Vessel of the Gods

The pot of heated metal shimmered in an unsettling way, as if it were moving out of synch with the bubbling motion of the container. Michael, with his firm steady hands, stirred it with a ladle.

"Almost a hundred years later and I can still remember the feeling." He says. "It has such a unique texture." You rub his broad shoulders, careful to keep your skin away from the hot metal.

"What can we do with it?" You ask, glancing around the forge. Earlier this year, Michael had added a shed next to the Cob House which he calls his workshop and which Ryan poetically calls "the Forge of DOOM!". Now it is used to study the strange alien material you gathered from the City in Glass.

Michael takes the ladle and pours out one scoop on his anvil. The metal moves in slow drops like a lava lamp and then as soon as it hits the anvil, it immediately changes shape, turning into a thin wedge like an orange slice standing on its tip.

"What the hell?" mutters Michael, crouching down to squint at the strange substance. It seems to defy gravity. Michael takes another scoop of the metal and pours it to the anvil. It drips down...and forms an identical matching wedge standing tip to tip on top of the first.

MMMMMmmmmmm. A faint hum starts immenating from the creation.

"If I didn't know better, I would say that it wants to be like that. Keep going, I want to see what it makes." Michael gives an affirmative grunt, scooping another ladle onto the strange creation. Headlights flash into the shed as someone pulls into the driveway.

That is strange, you aren't expecting anyone, especially this late at night. You poke your head out to see a jet black escalade just turning off their headlights.

You glance down at your outfit, yeah, you are presentable to the public, with your comfortable skirt, nice shirt and purple sweater. It's hard to make out in the evening light but two people in dark clothes have gotten out of the car and made their way to the front door.

You start to hustle to intercept them before they ring the doorbell and wake up Silas but as you round the corner of the garage you can hear Ryan's voice carrying on the evening air. Good for him, intercepting them in front of the strawberries.

"Here she is." As you approach, Ryan gives you a cautious look. "Agent Maureen Tennison and Agent Brian Pitts, please meet my wife Brenna Sweeney." Both agents are in well-fitted suits, the woman, slender with intense eyes and tousled dyed blonde hair that has grown out showing her brown roots extends her hand. "Please, call me Maurie." She says. The taller man simply gives a faint nod. "We are with the National Security Agency and we would like to talk to you about an investigation, can we come inside?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Our kid just went down to sleep but we have some chairs out back, could we sit outside?" The agents follow you to the patio behind the house, taking the chairs offered.

"What's going on in there?" Agent Pitts points towards the forge, lighting up the warm evening with a cozy glow.

"That's a friend..." you begin but Ryan jumps in.

"... Our renter is a metalworker and we try not to disturb him. What can we do for you tonight Agents?" Ryan asks. You catch his eye - he's probably right. The less they know about Michael the better.

"Mrs. Sweeney..." Maurie begins.

"Brenna."

"Brenna. Can you tell me when you last saw Dr. Daniel Quilp?" You try to keep your expression level.

"Quilp? Yes, the antique shop owner down in Seattle. I visited his store a few months ago, but haven't seen him since." You focus every fiber of your being on exerting casual disinterest. Oh god, they probably see right through that. They can tell, you are a murderer! No - be cool. Be calm. Oh shit, how long had it been since someone said something. Breathe! Breathe.

"And you visited the shop with your friend, Ms..." Maurie continues, her low throaty voice giving you all sorts of feels as you try not to make eye contact, your eyes resting on the slender curves of her suit jacket, nope, back to the table. Yes. The table.

"Hisdal." Agent Pitts says, his British accent clipping the name. Maurie nods,

"Ms. Hisdal. Yes, the two of you visited the shop." You nod.

"Yep."

"Find anything interesting there?" You open your mouth, brain racing.

"That's easy, my wife always finds something of interest in a junk shop. I have to frisk her at the door just to be sure!" Ryan jumps in. Bless him. I mean, fuck off for the sexist stereotype but also thank god.

Maurie is watching your face like a hawk, her intense eyes following yours. She tips her head back, her graceful neck looking soft and inviting. Focus!

"I also understand you visited a hotel down in Tacoma." Maurie begins. Oh fuck. "Murano. But Ms. Hisdal did not join you there, correct?" Oh fuck oh fuck.

