The Shadow Queen: An Epic Fantasy Novel: Realm of Bennington, #1

By K. Stan Tinos

The first book in the multiple award-winning Bennington series. The Shadow Queen guarantees magic, mayhem, and adventure, making it an exciting read for fantasy enthusiasts of all ages. With its rich world-building and compelling characters, K. Stan Tinos invites readers to explore a realm where ordinary lives intersect with extraordinary destinies

Introducing Ronnie Trudeau, a woman whose life is filled with ritual disappointments and frustrations, rendering it meaningless. However, her existence takes an unexpected turn when she is offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: the chance to acquire a magical kingdom. But there's a catch...

The realm of Bennington is an authentic magical kingdom that lies in ruins, its elders refuse to pledge to a new ruler. The townsfolk are filled with hopelessness and despair, mythical creatures ravage the land, a powerful sorceress plots to destroy the entire realm, and the mighty Dark Shar vows to kill anyone who dares to ascend the throne.

Will Ronnie sacrifice everything she has built in her current life to become Queen of a dying realm with increasingly daunting challenges that no one could hope to survive? The answers lie within the pages of this epic fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pocket Book
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224635894

Book preview

The Shadow Queen: An Epic Fantasy Novel

K. Stan Tinos

Pocket

Copyright © 2023 K. Stan Tinos

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

I dedicate this book to my family, both immediate and work-related. Without them I would have completed this novel a few years sooner. May God watch over them!

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About the Author

Chapter One

My youth has withered; I am but an old woman now. I was well into my prime when crowned Queen; the passage of time since then seems faint and muddy compared to the time spent within my kingdom. As if life were a budding flower, bursting to bloom then, but now is shriveling and decaying out of existence. Thus is the fate of aging, I suppose.

Recent events are obscured, while the distant stages we once commanded remain clear and vibrantly colored. The events of my time spent within the realm come flooding back to me, keen and lucid and edged with clarity, like a bouquet of sunflowers on the backdrop of an azure fall sky.

I sit alone in a dimly lit room; seen anew through the exuberance of youth. Images so far gone that the hardships endured are no longer present; pictures unfurled of events that happened, not to the current body that houses this refined mind, but to another much younger and carefree and full of wonderment with the same name.

Ronnie Trudeau stood lost in what often seemed like imagination run wild as she was handed a package in the lobby of her apartment complex. She still shed tears for the loss of her mother some two years ago. She took a deep breath, struggling with the emotions that came flooding back when preparing to open the small box bequeathed to her on that day of passing. Ronnie’s visage grew curious at the contents of the opened box.

The memory of first hearing of her mother’s death sprung anew. She could hear the doctor’s voice explaining what had happened before being allowed to enter the room. At that moment, Ronnie knew her mother was not long for this world.

Ms. Trudeau.

She shakes her head and abruptly turns to meet the voice that sends her crashing back to reality. Dorian Monroe, the concierge responsible for signing in and out visitors, was staring at her from behind his desk.

Everything all right, ma’am?

She nodded and smiled. I’m just thinking about something. She closed the box, tucked it under her arm, and headed toward the lobby elevators.

Miserable weather today, Dorian offered, glaring out the door. We’re going to have the worst winter we’ve seen in years.

Looks like it. Ronnie wasn’t paying much attention as she was still focused on the contents of the box. She pressed the elevator button, and the doors opened instantly.

Have a good night, ma’am, Dorian mentioned as the doors closed.

The elevator ascended to her floor, and the doors opened. She walked to her front door, removed her jacket, and proceeded to the living room. She was still holding the old wooden box tightly. Shadows danced across the walls and furniture. The lights were off, and she stood near the bank of windows, gazing at the city below. Lights from the buildings shimmered through the gray darkness of the night, appearing as solitary sources of distant life. We spend most of our time alone, she thought. How ironic? She glanced down at the old wooden box still clutched in her hand, turned on the lights, and walked over to pour herself a drink. She remembered that she had a meeting with Eli in a few hours, which she had promised not to miss. Since her mother passed, Eli Grier was probably the only person she confided in. Everyone else had drifted away in the constant reshuffling of day-to-day life.

