As armed figures rushed into the room, Maine was willing to admit that though the day hadn’t gone completely according to plan, it wasn’t beyond disaster. True, the Sand Trap had turned out to be dud, and Matthew was still in charge of the Factory, but this, she realized, as she and the others were forced up against the wall, this had possibility.
There were nearly a dozen of them, holding guns and weapons, yelling as they rushed about. The staff panicked, scattering and running for the doors. The artifacts labeled and laid out on the floor with such care were either trampled or kicked aside in the chaos. She could hear Uncle Paicus yell something, lost in the sudden mob, and then her brother shouted in answer. The rude man, Trimble, was frozen, hands in the air, before being swamped by people. The other man Tooland, stammered in fright and then fainted dead away, collapsing on the floor. Maine was justled as someone knocked her aside and she almost went sprawling, but a hand shot out and grabbed her, pulling her close. She found herself shoved up against a table, her Uncle standing protectively in front of her.
“What’s going on?” she said, trying to see.
“Get back!” her Uncle barked, pushing people back from her. “Matthew!”
“I’m here!” Her brother forced himself through the press and Paicus grabbed him as well.
“What’s going on?” she asked again. “I can’t see!” Her Uncle laid a firm hand on her shoulder but she forced her head out under his arm, peaking out.
The armed group was forcing the staff up against the wall, yelling and holding them at gunpoint. They were a pretty motley bunch; some wore ill-fitting Maierson uniforms and carried old, aged guns while others were dressed in ragged street clothing, carrying ugly looking clubs and hatchets. They all wore masks however, cut from ragged cloth, and as she looked around the room, she realized one more thing, they were all Elders. She saw Goblins, Half-men, Elves, Halflings, and more. Were they all from Old Coney? Was this an Elder gang? She could feel her excitement quicken. Her friend, Mudd, had told her about gangs of Goblins and Elf toughs who fought over the streets and alleys of Gravesend but he’d never hinted about a group this size before.
Who were they? Where were they from? A million questions crowded Maine’s mind and before she could stop herself, before the thought of safety even crossed her mind, she ducked out from under her Uncle’s arm and ran towards the meanest one she could find, a swarthy, muscular-looking Halfling with a full-sleeve of tattoos down one arm. He was yelling towards the staff, herding them towards the wall, when she popped up in front of him, eyes wide with curiosity.
“Hello!” she said brightly. “Are you all a gang? Are you from Old Coney?”
He gaped and stumbled back from her, the barrel of his gun dropping down to the floor. It was certainly an impressive piece, a long barreled pistol fitted with a wooden stock, large enough to be carried like a shotgun for someone of his size, just the sort of thing a desperate robber might carry, she thought approvingly. The rest of his look fell far short of the mark though in her opinion; the clothes he was wearing made him look like an out of work day-laborer, and upon closer inspection, the tattoos on his arm were three hearts joined with red ribbons, hardly very menacing.
His mask was a nice touch though, and she bent low to admire it. “Hide your identity! That’s a good idea. I should’ve thought of that,” she admitted. She reached out and lifted the end of the cloth, trying to peak underneath. “What’s your gang called by the way?”
“Hey, stop that!” he yelled. He slapped her hand away, jumping back a bit fearfully. “What are you doing? Don’t you see I’m armed?” He shook his gun at her, as if to prove it. “Get back against the wall, before you get yourself hurt,” he warned her, prodding at her gently with the butt end of the gun.
“P-Please listen to him!” a Goblin beside him told her. He made a shooing motion with his free hand. Unlike his compatriots, he was dressed almost respectively, in a suit and tie, with spats over his bare, clawed feet. He held a small pistol in his other hand, but his arm was shaking so much that he looked more ready to drop his weapon than fire it. Maine almost laughed at him.
The Halfling stuck out his chest. “Yeah! You better listen!” he threatened her. “We’re desperate men!”
“A-and women!” the Goblin piped up.
The Halfling rolled his eyes. “Yeah, them too.”
“And p-people of non-specific gender!”
“Look, we’re all desperate, alright?” he asked, turning around. The Goblin shuffled, looking down at his feet.
“I just didn’t want to forget anyone.”
Maine was fascinated, moving closer. “Are you all Elders?” she asked.
“What? Of course we are,” the Halfling told her.
