to see you in here, instead of doing your job.”
As opposed to you, I thought. Did she think all I did was shoot weapons all day? “I am doing my job,” I replied evenly. “I’m researching for a case. So that when I get on the field I can hopefully stay safe—wouldn’t want to need any unnecessary time off to take care of my health.” That last bit hadn’t been strictly necessary. “And you? Are you here for some recreational reading?”
Rolling her eyes, Dr. Laurent turned back towards the rest of the room. “Agents aren’t the only researchers around here, you know. Anyway, nice of you to chat before our appointment.”
“A pleasure,” I replied, hoping I wasn’t too obviously clenching my teeth, and slipped back out into the corridor; my pulse echoed in my head like I’d just stepped away from pitched combat. As tempting as it was to double down and ask what medical condition our resident doctor was researching in the fiction-to-reality cross-reference section, I controlled myself.
Maybe there was some actual reason. Maybe there wasn’t. Did it matter? I’d already picked more of a fight than I’d meant to.
Tomorrow morning was not going to be very fun.
The flush of anger still clung to my neck. Moira had been nice, Drake had been oblivious, Stanton had been supportive—somehow I’d forgotten the more public consensus of my work performance. Having the reminder delivered to me via double-faced, sugary indirectness was just the rotten finishing touch I needed.
I quickened my pace. The sooner I got back to my work, the better, for many reasons, even though what I really wanted to do was go to the gun range and let off some steam.
But I stayed the course. I could do that later. I probably should do that later. I had been so preoccupied with cases that I was almost afraid to look into the state of weapons storage and requisitions. Despite that thought taunting me, it wasn’t long before I had a neat and tidy stack of books to sort through. Settling into the unstable folding chair, I flipped through one of the smaller ones first, breathing in the smell of paper and willing myself to relax.
The rustling of the pages as I skimmed was a comforting sound, even as I snatched at an unhelpful cascade of names.
Brown mountain lights—catterpines—festons—Greenbriar Ghost—
I got all the way past the wampus cat, but no luck. Nothing sounded like what I was looking for, though there did seem to be a lot of interesting stories. I’d found the moon-eyed people, but no new information.
Another book that I had picked off the shelf of a nearby room was more focused, and contained known instances of animals who could either open portals on their own, or slip through dimensional barriers in ways still not understood. It was a rather slim volume. I already knew about some of the entries, like vaenons (I had seen one from a distance back at the main headquarters), but I was hoping for, I don’t know, something short and rocky-looking with glowy eyes.
Dragons were in there, but I knew about them, too. I flipped past records and drawings under more names—furtives—pikurs—ridgexi. As I turned another page, I caught a glimpse of a word beginning with “Sil—” and I held my breath. But a moment later, I saw the full word—”Silvanors”—and a sketchy drawing of something that looked like a cross between a tree, a gnome, and a squirrel, and let that breath out in a sigh. And that was the only name in that index that you could say was similar to “silveries.” Nothing for moon-eyed people, either.
Still, I set the book to one side for a closer look later. My current goal was to find any mention of silveries themselves, but a record of dimensional barrier manipulators was also likely to turn up something relevant. After all, unless Talsic had been skillfully and blatantly lying to my face, someone else had been the instigator for his trip. So, if he wasn’t listed in there, maybe the real perpetrator would be.
Also, it suited my own agenda of helping Cal; I wanted to take a more in-depth look at the section on dragons. It might offer some clues. Hunting down fuller texts on the subject of dragons and dimensional travel might also offer clues, but a) it could be seen as suspicious at the moment, and b) I didn’t want to run into Dr. Laurent again.
Then I turned to the dusty volume I’d rescued from the depths of misplacement, and decided I’d look at the bookmarks first, then the entry for the moon-eyed people, then illustrations and keywords in the index at the back of the book. But as I opened it, the book decided on its own destination, falling naturally to the middle, towards the S listings—falling like it had been opened there many times before. The top of the page it said something about a “Scattle,” which I only glanced at; a few pages beyond that crease hid the bookmark.
Carefully flipping pages that felt more delicate with each expectant heartbeat, I found a weathered piece of expensive-looking paper, wedged as close to the spine as it could go, inked handwriting sprawled across it.
“Entries to suggest later: foxlight.
It’s a strange sounding creature. I’ll need more information, but here’s what I got from Bradyr:—“
I stopped. The note felt unnaturally thick and textured against the fine, thin paper of the encyclopedia.
