Page 14 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Eleven

A fter more than eight hours on the road, Pen finally crossed the New York state line, both he and the Chevrolet Fleetmaster running on fumes.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and exhaustion, coupled with hunger, compelled him to pull into the parking lot of a rundown motel named the Clifden Motor Lodge.

Beside it stood a small restaurant, fashioned from an old train passenger car.

The Dotted Chestnut was painted across its side.

As he pulled in beneath the dim yellow glow of the streetlight, Pen exhaled.

His hands ached from gripping the wheel.

He rolled his shoulders as the engine stilled, grateful to finally put the car in park.

He’d never spent more than a few hours in a car before, and that had been years ago, on a trip to visit his grandmother in a nursing home in Sutton before she passed.

He stepped out into the thick night air and stretched his legs and back, both stiff and sore from the long drive. The moon was retreating behind a thick layer of clouds, and the air hung heavy with that electric feel that signaled rain wasn’t far off.

Pen popped the trunk and grabbed his suitcase.

The parking lot glistened, its fresh blacktop gleaming like newly formed ice on a frozen lake under the lights.

The sharp tang of tar overpowered the sweetness of the blooming bushes that lined the motel’s edge, their white petals catching the light like scraps of paper.

At the front entrance, a swarm of moths braided their way around the light fixed to the wall beside the door. He scurried past them, hoping none would get caught in his hair.

The motel’s office was barely more than a box: a desk, a cigarette vending machine, and the low buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead.

Behind the desk sat a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties.

Her bleach-blonde hair was still twisted in pink curlers, and a plastic name tag on her shirt read Janine .

Her cheeks were caked in rouge, so red and shiny they reminded Pen of a baked lobster.

“Good evening, Janine,” Pen greeted politely. Janine didn’t look up, her eyes fixed on a glossy magazine, the front-page headline blaring, “Scandal in High Society: Hidden Affairs Uncovered!”

Pen stood awkwardly, the silence stretching. It seemed as if she might finish the entire article before she acknowledged him. He cleared his throat.

She sighed, then slowly set the magazine aside, a look of annoyance spreading across her face.

“Must be a good read,” he said. She rolled her eyes in reply. “Could I get a room for the night?”

Without answering, she flipped open a worn logbook and scanned its pages with a long painted fingernail.

“I’m puttin’ you in Room 403,” she rasped, pulling a registration card from under the desk. “Fill this out.” She shoved it toward him. “That’s gonna be six dollars.”

Pen fished the money from his wallet, handed it to the woman, then grabbed a pen from the paper cup on the desk and began filling out the card. When he came to the line for his address, his hand hovered.

His home was no longer 66 Haward Street, where the tin-can was parked. Now, it was Ward’s address. As he wrote it down, a flicker of warmth passed through him, followed by an ache. He had a real address now, a proper home. But it had come at the expense of his dearest friend.

“Here ya go,” the woman said, her whiskey-laced voice cutting through his thoughts.

She handed him a brass key with 403 engraved into its top. It dangled from a keychain stamped with the motel’s logo, a moth with a crown. Fitting , Pen thought, recalling the swarm fluttering madly by the light outside.

“You’re gonna go out, turn right toward the diner. Room’s second to the last,” she told him, tossing his registration card onto a stack in a tray, and retreating behind her magazine again.

“Thanks,” Pen replied, but he might as well have held his breath. She didn’t hear, or didn’t care.

Before heading to his room, Pen popped a quarter into the vending machine and watched as a pack of Lucky Strikes clunked into the tray. He pocketed the cigarettes and stepped out into the drizzle.

The moths had vanished, disappearing into dry crevices as the lamp continued to flicker.

He lugged his suitcase down the concrete walkway until he reached his door.

The number four was missing a nail and hung upside down.

Not promising , he thought as he slid the key into the lock and turned the knob.

Running his hand along the side of the wall, he found the light switch and flicked it on.

A bulb came on overhead, casting a tired glow over the room.

It was modest: a double bed with a sunken middle, a single worn chair, and a scuffed-up table just big enough for one.

The carpet was a disturbing shade of orange, and the walls were painted a shade of green that reminded Pen of his mother’s pea soup.