She clapped her hands. “So you are an Elder gang! I knew it!” Her eyes widened and she immediately asked, “Can I join?”
“What? No, of course you can’t join!”
The Goblin nodded, his glasses bobbing to the end of his nose. “You’re not an Elder,” he said, as if it were obvious.
She frowned. “But, I’m a Maierson!” as if that made up all the difference.
The Goblin gave her a very disapproving look and the Halfling laughed aloud. He poked her again with the but of his gun, a little more forcibly this time. “Maierson’s! You’re all alike!” he spat.
She put a hand to her gut where he’d struck her, glaring at him. “We are not!”
“Maierson’s are the enemy of the Working Goblin!” the Goblin lectured her, speaking impassionaly. “Everyday your family stand with your boot on the neck of the working class, your foot up their backside, and your hand in their pocket!”
She frowned, trying to imagine how that would work. “Maierson’s aren’t the enemy! And besides, my brother says I’m a disgrace.”
“Well, that’s a good start,” the Halfling admitted, “but we’re not accepting new membership at this time.” He hefted the gun, moving the barrel closer towards her. “Now back against the wall.”
“Mr B, Mr V,” a voice called out, and both of them jumped, looking guilty. “Is there a problem?” A petite Elven woman stood behind them, a repeating rifle balanced on her hip. Now here was a proper bandit. Maine stared at her in awe. She wore ripped back leathers and denim, with scuffed hobnailed boots. No Glamour covered the many scars on her arms and neck, but her shaggy black hair fell over one side of her face, almost hiding the leather eye-patch underneath. The one eye she did have stared out coldly at Maine.
“Can’t you get one little girl under control?” she barked at the two of them.
“Little girl!” Maine protested, but the pair jumped in front of her, putting themselves between her and the Elf.
“No problem at all, Cel- I mean, Mrs C. Ms C!” the Halfling stammered, nodding his head. The Elf woman glared at him, and he ducked his head lower.
Maine felt a pair of hands grab her shoulders. The Goblin was trying to move her back towards the wall.
“Please don’t cause a fuss,” he hissed in her ear. “You don’t want to get her angry! Believe me!” She let him guide her back, but as they passed the open door into the rest of the hall, she suddenly diverted, looking out. “Wait, come back!” he yelled, trying to grab her, but she slipped through his hands, running for the door..
She burst into the main hall, gazing around in amazement. It was a full scale invasion of the mansion. There was a team of masked figures at the entry way hauling furniture and benches against the front doors to make a barricade, while others crouched at the windows, watching the square outside. Inside the ballroom, it was a full blown panic; most of the guests were up and out of their chairs, running for escape, but there was nowhere to go, the doors at both ends were guarded by the intruders. Still, that hadn’t stopped some of them from trying to break the enchanted glass windows or even climb up the curtains. Maine watched as the last few guests were coaxed down from the ceiling, then turned as she heard a crash from behind her. A pair of the intruders were standing over the broken remains of one of the family portraits.
“Great-Aunt Morena!” she yelled. The pair of them, an un-Glamoured, punky looking Elf and a scrawny looking Dryad jumped back as she rushed over, grabbing at the scraps of the frame. The wood had splintered and broken pretty thoroughly, leaving a gash across the canvas. “Aww! You ruined it!” she yelled, picking up the pieces.
The Elf punched the Dryad in the arm. “See, I told you to be more careful! They’re not worth anything if they’re damaged!”
The Dryad hit him back. “You were the one who wanted to use the crowbar!”
“They’re nailed to the wall,” the Elf complained, holding up the metal pry bar. “How else are we going to get them-”
He yelled as Maine jumped up and snatched the crowbar from his hands. His shout turned to pain however as she slammed it across his knee, sending him to the floor. The Dryad stumbled back as she swung wildly through the air, driving him away from the family portraits. Leaves shook off his antlers and fell to the floor as he stumbled away, trying to get clear.
More intruders came running, drawn by the Elf’s cries. Maine put herself in front of her Grandmother’s covered portrait, swinging the crowbar if any of them got to close. “You’re not getting these!” she shouted, breathing heavily. She swung wildly back and forth as they danced around her, trying to get near, then suddenly the bar stopped mid-swing and Maine felt herself lifted off her feet.