It felt risky to open up the picture here, in CENCA’s heart, but I had to confirm. Pulling out my phone, zooming in on the picture of the scrap of paper—which looked like it might come from the same stationery set as the note in the encyclopedia—I found what I feared. It was the same spelling.
Worse, it was the same penmanship.
Now, I was no expert on handwriting, so I could be entirely mistaken, but there were tiny little flourishes around the uppercase “B” in Bradyr, present on both papers, and the bottom loops of the lowercase “Y’s” had a similar, tight roundness.
I scanned the rest of the kind of small paper, and found, at the bottom: “My current source is primarily Theodore Bradyr, but I may be able to establish contact (and corroboration) with other Wardens, or even get some hands-on data of my own.“
I leaned back in my chair, pushing my arms stiff against the table, as though distance might help my perspective.
This hidden note had possibly the same stationery, possibly the same handwriting, and definitely the same, unsearchable name. That suggested a) that Theodore Bradyr was a real person, who was either incredibly well hidden, had changed his name, or was not from this dimension; b) the intruder or someone connected to them had access to CENCA’s Research sector and archives; and c) it looked like there had been some kind of off-the-books research going on.
I took a picture of the note, the pages it had been stuck between, and the pages that the book had opened to on its own. Then, as before, I sent the evidence to my personal, private email, deleted the pictures (and the picture of the piece recovered from the home invasion), and then wiped the “trash” folder on my phone.
Part of me felt like I could be acting a bit too paranoid. The rest of me questioned if I was being paranoid enough. After all, this might not confirm it, but it was strong evidence that someone in CENCA was connected to the attack on my home.
But surely that couldn’t be true? This was just a coincidence, nothing more than black market raiders stealing heavily encrypted and guarded data from a government building. And a random scrap of physical paper with a random name.
Since I wasn’t at my desk, I resisted the urge to sink my head against the table, settling for propping my head against my thumb and forefinger with the rest of my clenched fingers resting against my cheek.
Who was I kidding? Ocra’s razor or whatever the name was. Simplest explanation probably the most likely.
Once again, I remembered the figure going down to the Gates. Drake refusing to talk about the Gates. The details that didn’t line up in the Gates’ logs. Talsic randomly appearing relatively near the CENCA base.
Something was going on.
I rifled quickly through the index, and found no mention of silveries, and nothing new about moon-eyed-people. Bless the Appalachian contingent—they had done their job well. Having done that quick search, I carefully slid the handwritten note back into the book, and pushed it under the stack of other books; to a passerby it would look as if I hadn’t got to it yet. Should I put it back in the desk? Dr. Laurent had seen me, so there was a risk that the people involved already knew that I knew about their game. But who would she tell, and who would be asking? If she ratted me out about the book, that would, in itself, be evidence. Someone was monitoring the book, someone could get information out of Dr. Laurent, etc.
And there was something else I could do to further confirm my suspicions. It was a risk, but at this point I needed more information than I needed to stay… I don’t know. Unobserved? Besides, if, worst case scenario, something did happen to me, it might not be a bad idea to leave a trail to let Stanton know I had been on to something, and I hadn’t just randomly disappeared.
Not that I was planning on disappearing, randomly or otherwise, but realistically there was only so much I could do about that.
I went back over the information on the foxlight, or at least what had been on the paper. Fox-shaped and sized, for the most part, had no eyes, had a glowy flower thing to attract prey, a horn, and cooperated with other extra-normals for hunting.
Leaving my room behind, I headed back to where Moira manned the Research station and asked if she could do a search on an extra-normal called a foxlight, and if she could dig up any information about someone named Theodore Bradyr.
“Hmmmm.” She typed away, frowning through her glasses. “I can get you information on the foxlights, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in the Research sector about Theodore Bradyr. Where did you say you found the name?”
“Oh, there was a brief mention of him in one of the books I was looking through,” I said, waving my hand around vaguely. “I thought I should double check, see if he’d, I don’t know, written a book on folklore or something.”
Moira shook her head apologetically. “Not that I can find. I could do a more in-depth search, if you’d like, go through all the Archives and data storage, but it might take a few days to get the full package—especially since not everything here is digitized.”
I chewed my lip. That could potentially get Moira involved in… whatever this was, and there was a decent chance that there’d be no information to find, anyway.