Ronnie, though, hadn’t done much to continue friendships, spending her time immersed in work and sullied grief. She wasn’t much for company, anyway, she thought, but Eli was different. Eli had been there for her through it all, and Ronnie appreciated her patience and unwavering support. As she sipped her wine, Ronnie looked out the window and admired the city lights that twinkled like an endless sea of stars. She felt a sense of calm wash over her as she enjoyed the moment of solitude, but being alone isn’t so bad, she thought. It’s just the way life is. Her visage saddened, the way her life is. Convincingly, she chose to be alone as she recalled a number of sources that could have supplied companionship; a myriad of ways to be integrated and active in a plethora of social circles.

She had the attributes. She was attractive and successful; she even had money, if that meant anything—which, in this world, usually does. No, she thought, she didn’t need to be alone. And yet, she was. Because, in reality, she knew the hard truth: that she didn’t fit in anywhere.

Her thoughts remained on the subject—forced to remain on the subject. Admitting that it wasn’t as easy as choosing to be alone, it almost seemed like her destiny. She had always felt like an outsider; immersing herself in work gave her a sense of footing that helped ease her harsh reality.

Giving her a place in life, but no matter how firmly she stood, the feeling of not belonging remained persistent—like an agonizing inevitability.

Losing her mother only compounded those feelings, greatly emphasizing the brevity of any chains that bound her to whom and to what she had allowed herself to become. She wondered if others felt this way. They must, to some extent, anyway. But none as strongly as her, she supposed.

She knew Eli understood something of this—or at least Ronnie’s sense of things. Eli was the prototypical people person, always friendly with others and always comfortable with her surroundings.

She wanted Ronnie to be that way, to bring her from her self-imposed trappings and back into society. That’s why Eli was so persistent about meeting people, to get Ronnie to quit grieving and get on with life.

She had just finished her glass of wine and poured another one. Lately, she had been drinking a little too often these days, she knew. She glanced at the clock and realized that an hour had passed. Eli, her chaperone for the evening, would arrive in another hour. She shook her head with distaste. She realized Eli didn’t understand as much as she thought she did.

With a drink, she walked back toward the windows, glancing momentarily, then turning away, pulling the blinds to hide the night. She moved toward the couch, debating whether or not to go out tonight, and glanced at the box again. She must have set it down without realizing it. Sitting on the coffee table, shimmering under the lamplight. She slowly sat down and picked it up. The contents were quite bizarre. An antique hand-blown glass locket, a tarnished compass, an old map, and a card with a phone number with the word Potts.

Why in God’s name…? She caught herself in mid-thought, her eyes drawn to a handwritten note.

Keys to a magical kingdom.

Bennington is a land of magic, mysticism, and adventure lost to time. It is home to wizards, warriors, knights, knaves, dungeons, and dragons. Magic, iron, and steel. All your fantasies will become reality in a kingdom unlike any you’ve ever seen. Become its ruler, and your life and dreams will be born anew.

That was all the note said. The map showed a warrior battling a fire-breathing dragon, a thinly veiled princess standing before an ominous tower, and a wizard casting a spell on what looked like terrified villagers. It looked like something out of a fairy tale.

This is crazy! she smirked, almost without thought. She stared at the box in disbelief, confident that this was in jest. She reread the note. Then again. She finished her glass of wine, nettled by the nonsense contained within this aged coffer. A real fairy tale kingdom? It had to be a joke.

She closed the box, rose to her feet, and walked to pour herself another drink. As she moved back toward the couch, she stopped to glance in a cabinet mirror—her demeanor was confident, she stood mid-height, her thick mahogany-colored tresses set aglow by the lamplight in the background, though several wayward tendrils wrapped beguilingly across her face. Her work attire could not hide the perfection of her graceful, womanly figure.

She was a woman in her mid-thirties, going on fifty, reaching middle age far too soon. Your life and dreams born anew…

She sat on the couch again, placing her drink on the coffee table and picking up the note to read yet again. She shook her head in disbelief, as no sane person would believe such a place could truly exist. However, the rhetoric being used did not intend to convey a falsehood. Moreover, her mother was not known to subscribe to such beliefs. Why would she bequeath this to me? She grinned. What was she thinking? No person in their right mind would even consider….? Of course, she was now considering the possibilities. She had been sitting there, sipping her drink, and she once again grappled with the feeling of not belonging.

The feeling of not belonging in this world, feeling like an outsider, seeking a way to escape. And now, could this be true? The temptation was almost too powerful to resist. Almost…? She was contemplating doing what no sane person would ever consider. The wine was working, and she stood to walk it off. Glancing at the clock, she thought of Eli and suddenly had no desire to go out that night. She picked up her phone and called her friend.

Ronnie, a familiar voice answered.