The large woman who’d been first in the door stood in front of her. She held the crowbar up in one hand, leaving Maine dangling in the air.
She was tall, taller than most men, with broad shoulders and thick, well-muscled arms. Her hair, nearly as black as her skin, was gathered up in small, tight braids, and held back by a bright, yellow bandanna. Without seeming to strain, she lifted Maine higher, till they were eye to eye. Then, incredibly, she tugged down her mask and smiled at her.
“So, you’re the younger one, eh?” she asked.
Maine glared at her, kicking her feet in the air, but she was too far back to do anything but swing. “I’m Maine Maierson,” she said, as proud and fierce as she could muster. “Whoever you people are, you’re trespassing!”
The woman chuckled softly. She glanced down at the Dryad and the Elf, still rolling on the floor and clutching at his knee. “Not bad,” she said admiringly. “Well, Maine Maierson, you can call me Marsha, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
There was a struggle at the library door. Matthew was clawing his way into the hall, the Halfling wrapped around his midsection, tugging him back. “Maine! Maine, what’s going on!” Behind her brother, Uncle Paicus looked through the doorway. The Goblin ran in front of him, desperately trying to herd him back, but the Cyclops paid him no mind.
Her brother caught sight of them. “Maine, get back here! Don’t you dare hurt my sister!”
“Oh, she’s in no danger from me,” the woman, Marsha, promised. “Not as long as she promises to behave.”
“She will,” Matthew swore, and Maine glared at him. He motioned to her and said in a low voice, “Maine, get over here! C’mon!”
Maine stubbornly held onto the crowbar, feet dangling in the air. “They were stealing our family!”
Her brother stared at her as if she were crazy. “What?”
“The portraits,” she insisted. She glared up at Marsha. “You can take anything else in the house, but not these. These stay!”
Marsha nudged Great-Aunt Morena’s splintered wooden frame with her boot, then looked up at the other portraits lining the wall. Her eyes swept over hundreds of years of Maierson history, then settled on the large, covered easel. Then, still holding Maine up with one hand, she reached over and tugged the cloth off the frame, letting it fall.
The Elf at their feet started to crawl away, his injured knee forgotten. The Dryad pressed his back against the wall, leaves shaking from his branches. The woman in the painting sat alone in darkness, an open book in her lap, staring up out the window at the starry night. She wore a simple blue dress, with no jewels or adornments, and her hair was iron gray, except for a single lock that was black as midnight. Her expression was curious, even pensive as she looked up at the stars.
Maine thought it was a poor likeness of her Grandmother. Where was the strength of her voice, the whip-crack of a question that made you jump to attention? Where was the steely intensity of her eyes, eyes that could make even a Naga squirm and sweat? It was just a kindly old woman in the picture, not her Grandmother, not the woman she remembered.
Marsha stared at the portrait of Madeline Maierson for a moment, then nodded begrudgingly. “Fine. The Maierson’s can keep their own.”
The Halfling stopped struggling against Matthew and looked up with a start. “Boss? Are you sure?”
“You heard me,” she yelled. Still holding onto Maine, she stepped into the middle of the hall and took a deep breath. “Firstborn!” she yelled, and all around the mansion, the intruders pricked up their ears. Uncle Paicus went pale.
“Firstborn! We don’t have all day here! Like we rehearsed, First company watches the prisoners, Second company starts loading up the wagons! Let’s move, move, move!”
The Firstborn, if that’s what they were, began rushing about. If they’d been moving fast before, now they were on double-time. More chairs and benches were thrown against the front doors as Marsha marched over. “What’s going on outside?” she barked
The lean, one-eyed Elf gave her a ghost of a smile. “All quiet for now, no one’s noticed us yet.”
Marsha grunted. “The mob’s doing their part then.” She started to move away, but the Elf grabbed her arm.
“It won’t last forever,” she warned her.
Marsha gave her an affectionate smile and squeezed her hand. “It doesn’t have to, love.”
She moved on, glancing into the ballroom. The guests had been cowed and forced back into their seats, where more guards were now roving, some with baskets out seeking “donations”. She gave a satisfied nod and turned back to the Library.
