Ink & Quill

Chapter 35

~ Sylas ~

By the time we reach the top of the cliffs and the lighthouse comes into view, I'm gasping for air and clutching a stitch in my side. Spots decorate my vision, and I make a silent promise to myself that if, by some miracle, I make it out of this alive, I'll get myself in better shape. Because you just never know when a madman will force you to climb a thousand stairs.

I laugh at my unfounded optimism, and Edwards mistakes the target of my mirth.

"It's bigger than it looks," he says, shoving me along the path towards the lighthouse.

I giggle breathlessly. "I'm sure it is."

He frowns at me and tightens his grasp my arm — not in a mean way, but as a sort of safety measure. I suppose if I look as awful as I feel, I can't blame him. Honestly, after being drugged, strangled, drugged again, and then forced to exert myself, I'm nearly past the point of caring.

He half guides, half drags me up yet another set of steps (a mercifully short one, this time) and as we near the lighthouse, I see he wasn't lying, after all.

With nothing to compare it to, the structure had looked small and quaint from a distance — almost cottage-like, despite its utilitarian aspect. Up close, however, I see that the long, low building at the tower's base more closely resembles an aircraft hangar. Built of large bricks of light-colored stone, it stretches east to west, more than twice as long as it is wide. It has high, narrow windows of grime-fogged glass, and a small door of heavy wood with an arched top, fitted with brass.

Edwards unlocks the door with a small key, and with the whir and click of some internal mechanism, it opens and swings inward on oiled hinges.

Darkness yawns within, and then Edwards flips a switch on the wall and lights flicker to life.

I see a long, open space beneath a vaulted ceiling, outfitted like a machinist's shop. With rows of workbenches, racks of tools, and heavy metal chains hanging from pulleys bolted to the crossbeams above, it looks ready to serve as the set for some comic-book character's secret lair.

"The old lighthouse keepers used to build small sailing vessels and fishing boats here," Edwards tells me, as if I could possibly care. "Then they ran an underwater cable over from the land, and the light went electric, and there was no more need for keepers. When the light was decommissioned, they left the cable in place. Lucky for me."

"Doesn't the government or the Coast Guard own this place, or something?" I ask, vaguely recalling something I'd read somewhere.

"Used to," Edwards says, leading me towards the far end of the long hall. "The Harbor City Preservation Society owns it, now. Dean Forsythe is the chair."

"How convenient."

"Indeed! And he was only too happy to let me take up the post when the previous caretaker took a little tumble off a cliff."

"An accident, I'm sure."

Edwards gets my drift and laughs. "Yes, actually. The cliffs are quite dangerous, especially in a high wind. The fellow survived, of course — broke a leg and decided to retire. I don't just go about bumping people off left and right, you know."

"Coulda fooled me."

He laughs again, and I roll my eyes. Good to know I'm keeping him entertained, I guess.

We reach the far end of the building, where tall windows with many small panes of dirty glass admit a hazy stream of afternoon light. A raised wooden platform, like a low stage, occupies the floor before them, and on this rests a large, strange contraption shaped like a hollow sphere. The bands of metal that give it shape intersect and join at specific points, and after a moment of confusion, I recognize it for what it is: a three-dimensional magic seal.