Eli, I’ve decided not to go out tonight. I hope you don’t mind. There was a moment of silence.

Ronnie, is that you?

Yeah, it’s me. Look, you go on without me.

You’re going. Eli was insistent. You said you were going, and you’re going. You promised.

So, I take the promise back. People do it all the time.

Ronnie, you need to get out. You need to see more of the world than work and your apartment. You need to let people know you exist.

You tell them I exist. Tell them whatever you like. Look, I promise we’ll go out tomorrow, but forget about me tonight.

There was another pause, longer than the previous one. Are you alright?

I’m fine. But I’m working on something currently, and I want to stay with it.

You work too hard, Ronnie!

Don’t we all? See you tomorrow. She ended the call before Eli could say anything further. She felt bad about breaking a promise, but at least she hadn’t lied. She was in the midst of something and did want to study it further—regardless of how crazy it sounded. She poured another glass of wine and thought about her mother.

They both shared a fascination with puzzles and challenges others would avoid or find difficult. She shook her head. Her mother wouldn’t want her indulging in a dream that couldn’t possibly be real. She paused, struck by the realization of that thought. She picked up her drink, headed back toward the sofa, grabbed the letter, and reread it.

Ronnie was late getting to work that morning, and by the time she did arrive, her disposition was less than pleasant. The conditions at work were a mess, and the looks directed at her by the other employees suggested that this was how things operated here and that she just needed to accept it. She did not choose to accept it; however, she outright refused to accept it and, by God, was tired of the entire scene. On the other hand, there wasn’t much she could do about it. So, frustrated, she went to work, greeted the other coworkers with a mumbled hello, and headed toward the office.

Not more than five minutes later, Eli broke the silence.

Well, well, we’re a bundle of joy this morning, aren’t we? her friend taunted gleefully.

Yeah, that’s me, she mockingly agreed, Joy to the world.

Working here isn’t going so well, is it?

Nope, I’m stuck at this position until hell freezes over and pigs fly. Shaking her head, What a wonderful life.

Hey, it’s a living, right? Besides, we all have to start somewhere.

Well, I’m fed up with it.

Do you know what your problem is, Ronnie?

I should. You’ve told me more times than I can count.

Then why don’t you listen? You keep trying to change the things you have no control over.

Eli…

"Your mother’s death and the way this company

works—you can’t change those things. Ronnie, not now, not ever. You’re wrecking your life. Do you know that?"

Ronnie brushed Eli aside, I do not know that. I know nothing will bring my mother back—I’ve accepted that, but maybe I can fix the workings of this company.

You should listen to yourself sometimes, Eli sighed. If you want to wage a one-person war with the system in an attempt to change it, fine. But a little moderation would serve you well. Some time off now and then might prevent you from burning out completely. Make time for some of life’s less pressing issues, okay?

Ronnie nodded, Okay, but I’m not good at life’s less pressing issues.

Eli grins, Tell me about it. Now let’s change the subject and discuss something more important—why did you cancel last night? Believe it or not, a few people were concerned about you—they missed seeing you.

They must be desperate for company then.

Eli sighs, maybe. What was so important that you had to cancel?

Ronnie thought about it for a second, then shook her head. No, it wasn’t important, just something I wanted to research more. Ronnie hesitated, then impetuously pulled the letter from her pouch.

Eli, want to see something bizarre? Read this.

Her friend shifted forward to grab the letter and then settled back into her chair. Keys to a kingdom…. Bennington—a land of magic and mysticism… Hey, what is this?

It’s a letter, along with other strange artifacts, that my mother bequeathed me.

Eli started reading again, finished, and sarcastically said, Hey, let’s fly out tonight, follow the map, and claim the kingdom.

What do you make of it?

Eli stares at her. Same as you, I hope. It’s a prank.

Ronnie nods slowly. Yeah, that’s what I think too, but my mother wouldn’t prize something so easily perceived as a joke.

Then it’s staged. The dragons could be large lizards, the magic all sleight of hand. Eli laughs, Knights and knaves, sounds like a great dinner show.

Ronnie waited for the laughter to end. Think so?

Of course, I think so, don’t you?

I’m not sure.

Eli frowns, then reads the letter one more time. When finished, she returned the note and asked, Is this what kept you home last night?

In part, yes.

There was a long silence, and then Eli cleared her throat. Ronnie, don’t tell me you’re…

The phone rang. Ronnie answered, listened for a moment, and looked across the desk at her friend. Eli glanced at her phone, stood up, and jammed it into her back pocket. Well, enough for now. I’ve got to get some work done. See you later.