“Firstborn,” Uncle Paicus said, shaking his head. Masked figures ran past him, hauling away bags and crates stuffed full of artifacts, carrying them away through the ballroom and out the doors at the other end. He watched them lift paintings off the wall, snatch vases, even rolling up the carpets. They were grabbing everything, though they gave the portraits, especially Madeline’s own, a wide berth. “I thought better of you than just plain thievery,” he said with disgust.
“Oh, there’s nothing plain about this,” Marsha promised him. She looked at Matthew, who was grinding his teeth. “Something to say, Maierson?”
He glared at her. “You’re ruining Old Coney, you know that?” he said bitterly.
“I’m freeing Old Coney.”
“No! Without the Auction, we’ll have to close!” he yelled. A few of the Firstborn paused, looking from him to Marsha, but she stood unmoved. Matthew stared at her in disbelief.
Maine, still dangling from the crowbar, froze in the act of trying to reach across Marsha’s body to her gun.
“Do you have any idea how many people we employ?” her brother demanded. “How many jobs? How many-”
“I am sick to death of hearing how we depend on the Maiersons,” Marsha exploded suddenly. Matthew drew back, looking stunned. “How you’re the lifeblood of Old Coney. How much you care for us, how much you provide for us!” She laughed and swept her arms wide, and Maine was forced to grab hold with both hands to keep from falling. “Some people in this town think you’re saints! But let me tell you this! Saints don’t live in mansions! You’re just a business! And your days of living fat off the rest of us are over! Firstborn Forever!” she shouted, and all around the mansion, her followers took up the chant.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“Firstborn Forever! Firstborn Forever!” It went on for several seconds, with Matthew staring at her in impotent fury, till she waved her hand and silenced them.
She leaned in close to Matthew and lowered her voice. “Do you hear that, Maierson? That’s the sound of a free Old Coney. One that doesn’t need you anymore.”
He shook his head. “All you’re going to do is drive people out onto the street-”
“People are already out on the street!” she exploded. “Maybe now at least they’ll learn to stand on their own!” She waved her hand to the nearby Firstborn. “Take him back inside! Rest of the staff goes to the kitchen. Let’s move!” Matthew and Paicus were swiftly pushed back into the library by more guards. Then she finally looked towards Maine.
Maine was slipping down to the end of the crowbar, sweat on her forehead and her arms burning, but she refused to drop. Marsha sighed and lowered the bar until her feet touched the ground and she at last, let go. She stepped away, rubbing at her hands, as the woman swept the bar back over her shoulder. “Inside,” she nodded towards the library. “Something tells me I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.”
She prodded Maine forwards and back into the library. Firstborn were ransacking the shelves, sweeping anything they could grab into bags or off of tables, not just the artifacts, but books, journals, maps and more. Matthew winced at the sound of breaking glass and Maine ground her teeth as more and more rushed out the doors to the ballroom and out towards the Factory yard.
“Not him!” Marsha said suddenly, pointing to the crowd of staff being escorted through the side door. She waved for Seward to step aside and join them. He came unhurried, his face tightly controlled, but slinking behind him, and looking like a bowling ball trying to hide behind a pin, was Fink.
Marsha frowned, spotting him. “Hey, who’s this one?”
Fink flinched, looking caught, then he broke into a wide smile. “Finnious Fink, at your service!” he said, extending a hand. “Expert appraiser in rare and magical-”
Marsha shook her head. “Back in line with the others.”
Two Firstborn moved to grab him, but the fat man ducked under their arms and popped up in front of her, bowing like a jack-in-the-box as Marsha and the others lifted their guns. “Please, I’m no ordinary member of the staff!” he pleaded. “I’m the barker for today’s auction, an expert in rage and magical artifacts!”
“Uh huh, nice to meet you.” She gestured again with her gun. “Back in line.”
He seemed to wilt, actual anguish on his face. “Please, at least let me help you! I can sort through all this lot,” he offered, sweeping his hands towards the piles of items and books still on the tables and floor. “Find the very best for you! You won’t regret it!”
Marsha refused to budge. “We’ll make do,” she promised. “Now, back in line!”
The Firstborn grabbed Fink again and carried him back towards the side door, still pleading as he went. “Please, I’ll do it for half my normal rate! A third! A quarter! I’ll even do it at slightly above cost!” he called as he disappeared through the door.