"That.. is correct." You say.

"Look, what is this all about?" Ryan demands.

Agent Pitts turns to him. "Mr. Sweeney, your wife may have been in contact with a new and highly illegal piece of technology. Simply knowing about it without proper security clearance is a class 4 felony! Now, we are dealing with a case with international implications and we will not hesitate to charge your wife and you with impending this investigation, do you understand?!"

Ryan starts to sputter but Maurie cuts him off, her eyes never leaving your face.

"Look, whatever happened in that shop or down in Tacoma, if you saw it again, would you recognize it?" You nod, not trusting your voice. Maurie smiles, a lopsided swaggering affair,

"You see Pitts? I knew she would help. Give her the pictures." Pitts sighs and reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a headshot of a man.

With his chestnut hair swept over to the left, his beard barely concealing his dimples and his eyes full of hidden mirth, he looks not unlike the sort of fellow that you would have chased all over western washington university campus. The picture was taken at some sort of bus depot, he is dressed in a professional shirt, tie and jacket and seems to be in a rush.

"This is Damien Marquis. We believe that he is transporting contraband across the Canadian border and throughout the pacific northwest." Pitts shifts in his expensive shoes. "We have tried, on numerous occasions, to arrest him however he does not appear to keep the illicit materials on his person."

Maurie cuts in. "We have reason to believe he is using the same methods you observed with Dr. Quilp, at the Hotel Murano and at that rental in Jefferson County." Oh shit, how much information do they have? "We were hoping to put you near the suspect in hopes you could help us identify the method he is using to transport the illicit goods."

She must have read the concern in your face as fear. She reaches out and takes your hand, her slender fingers surprisingly soft and nails cut short, "I promise you, you will be in no danger, I will be by your side the entire time."

You glance over her shoulder, Michael has just come out of his workshop, his hair glistening with sweat, his broad shoulders bare to the night air. He looks excited but sees you in conversation on the patio and catches himself before calling to you.

If you say no, these two could escalate things. And Michael's cover story would fall apart real quick. You have no doubt they could take him away - and as a man of color, out of time with no official identification, you shudder to think about what the criminal justice system would do to him.

"Yes. I'll do it." You say, returning Maurie's look with fierce intensity.

"Hot Damn!" She says, slapping her thigh and standing up. "We will be in touch soon, don't worry, we have your number. Here's ours if you have any questions." She passes you her card, her hand lingering a little longer than necessary.

Pitts and Ryan have already stood, he's ushering them back towards their car as swiftly as possible without being rude. Pitts casts a curious gaze towards the flickering lights of the workshop but the door is firmly closed and Michael is nowhere to be seen.

They get into their car and pull out of the driveway. Ryan says something but you can't hear over the engine noise.

"What?" You ask as their brake lights disappear onto the main road.

"Their plates. They don't have government plates." He noted. "It could be a rental..."

"Could be. I guess we should have asked to see some badges or something." You say.

"Badges? Badges? We don't need no stinking badges!" You roll your eyes at Ryan but he continues. "Although if they had fake badges, would we even know?"

"You guys!" Michael materializes on your right. "You've got to come and see this!"

###

Inside the workshop, the metal crescents had assembled into a single slightly arched chain starting at the floor and rising to about five feet. Between the metal and the ground, there is the faintest crackling of electricity, brief sheets of energy, and occasionally, the flicker of something green.

"As soon as I got more than a foot off the ground, it started doing this." Michael picks up a branch from the sequoia.

"Now watch this!" He tosses it into the slender opening with the next flash of green appears.

BrrrzZZAPPP. There's a puff of smoke and the stick is gone!

"Did it get incinerated?" Ryan says, peering around behind the mental arc for signs of debris. "This is incredible Michael!" He claps Michael on the shoulders with a laugh.

"Not incinerated." You say, your eyes ablaze. "Teleported." You look back at the beginning of the arc and start mentally doing the math, pacing it out with your hands.

"If all these pieces continue, this would create a loop tall enough that two people could walk through standing side by side. It's not a chain.. " you say.

"... It's a doorway." Michael finishes. "The only problem is... we are out of material." He points to his empty bucket over the forge. "We've used everything we've got. To finish this, we are going to need more."