Ronnie left work early that day and headed to the health club. She spent an hour on an exercise bike and another hour on the treadmill. Mostly, it was simple cardio, staying fit, keeping sharp. She had done so religiously since her mother died. It helped her release some frustration and anger. In truth, it was a way to fill time. It was true that she was unable to accept her mother’s death. She could admit it to herself but not to Eli. So, she knew she had to go on with her life the best way possible, but she never found a way to accept that her mother was truly gone. Perhaps she never will. Frankly, she wasn’t sure that it even mattered that much. She entered her apartment building, greeted Dorian, and headed toward the elevator. Eli saw her as a grief-stricken recluse living in isolation. Maybe that was how everyone viewed her. But her mother’s death had not created this condition; it was merely exasperated by it. She had been slipping away from society for years, dissatisfied by the deterioration of her perceived quality of life.

She poured herself a glass of wine and retired to the couch in her living room, staring out the windows at the twinkling city lights. She opened her satchel, pulled out the letter, and began reading it again. She had been thinking of nothing else all day, nothing else since she first read it last night.

What if it were real? She sat there staring at the letter for a long time, occasionally sipping from her glass, thinking of the possibilities. Her present life was at a standstill. Even if she got a promotion, the excesses and deficiencies of her workplace still exist. With a promotion, she’d still be going through the same ritual disappointments and frustrations, making it meaningless. There had to be more for her in this life. There had to be! She gazed at the colorful artwork bordering the map. The dragon, the knight, the princess, the wizard, the villagers. Bennington. The keys to a kingdom. Escape into your dreams.

She took a deep breath. What kind of Queen would she make? She was mentally and physically fit. She was experienced in dealing with people. She was kind and compassionate. She was honorable and dependable. She was farsighted. She was crazy. She finished her drink and headed toward the kitchen to make dinner. She made a rather extravagant dish, served with a glass of wine for herself. She was accustomed to eating alone.

Once finished, she returned to the living room to get reacquainted with the couch. She already knew what she was going to do. Perhaps she always knew. She needed something to believe in—something to bring her hope and wonderment. Most of all, she needed to feel belonging—after all, that is what gives life meaning. Bennington would give her that.

Although she was not even sure it was real, it could have been an elaborate ruse envisioned by Eli, where the dragons are merely lizards, and magic is fake—a dinner show. Maybe the imagery was an artist’s rendering, an imitation of imagination. It might be as ordinary as her present life. But with nothing left in her life, she knew that the only wrong choice she could make was to make no choice at all. She felt exuberant!

The following morning, she headed to work just long enough to cancel her schedule for next week and wrap up a few small matters elsewhere. She simply said she was taking a short vacation and would return in one week. Eli wasn’t there, so no questions were asked, and no answers were offered.

She was on her way to gamble on the unknown.

Chapter Two

Woodford, Vermont, was cold, gray, and quaint, the rolling arches of the Green Mountains cutting into the overcast and mist, with arching plains shimmering through a steady downpour. Traffic was moving along the distant highways, the lifeblood flowing through its veins and arteries, but the town itself seemed like a corpse. She took a taxi to a local hotel, sitting quietly in the backseat as the driver gazed at the passing scenery. She reserved a single room, resisting the urge to book something more lavish. There would be no luxuries in the Kingdom of Bennington. This may seem like a small compromise, but she needed to start somewhere. Limiting her expectations was as good a starting point as any. As the saying goes, one step at a time.

She took a few minutes to unpack in her room, then reached over to grab the phone. She pulled out the card in the aged coffer her mother left her and dialed, waiting for the switchboard to answer and transfer her to the directory. When a new voice introduced itself, she indicated she was interested in speaking with Mr. or Mrs. Potts.

There was a pause, a request for general information, and yet another transfer. This time, however, the pause lasted several minutes. Then, a new voice politely introduced itself, a woman’s soft yet grainy voice, asking for her name, hotel, and phone number. When were you planning on visiting us? Tomorrow, if possible, as she only requested a few days off from work.

The voice on the other end of the phone offered to provide all the information requested within a few hours, and she could stop by and pick it up at her convenience. That would be perfect, until then. The line went dead. She stared at the phone for a moment, then hung up.