Uncle Paicus was one of the last to leave. He gave Maine and her brother a worried look before being forced through the door by three armed Firstborn, then it was slammed shut behind them.
“Good,” Marsha said, holstering her gun. “Finish up here and then join us in the office,” she ordered to the Firstborn remaining.
“What do you want to do with the Hammer?” the Halfling spoke up. He was standing in front of Trimble, who’d been pressed back against one of the shelves. The man was sweating, dancing on his toes, and looked like he was ready to climb the shelves to get away.
Marsha walked over to him and fingered the gold button on his lapel, and he squirmed back. “Are you trying to make me feel bad?” she asked him. “It’s been a long time since one of you felt brave enough to come to Old Coney all on your lonesome.” She laughed, and few of the Firstborn laughed with her.
The muscles in Trimble’s face jerked, and he looked close to crying, but he managed to yell, “Y-you freaks! My fa-father is a powerful man! If you think you can threaten me and get away-”
Marsha cut him off by tearing the pin from his lapel and tossing it to the Halfling. “Take him somewhere and teach him how much we’re afraid of his father,” she said. He smiled evilly, clicking the cylinder of his gun with anticipation. Two wild looking Half-men, with hair bursting from their ears and jutting fangs, grabbed his shoulders and started to frog march him out the door, leaving a damp trail on the carpet behind him.
“Oh, be sure to give that pin back to him when you’re done,” Marsha called after them. “We wouldn’t want to be called thieves now, would we?”
As the door slammed shut, she turned to Seward, Matthew and Maine. “C’mon now. I’ve been dying for weeks to see the Old Hag’s office for myself.” She led the way to the other end of the library, with Seward, Matthew, and Maine following behind, and the Goblin and one-eyed Elf bringing up the rear.
As they were led through the doors and into the narrow hallway outside of Madeline’s office, her brother inched towards Seward. “Dwyer,” he hissed softly, his voice low. “He’s on duty in the Factory. He’ll see something. He has to.”
“Doubtful,” Seward muttered. “There could be a wild dragon loose at one end of the Factory and you might never know it.” He glanced back over his shoulder, towards the front of the mansion. “Albert’s our best bet.”
Maine reached up and shoved at her brother’s back, making him stumble. “What do you mean, the Factory might have to shut down?!” she hissed at him.
He rubbed at his back, glaring at her. “Now’s not the time!”
She shoved at him again. “Gran should’ve never left you in charge! What did you do?”
“Quit it!” He spun around and pushed her back, sending her reeling into the Goblin behind her.
“Don’t you shove me!” she yelled, launching herself at her brother. Marsha and Seward stopped and turned back as the two of them fought back and forth, Maine climbing up and pulling on her brother’s hair.
“Maiersons! Hey!!” Marsha called unsuccessfully, till she finally had to wade in and grab the two of them, pulling them apart by force. She shoved Matthew ahead of them and forced Maine to walk behind Seward. “Let’s hurry it up now,” she said angrily, looking impatient.
The door to Gran’s office was at the other end of the narrow hall, beside a small stool and a wobbly looking roll top desk. Matthew halted by the door, patting his pockets sheepishly, until Seward stepped past him and went to the desk. It was a tight fit, even for someone as slim as him, but he managed to just fit behind and unlock the desk, pulling out a thick, iron key from an inner compartment.
“Is that all the comfort the great secretary of Old Hag Maierson gets?” Marsha laughed.
“It’s enough,” Seward replied coolly. He unlocked the office door and stepped through.
Matthew had officially inherited Gran’s office since her death six months ago, but it was still Gran’s to Maine’s mind. Maybe to her brother as well, for he’d left it unchanged. Even the equations and runic formulas written on the two chalkboard walls to the right and left as they entered hadn’t been washed away. The formulas ran from baseboard to ceiling on both walls, and were a glimpse into what her Grandmother had been working on before her death: possible runic formulas for altering weather patterns, charting celestial paths, measuring resonance strengths in metals, even half-finished notes on her next manuscript. The chalk dust was heavy on the floor around the baseboards, with footprints criss-crossing back and forth. She could see the imprint of Seward’s slim shoes, her brother’s loafers, even her own heavy boots, but here and there in the dust was the imprint of a woman’s shoe. She stood staring at it until the Goblin nudged her forwards and she had to look away.