You give a knowing smile, your first since the agents arrived. "I think I know where we might be able to find more."

###

The train station in Bellingham is not an elaborate affair. One platform, one waiting lobby, a parking lot barely big enough for twelve cars. Ryan insisted on coming into the lobby with you. Well, Michael and Ryan both wanted to come but after a quick sidebar decided it would be too suspicious for you to arrive with two companions and resolved it with a quick "Rock, Paper, Scissors".

Ryan is chatty, talking about movies and tv shows but both of you know it is just noise to appear normal as you surreptitiously scout out the other people in the waiting room; the older latino man in a seahawks sweater with sunglasses in the corner, the teens trying to discreetly make out in the corner before one of them (Ryan guessed the girl due to the UW sweater, you predicted the dude since he gave off Spokane vibes) had to leave for the college.

"No sign of our friends." Ryan says under his breath. "Didn't the call say to meet them here?" You shake your head slightly. "Maurie said that this was our connection and that I needed to catch the 12:45pm to Seattle. I assumed I would meet her on the train."

"Still... they could be watching." Ryan gives another "discrete" look around, utterly failing from keeping the smile from his lips. "Or maybe have us on hidden camera!"

"You weren't coming to protect me!" You give him a playful punch in the shoulder. "You just wanted to play James Bond. I knew it! That's why you cheated."

Ryan gives you a look of faux outrage. "That is slanderous, it was the sacred ritual of 'rock, paper, scissors', you cannot impune it's integrity."

"You only suggested it because you know damn well that... " you begin.

"... Michael always throws scissors." You say together. Ryan cracks a true laugh. "Everytime! I swear to Goddess he never thinks twice about it."

"Be nice." You swat his arm. "Look, here comes the train." The crossing guards had closed and begun making a hearty racket. Ryan leaned in close, whispering in your ear so you can hear over all that noise.

"You be safe, okay? No crazy risks, you get a chance to come home safe and sound, you take it." You turn and bury your face in his neck, squeezing him tight.

The train gives a triumphant roar and hiss, the doors slide open and it is time. You double check the pouches on your belt, give Ryan one more kiss, and hope onto the platform and into the train.

With the previous adventures in mind, you had dressed for the occasion. Your black ruffled skirt was bound at the top with your green bag of pouches. Above your waist, a breezy cotton top, hair done up in one braid and your pentacle for good luck. You adjust the belt and plop yourself down in one of the window seats as the train slowly starts to pull out of Bellingham station.

"Glad to see you could make it." Maurice's low throaty voice catches you by surprise. You glance over and she's taken the aisle seat, she's wearing the same slate gray suit she was wearing when she visited a week ago, deep cut to show off her white dress shirt, casually unbuttoned at the top. She's chewing some minty gum, its fresh scent biting at the air you share with her.

"What's in the bandolier?" She asks. You adjust it self-consciously. "Snacks. Could be a long trip." She nods, unconvinced.

"Hopefully not. Marquis will get on here at the Seattle station and ride it all the way to SeaTac." She says.

"All the way?" You ask wryly.

"It's a 20 minute trip. In-between here and there is when we lose him. Next thing we know he is in Singapore for a weekend with pockets full of contraband." She stretches her arms out, as if trying to stay limber for a sprint, but it feels deliberate. Her lithe form bends at the waist to touch her toes before returning to a seated position. She catches you watching and shoots you a saucy grin.

"So I've got to ask, just straight up ask. Are you and the husband swingers?"

You bark out a little laugh. "Not really." You answer. She looks at you incredulously.

"We raided that hotel in Tacoma, with the peeping tom pictures and hidden passages, it looks like they were up to some kinky shit. Pitts figured it was a swingers convention."

You shake your head. "We were just there for a friend's wedding."

"The first time or the second time?" She tilts her head to the side, catlike.

"The first time." You answer softly and turn away, watching the fields fly by, memories of the world beneath the well rising, unbidden like smoke from simmering coals. The snap of the leopard's teeth, the pounding of the Lost Boys drums, the feel of Michael's hot hands on your body, the moan of the minotaur when he finished inside you.

You glance back at Maurie. "No, not a swingers convention."