“No, that’s okay,” I replied. “Just thought I’d check. You know, cover my bases.”
She nodded. A few minutes later, she printed off some papers, and I went back to my table with a handful of completely unrelated phenomena. Sure, there were lots of fox-like things and glowy things, but nothing like had been on the note. Lots of glowing plants, though. I didn’t know if that was important—the note had mentioned a glowing flower—but I might as well file that thought away for later use, if for no other reason than it’d give me a topic to discuss with Moira.
Now, where did that leave me?
I’d found a definite thread of something to follow—but did it have anything to do with Talsic? Or Cal?
Hmmm. Maybe I should ask Talsic about that Warden mention, see if he knew about what I’d found. And maybe there was more information in these books.
Ultimately, I decided it’d be best to keep combing through the books I’d gathered, then return the encyclopedia volume to the desk I’d found it in, and then go home and work on my special case (code name: What’s Going On?) in safety and privacy and beyond the reach of potential unfriendly eyes. And then hopefully, with all of that done, I’d have a better clue of how to proceed by the time I went to talk to Stanton.
Rats, I’d forgot about that. What would I even say to him? Should I tell him all of this? A part of this? He should at least know that someone in CENCA might be compromised, if he didn’t already. And if he did know, that could bring up a whole other host of problems.
I took a deep breath and told myself to worry about that later. For now, I had work to do.
Nothing else turned up.
There was lots of interesting information on folklore and extra-normals, but nothing relevant to either the Bradyr mystery, the person in CENCA, Talsic’s situation, or Cal’s mess. I could feel myself progressively losing more and more of my sanity as I poked into book after book after book with no success.
The note, the foxlight, the intruder, what I was going to say to Stanton, my unpleasant brush with Dr. Laurent—it all scratched at the corners of my mind, making me zone out every few minutes into a loop of unproductive thinking that stretched the rest of my day out into an eternity.
When the time ticked down clocking-out hours, I jumped up, grabbed the encyclopedia, and sped back to the room I’d found it in. Of course, I double-checked that Dr. Laurent wasn’t in there, and she wasn’t. So far so good.
As I came out, though, movement caught my eye. Stanton was coming out of a different room further down the passage.
For an instant I froze. Part of me wanted to go up and say hi, dump everything I’d been dealing with on him, and hope that he’d give a clear, concise, and miraculous answer that would make all of this make sense.
Instead, I spun on my heel as his head started to turn towards me, and I half-walked, half-marched back the way I’d come. Behind me, I heard an inhale of breath, and a slight vocalization before I turned the corner. He must have cut himself off when it became clear I wasn’t going to hear him.
Out of sight, I winced, feeling like I’d snubbed him and hoping he wouldn’t ask me about it tomorrow, wouldn’t wonder why I hadn’t seen him. Pros of having a consistent work partner: they know how you work. Cons of having a consistent work partner: they know how you work. And since Stanton knew I had much higher situational awareness than he did, he might question what had been up with me that I’d missed a whole entire person in the corridor.
I’d have to work on a better reply than: “I was avoiding you because I didn’t know how to talk to you because I’m under a lot of stress right now and I’m kind of afraid CENCA might be doing something shady.” At least until I had better context for… everything.
Sorry, Stanton, I thought in his general direction, and went to pick up the books I wanted to (and could) check out from Research.
I made it out of Research, to my office, and out of the building without any further incidents. No one spontaneously decided to talk to me, and no one pulled me aside to ask how I’d found the name of “Theodore Bradyr,” or demanded to look through my phone for incriminating evidence, or cross-examined me about what I thought was going on with the Gates. The only strange thing was the Deprehender on my desk, with a sticky note from Drake reminding me what it was, and a small packet of information on how to turn it on and otherwise use it.
When I made it to my car (and set the heavy device in my back seat), I took a long breath of winter air and felt my shoulders loosen. I was out, I could regroup, I could talk to Talsic and maybe have some support, and I had a kitchen where I could make my own tea, and a house with a comfortable couch and bed to relax on, and two kittens and a dragon to maybe cuddle with. I was safe for the day.
So, naturally, that’s when my phone rang. And it looked like the call was from my sister. It was her first attempt at contact since I’d sent her my new phone number. This had to be a good sign, right?
Taking another bracing breath of cold air, I slid into the driver’s seat and accepted the call.
To be continued…
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