Marsha pushed her way past everyone till she stood in the center of the room, letting her eyes sweep over everything. She breathed in deep, gazing around.
It didn’t take long. Aside from Gran’s desk and chair in the back of the room, there was no other furniture in the office; no other chairs in front of the desk, not even carpet laid down on the floor. “She didn’t care much for comfort, did she?” Marsha pointed out.
“Miss Madeline used her office for work, not rest,” Seward said stiffly.
“Apparently.” The woman traced her hands across the ancient black surface of the desk. The wood was so solid and dark that you couldn’t even see the grains. “Cold,” she muttered to herself, drawing her fingers back. Then a smile played about her lips, and before anyone could stop her, she plopped herself into the great easy chair and leaned back. She pulled at the loose stuffing on the arms and laughed, “more comfortable than I would’ve expected from the Old Hag.” She put both of her boots up on the desk and smiled at them.
“Get your boots off of there,” Maine growled at her, taking a step forwards.
Her brother took hold of her shoulders tightly. “I suggest you listen to her,” he warned Marsha.
The woman laughed again, but she at least moved her boots from the desk. She spun around in the chair, looking at the cabinets behind her. They lined the back wall, drawers and drawers, stuffed near to bursting with papers and files leaking out around the edges, even the tops of the cabinets were stacked with teetering piles that shivered and swayed with every step in the room.
The Goblin shuffled forwards, eyeing the mess nervously. “Oh, my,” he said, stowing his gun away and pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “This may be harder than I thought.”
Marsha leaned forwards, her face intent. “We’re counting on you, Mr. V,” she told him. “We need those ledgers.”
He nodded quickly, giving her an anxious smile. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, stumbling forwards. He pulled open the first drawer, papers falling around his feet, and started to page through the files. “Can’t be any worse than organizing our newsletter and meeting minutes!”
Matthew frowned, watching him. He glanced over Maine’s head, looking towards Seward. “What are they looking for?” he mouthed. Seward didn’t answer, but his eyes were narrowed, watching the Goblin intensely.
Marsha stood up then, and all eyes turned back to her. She nodded towards the female Elf at the door. “Fetch Miss L for us, would you love?” The Elf smiled and leaned back, whistling sharply down the hall. While they waited, Marsha turned to Seward, a sweet look on her face. “That is, unless you’d like to save us a great deal of trouble, Mr Secretary?”
He cocked one scaly eyebrow at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She smiled and moved around the desk towards him. Seward was tall, nearly six feet, but she towered over him, her shoulders flexing. “The Vault,” she said finally. “We know you’ve got access.”
Even though he seemed to disappear into her shadow, Seward remained still, hardly even blinking. “Someone’s been feeding your stories,” he told her plainly, but Maine could see his fingers twitch. She stared at him, eyes narrowed.
Marsha leaned in closer to him. “C’mon, just one little room out there?” she smiled, nodding back to the Library. “You expect us to believe that that’s all the Maierson’s have been able to steal? You’ve had generations to work on Old Coney; we know you have more tucked away!”
Matthew pushed his way forwards. “We haven’t stolen anything!” he swore.
“Keep telling yourself that, Maierson,” she said with a smirk. She swung the crowbar into the wall, cracking the chalkboard, and then began to drag the tip forwards, producing an ear-splitting sound. Everyone winced as she began to circle the room, scratching her way down the wall. “Where is it?” she shouted to Seward. He stared forwards blankly, refusing to even look at her. “We know you have access! Tell us!”
“I don’t. Know what. You’re talking about,” he said, his teeth snipping off the ends of each word.
“There is no Vault here!” Matthew shouted to her again. She threw the crowbar down on the floor making Matthew jump out of the way.
“Do you really not know?” she asked him. At his stunned look, she laughed in disbelief. “I didn’t believe her when she said you didn’t know, but she was right! I’ll be damned!” She laughed again.
Matthew looked around, suddenly flustered. The Goblin, still bent over files and papers in the back of the room, gave him a pitying expression, while the Elf woman chuckled wryly. “What are you talking about?” her brother stammered. “Who told you all this?”
There was movement in the hallway and Marsha looked up. “It doesn’t matter; just another person your Family’s stepped over.” She glanced over at Seward. “Don’t want to help us? Fine, you had your chance. We have our own ways to get inside.”