###

Maurie saw him first. Damien Marquis was dressed in a well-fitted professional jacket and khakis like a traveling businessman. Which, you guess, he probably is in a way. No suitcase, just an old fashioned briefcase, black leather with silver latches. His roguish good looks are evidence in the confidence with which he carries himself through the train. He took a seat four booths ahead of the two of you. Maurie pulled out her ear buds, although you doubt she had been listening to anything other than the conversations around her, and tucked away her copy of Time magazine.

The two of you follow him as he disembarks at SeaTac airport and after a thrilling bit of fast footwork, you follow him through security to the tarmac.

"He didn't check in for his flight." Maurie says. "He always checks in for his flight. What is he doing?" Currently he was looking at his phone while sitting at one of the gates. The two of you are perusing the gift shop across the concord.

"Do you think he spotted us?" You ask under your breath, leafing through a paperback Grisham novel.

"I don't think so. He's never seen me before, I only started working on this case two weeks ago. Why? Do you think he would recognize you?" You shake your head.

"He's new to me." You watch as he stands and sets his briefcase right next to the courtesy wheelchair next to the gate.

And then blinks out of existence.

"Shit." You blurt out. The store clerk gives you a glare. Maurie whips around.

"Where'd he go? He did it again, didn't he?!" The two of you make your way over to the gate as quickly as possible without raising any alarm.

The gate has only a few people scattered in the seats, the plane has yet to arrive although it is scheduled to arrive in the next thirty minutes. Maurie is looking up and down the concord, no sign of our missing suspect.

Just the briefcase.

The briefcase. You reach down and grasp the leather handle. It feels light, you'd be surprised if it has more than a handful of papers inside, certainly no contraband. You run your hands over the silver metal clasps and the simple four digit combination lock. Wait, that isn't silver - no, it is the familiar dull muted grey metal.

Maurie is at your shoulder.

"He left behind his briefcase?" You smile and shake your head.

"He's inside the briefcase." And with that, you pop open the latches and suddenly the world rushes up to the sky as you are falling down into the abyss...

You hear the wind rushing past your ears, your skirt flapping around wildly but you keep yourself still. Not quite the smooth transition of the City in Glass, this feels more like the Well where you are being dropped into the world.

Something grabs your arm!

You twist in mid-air and see a clearly terrified Maurie, her pantsuit pressed tight against her lithe form as she clings to your wrist with an iron grip, her eyes wild in terror.

"It's okay!" You shout over the wind. She can't hear you but seems to relax slightly at your evident casual reaction to plummeting from the sky.

You squint into the wind, trying to take stock before you land. Glittering sun on ocean, sand and scattered trees, hills swirling. Tropical? No, the color palette is all wrong. You crane your head, trying to find your bearings with the line of the horizon your body pivots sending you and Maurie into an unplanned summersault, her grip never loosening.

Finally, the fall begins to slow as the two of you start to sway slightly as if you had been transformed into a single giant feather. You realize the air rushing past is warm, but not moist. And smelling so sweetly of lemons and sea spray and cypress trees and olives...

"Yes!" You shout in glee, giving a little whoop. Maurie looks at you in alarm as the two of you descend towards a rocky incline dotted with shrubs. With a light guest of warm air, the two of you are gently wafted to a standing position just in time for your feet to touch the stone steps carved into the cliffside.

You turn to her with a ridiculous grin on your face, pointing up to the shining white temple at the top of the path, it's Ionic columns gleaming in the warm sun.

"Ancient Greece! He recreated ancient Greece!"

###

"So you're telling me that he had a whole city," Maurie asks incredulously. "All of London. In his little workshop?"

"Yup." Now that you are acclimated to the heat, it is remarkably pleasant, warming you to the bone without feeling its fiery kiss on your cheeks.

"Even the rats?" Maurie asks. You pause for a moment to think.

"Don't know. Didn't see any." You answer, taking the next to steps at a bit of a jog, you reach the crossroads.

"I guess if I was making a city, I'd skip out on the rats too." You had managed to avoid giving out more than the basics. This was a world inside a world, created using the alien metal, time operates a little differently, try not to die. Maurie, for her part, had rolled with the punches.

"So is this where he stores the goods, or just his inflight entertainment?" She asks, "Wait, why are you stopping?" You sit, rummaging through your pocketed belt and pull out a small package of peanuts.