She went to the lobby, purchased a tourism guide, and went to the bar and ordered a few drinks—glasses of wine, per the norm—and then headed for dinner. As she ate, she scanned the magazine sections without interest, as her mind was fixated elsewhere. By seven that night, she was back in her room, casually watching the local news and wondering how people had become so divided in this world. Afterward, a variety show began to air, but it became background noise as her mind was distracted by the sudden realization of who she was and what she was doing. She had thought about it dozens of times over the last few days, but the same nagging uncertainty still haunted her.

Did she really know what she was getting herself into? Did she really appreciate what she was doing? Like every other time she asked herself this question, the answer was yes! She knew what she was doing. Yes! She did appreciate what she was getting herself into. At least, as far as she could convince herself, that is. One step at a time, she remembered the old adage, one step at a time.

She knew she would be leaving a lot behind her if she went and this Kingdom of Bennington proved to be real, but most of that loss would be in creature comforts and materialism, both of which mattered little to her anymore.

Cars, trains, planes, refrigerators, ovens, phones, modern plumbing—all things that would be left behind. We leave them behind when we go camping, she thought, but such things are only left behind for a few weeks. That wouldn’t be the case here. This was going to be much longer and unlike any camping trip anyone had ever taken—at least, she assumed it would be.

What would it be like, she wondered? What would it be like to live in the real fairy-tale Kingdom of Bennington—a kingdom that somehow found its way into the possession of her mother, which, in turn, bequeathed to her? Her mind quickly drew comparisons to popular media of the day. Would it be like Dorothy and Munchkins and a cowardly talking lion?

Would there be a magical doorway that led to and fro the modern world and the fantasy realm? She resisted the sudden urge to pack her belongings and return home before becoming too committed to the whole process. Because, when you got to the bottom line, the sanity, or lack thereof, during these queries or the future to which this all might lead, wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was her making a conscious decision to make changes in her life and seek something that would offer her purpose of being, something that she believed her life had sorely lacked.

An old adage says: a rolling stone gathers no moss, but in truth, it was the opposite that concerned her. When something decides to stand its ground, it ceases to move. When something ceases to move, everything else passes it by. She sighed. The truth was that those old adages always sounded truer than they really were.

The variety show on television gave way to the nightly news, weather, and current events. Ronnie undressed and put on her pajamas (did people wear pajamas in magical kingdoms?), brushed her teeth (how do they brush their teeth?), turned off the television, and went to bed.

She awoke early that morning, always sleeping poorly on the first day in a new place. She showered, dressed, and headed toward the lobby, where she purchased the morning newspaper and headed for breakfast in a local eatery. The day was slate gray and cold; the rains had moved on. She casually strolled along the quaint countryside, letting the autumn chill bring her fully awake.

Walking a short block, she noticed the old establishments had undergone some obvious remodeling. The aged stone facades give way to a more modern look of plate-glass displays lining the walkways, filled with mannequins with blank stares and frozen smiles.

The late-morning traffic on the road seemed to drive by unsmiling and unseeing. As she strolled along the line of windows, she came upon a recessed entryway that offered a set of double doors, which led to a weathered foyer and the lobby within.

The ground floor lay bare before her, yawning, polished, sterile. Rows of metal and glass desks and silver filled the halls, shimmering and shining beneath a deluge of fluorescent lighting. A handful of employees worked at their desks while a few more professionally dressed individuals gazed upon them. No one seemed interested in generating a discussion, which gave off the appearance of some abstruse ritual.

She glanced about. To her right, an escalator rose through the ceiling to the floor above. On her left was an elevator along the distant wall. Straight ahead, where even the most befuddled of guests would not fail to see, a glass-encased directory announcing the departments and which offices they could be found. She took a moment and glanced over the directory. There was no listing for the agent she had spoken to on the phone.

She hadn’t really expected there would be. The offices were arranged alphabetically. Under the letter C, she found the heading, customer service—third floor.

Fair enough, she thought—she would start there. She angled her way over to the elevators, caught one standing open, and took it to the third floor.

She stepped from the elevator into a greeting area comfortably furnished with oversized chairs and couches and fronted by a large, wraparound desk and computer station. An attractive, fortyish woman sat behind the desk, engrossed in a phone conversation. She finished her conversation, hung up the phone, and smiled pleasantly.

Good morning. May I help you?

She nodded, My name is Ronnie; I made an appointment yesterday with a Mr. or Mrs. Potts.

She may have imagined it, but she thought the secretary’s smile faded slightly. Yes, ma’am. Mr. Potts doesn’t work out of this office. His office is on the floor above.

The floor above?