The creature that stepped inside the office was unlike any that Maine had seen before. She seemed to float almost ethereally into the room, her large, white dress billowing out before her. Her hands, as milky white as her dress, were folded peacefully in front of her, and her face was hidden behind a veil, underneath a wide, circular red cap, spotted with large white dots. Maine held her breath as she glided forwards. Time seemed to slow around the woman, as if she moved in a frozen globe, slow and graceful.
“A Myconid,” Seward’s breath hissed out.
The Fungal woman drifted past her, and Maine realized that what she’d taken as a veil were in fact spores, drifting down as thick as snow from the underside of the large red cap. The billowing dress was her body, flowing over the boards, like a creeping mold. She drifted to the center of the room, her mouth open in awe, and though she had no visible eyes under her cap, she seemed to be looking about in wonder.
“Oh, these formulas!” she breathed, her voice light and hazy, like it was floating on the breeze. She drifted in a slow circle around the room, ignoring the others as she admired the chalkboard. “Do you see this? She was looking for a way to control the winds of a tornado, to steer it like a ship, if not cancel it out entirely.” She leaned in closer, placing her hand reverently on the board. “Probably impossible, but I’d really like to try for myself.”
“Maybe later, Miss L,” Marsha said. “Now, the vault, if you please.” The Myconid didn’t seem to hear her, and she repeated it. “Miss L? Miss L?” Finally, she snapped, “Lichi!”
“Oh, hello, Marsha,” she said, her cap jerking up. “Sorry, were you talking to me? I just couldn’t believe that I was actually standing here in Madelyn Maierson’s office!” She slowly spun in place, turning to the other Firstborn. “Celeste, Vaux, can you believe it? Isn’t it wonderful?”
The Elf and Goblin jumped as she named them. Vaux, the Goblin, babbled for a moment, slamming a cabinet shut and spilling papers on the floor. “Uh-uh um, yes, yes, it’s wonderful,” he stammered, his eyes going to Seward and Matthew.
Celeste, the Elf, looked down at the floor. “Uh, yeah, it’s great,” she mumbled.
“Mmm, yeah,” Marsha said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Lichi, do you remember us talking about aliases, right? Disguises?”
Lichi turned her head slightly, as if puzzled, and then her mouth opened wide with delight. “Oh, yes, Marsha! I remember! Look, I brought my own too!” A seam opened in the middle of her chest, like a pocket, out of which she pulled a white bandana, the ends tied together in a mask. She draped it over her head, but it wasn’t wide enough to fit over the entire cap, and it just lay like a sash over the peak. She showed it off proudly to the group. “What do you think?”
There were enough eye-holes cut in the mask that it could function as a strainer. “Lovely, Lichi,” Marsha said wearily. “You really got it.”
The Myconid bobbed up and down happily, dropping spores that began growing and sprouting on the floor around her. “Thank you!”
“Now, do you think you could open the Vault for us, like we talked about?”
“Of course, I can.” She drifted slowly, turning around to face the left wall.
“This is ridiculous!” Seward shouted suddenly. Matthew stared as he jumped forwards. “There’s no vault! You’ve been lied to!”
“Well, we’ll see in a moment, won’t we?” Marsha told him, unconcerned. “Go ahead, Lichi.”
The Myconid woman went to the chalkboard wall, and put her hands on the surface. Maine gasped as two more arms emerged from her body, unfolding out like sprouts from a flower. Four hands, as soft as dough, pressed against the wall, her fingers flattening out. They began to scrub back and forth, wiping the wall clean better than a wet sponge. In a matter of moments, she had left a large bare space running to the floor. Her four arms folded back into her body, reabsorbed into her flesh, and a new set of arms emerged, delicate and firm, with a piece of runic chalk in one hand, and a small set of hand-written notes in the other. Maine edged closer, trying to see.
“Let’s see, ‘from the edge of the fourth floorboard to the black eyed knot’,” she read from the notes. She bent down, counting, and then started to draw a straight line up the board. “‘Up to the scratch and across to the other as straight as a ruler.’” Her chalk line went up to a tiny scratch in the surface, barely noticeable, and she made a ninety degree turn, continuing to draw until she found another scratch, directly in the first. Her line plunged down to the floor and then she made a few final additions before she stepped back, smiling proudly; sketching in a doorknob in the shape of a flower petal and adding a row of smiling mushrooms at the base.
Celeste and Marsha edged forwards, their faces confused. Marsha poked against the door, but it remained just chalk. “Is that it?” Celeste asked.
Lichi jumped. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She flipped through the notes and smiled. “There’s a locking rune in place.” She began to sketch again, referring to a diagram on the paper. The chalk flew across the board with swift, precise strokes. Maine edged even closer now, peering at the familiar writing on the page. Someone stepped on her foot and she realized Matthew was right beside her, staring hard as well.
“There we go!” Lichi said, and both of them jumped back. The runic diagram on the board began to glow, interlocking circles shining brighter one at a time. Marsha stepped forwards, her hands opening and closing hungrily. The air began to tingle and Maine felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to rise.
Then just as suddenly as it had begun to shine, the diagram went dark. “What?” A red diagram flashed for an instant behind the chalk, and then Lichi’s pattern began to sizzle, boiling away in a cloud of dust, till there was only the sketched in door frame and the afterglow of that strange symbol.
She put her hand up against the wall in amazement. “Well that’s not supposed to happen.”
“Ya think?” Marsha yelled.
Lichi pulled back, looking at the notes again. She grew extra arms and began to page through the notes in a panic, dizzyingly flipping through them. “I did everything she told us! Copied the unlocking diagram perfectly!”
Marsha kicked against the wall, then shoved against it frustration. She couldn’t even make a dent. “Well something went wrong! Try again!”
“I don’t think that will work,” Lichi said, her voice trailing off. “I think someone changed the lock. That could be it.”
Behind the two of them, Seward took a step back.
“What, they can do that?” Marsha asked.
Her red cap nodded. “It’s simple if you know the locking diagram.” She put her hand up on the wall again, frowning. Her fingers probed at the board. “Strange… I know most Human and Elven locking diagrams, but this one was different. It almost looked like Naga. Mmhh,” she fretted, “I’ve never been very good with those.”
Marsha turned around slowly. “I know someone who might be.”
Seward had edged his way back, almost to the door. As she turned towards him, he broke and ran, yanking open the door, only to run into the Halfling, standing just outside. The Halfling’s eyes opened wide as Seward hissed at him, fangs extended, then Celeste and Marsha grabbed hold of him, yanking him back into the room. They hauled him bodily back to Gran’s desk, Seward fighting like mad. They hurled him against the desk and fell to the floor.
“Talk!” Marsha yelled at him. “You changed the runes, didn’t you?”
Seward only hissed in answer, his chest heaving up and down, fangs still bared. “Talk!” she yelled again. Matthew was standing frozen, his face still confused. Seward’s eyes darted around, looking for escape, but the Elf had her gun leveled on him, finger on the trigger.
“If you kill me, you’ll never get it open,” he finally hissed.
Marsha pulled a short knife out from her belt. “We don’t have to kill you to make you talk,” she said grimly. “All we need is time.” Seward’s eyes twitched wildly as he looked at the knife, breath steaming out his nose.
She glanced over her shoulder at the Goblin and Halfling. “Why don’t you take the Maierson’s back to their rooms for a while,” she suggested. “I think we’re about done with them here.”
The Halfling cleared his throat urgently. “Uh, we got a problem!” Marsha jerked her head back. They could all see his cheek was now bleeding and his hands were stained with powder burns. He yanked this thumb back towards the front of the house. “They know we’re in here!”
“What’s happening?!” she barked at him.
“They must’ve heard us! A bunch of Goblins tried to rush the ballroom windows and that big lunk out there tried to beat in the doors! We drove him back by threatening some of the guests, but I don’t know how long that’ll hold’em!”
Seward laughed suddenly, a shrill rasping sound. “Now who doesn’t doesn’t have time,” told Marsha. His forked tongue slipped in and out of his mouth rapidly. “I can hold out until Albert breaks in,” he promised her. “I can do it. So what now?”
Lichi touched her chin, lost in thought. Celeste lowered her weapon slowly, looking towards Marsha. The large woman bared her teeth, mouth writing in frustration.
Then Maine spoke up.
“I can get you inside,” she told her.