Yes, ma’am. She pointed to a different elevator in an alcove to the right. Press button four, and it will take you to the right office. I’ll call the receptionist to let them know you’re on the way.

Thank you. She hesitated. This office will be the travel advisory board?

Yes, ma’am.

I ask because your directory lists the advisory board on this floor.

The receptionist tussled her hair nervously. Ma’am, we post no listing for the advisory board. They prefer that any inquiries go through us first. She flashed a quick smile as she reached for the phone. I will call up for you, Ronnie. She pointed to the second elevator. They will be expecting you when you arrive. Goodbye.

In response, she said goodbye, walked toward the elevator, and pushed button 4. The doors closed as she glanced at the receptionist, who was covertly staring at her while speaking on the phone.

The elevator rose in silence, only listening to the sounds of the machinery. Only four buttons were on the panel next to the door, numbered I, II, III, and IV. They stayed dark as the elevator rose, then began light in sequence. The elevator did not stop for anyone along the way. Ronnie almost wished that it had done so. She was beginning to feel like she had just entered the Haunted Mansion.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and she found herself back in a reception area almost identical to the one she had just left. This time, however, the secretary was an older woman in her sixties ardently engaged in filing and arranging a stack of papers on her desk. At the same time, a similarly elderly man stood over her. His back faced the elevator, and his voice filled with anger.

…don’t have to do everything that old bastard tells us, and someday he will hear about it! Thinks every last one of us must follow his orders blindly! If he doesn’t quit treating us like stooges, then, damn it, I’ll take this to HR… He cut himself short as the secretary caught sight of Ronnie. Hesitating, he turned and briskly walked into the opened elevator. A moment later, the doors slid shut.

Ms. Trudeau? the receptionist offered, her voice soft and grainy. It was the woman she had spoken to on the phone yesterday.

Yes, she acknowledged. I spoke with you yesterday.

She picked up the phone and waited. Ms. Trudeau, sir. Yes. Yes, I will. She placed the phone back in its cradle and looked up. It will only be a few moments, Ms. Trudeau. Would you take a seat, please?

She glanced around, then settled on a seat on the end of a sofa. There were magazines and newspapers on the table beside her, but she ignored them. Her eyes wandered idly around the reception area, a well-lit, pleasant center with solid oak furniture and walls painted in calming colors.

A few minutes had passed, and the receptionist’s phone rang. She picked up the phone, listened briefly, and then hung up.

Ms. Trudeau? she rose and motioned. This way, please. She led Ronnie into a hallway that opened up behind her desk. The hallway ran past a few closed doors and branched left and right—as far as Ronnie could see.

Follow the hallway back, right, and up the stairs at the end. The information you requested will be waiting for you. She turned and settled back at her desk. Ronnie Trudeau stood where she was for a moment, glimpsing first at the hallway, then at the fleeting secretary, then back at the hallway. So, what are you waiting for? Ronnie asked herself excoriatingly. She went along the hallway to where it branched and turned right. The doors she had passed were closed and bore no designations or numbers, giving no clues to what lay on the other side. The fluorescent lighting seems to accentuate the cool pastel colors on the walls. The plush carpeting muffled the sound of her shoes as she walked. It was very sedated.

She began humming the theme from the Haunted Mansion under her breath as she reached the small staircase at the end of the hall. The stairs ended with a solid oak door with a gold plate that read Advisory. She stopped at the door, knocked, turned the brass handle, and stepped inside. She was greeted by a very tall man, over six feet; he was old and hunched, his face was jagged, and his hair was white and disheveled. He wore a black suit with his left hand and arm completely missing; the empty sleeve was tucked into a pocket. His dark brown eyes were hard and piercing, and steadily met Ronnie’s.

Ms. Trudeau? he asked, his voice almost a whimper. He sounded almost exactly like his receptionist. Ronnie nodded.

I’m Stephen Potts. He didn’t offer his hand, and neither did Ronnie. Please, come take a seat.

He turned and shuffled away as if he also suffered from a leg injury. Ronnie followed him quietly, looking around as she went. The office was elegantly decorated, and the finely appointed room was furnished with a massive burled oak desk, matching chairs, and stuffed leather couches. Workbenches and end tables with charts, magazines, and work files. One wall was comprised entirely of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The opposite was entirely glass, but the curtains were drawn tightly, which allowed only the ceiling lights to offer an odd, luminous look to the room. The room had a rustic smell to it.

Sit down, Ms. Trudeau. Potts beckoned to a chair