He stepped inside and shut the door, then immediately opened the window.

The air was thick with the stench of stale cigarette smoke, mildew, and a pungent perfume trying to cover it all.

The combination was noxious. He shoved the window open wider and pulled back the curtain, hoping a breeze might cut through the stink.

As the fresh air crept in, his stomach growled, a dull, hollow reminder that he hadn’t eaten anything since the Coke and sandwich at the gas station hours ago.

Leaving the suitcase by the door, he turned and went back out into the drizzle.

The diner was only a few yards away, its windows glowing amber against the damp night.

As Pen climbed the wooden steps, he took a moment to admire the old passenger car, candy-apple red with aluminum trim, the name The Dotted Chestnut painted in bold iron-black script across its side.

Rain beaded along the roof and windows, catching the light.

Stepping inside, the warmth hit him immediately, along with the scent of grilled hamburgers and apple pie.

His stomach responded with a loud, involuntary moan.

The place was nearly empty, just an older gentleman hunched at the long counter that ran the length of the car.

Opposite the counter, a row of small booths lined the wall, each one barely big enough for two.

A stocky man worked the grill, his white apron smeared with grease. A pretty young brunette moved behind the counter, her ponytail swaying as she placed a fresh pot of coffee on a warmer.

Pen slid onto a stool two down from the old man, the vinyl seat hissing beneath him. He glanced up at the oversized menu board above the grill, chipped letters spelling out the basics: burgers, dogs, eggs, pie.

The waitress ambled over, pulling a small white pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get for ya, honey?”

Pen glanced at her name tag. “Rose, can I get a cheeseburger and fries? Oh, and a chocolate shake, please.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman? You got it,” she said with a smile, turning around to stick the order on the turnstile before spinning it over to the cook. She turned back, leaning slightly against the counter. “So, where are you from?”

“West Virginia.”

“Aw,” she said, her mouth quirking. “The South.”

He gave a half-shrug. “Well, sort of, I suppose.” He kept his tone polite, knowing full well West Virginia wasn’t quite what you’d call the South.

“What’s got you up this way?” she asked, her voice warming as she painted on the charm.

However, it was lost on Pen. He didn’t have much experience with girls, and flirting wasn’t his forte. Whatever signals she was sending went clean over his head.

“I’m actually headed to the airport in the morning,” he told her.

Her eyes lit up. “Really? How exciting. Somewhere tropical, I hope?” Rose giggled as she flipped her hair.

“Scotland.” The word left his mouth with a strange, swelling pride, and his stomach burned with anticipation.

“Oh,” she said, faltering a little. “Not quite the Bahamas. So, what—”

“Order up,” the cook called out, cutting Rose off. As she spun to grab the plate, the old man next to Pen leaned in.

“If you’re headed to Scotland, you’d best watch out for the fairies and monsters lurking in that ancient land.”

Pen smiled, unsure how to respond.

“Oh, don’t mind Lenny,” said Rose, dismissing him with a wave. “That old codger doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“You listen here, Rose,” Lenny barked, straightening on his stool. “I know what I’m talking about. I was stationed in Edinburgh during the war.”

Rose rolled her eyes, handed Pen his plate of food then went into the back with the cook.

Pen looked over. “Were you really stationed there? Not to be rude, but you seem a bit long in the tooth for combat.”

“I was. Of course, I was too old for the front lines by then, sure, but I worked with a team of engineers.”

This piqued Pen’s interest. Ward had often mentioned a friend who did similar work with the Brits during the war.

“What was it you worked on?” Pen asked, taking a bite of his burger.

“Can’t say. It’s classified,” Lenny replied with a double raise of his eyebrows and a nod.

He was clearly pulling Pen’s leg, the sharp tang of whiskey on his breath giving him away. Pen wasn’t going to fall for it, but that comment about the monsters stirred something in him. It reminded him of the book tucked away in the trunk of Ward’s car.

“So, do you really believe in fairies and monsters?” Pen questioned.

“You might think I’ve lost my marbles, but I do,” Lenny said. “Maybe not fairies with wings and glitter, but magic? That’s real. Seen it with my own two eyes, I have.” Lenny took a long sip of his coffee, then pulled out a flask from his hip and added a generous splash to his cup.

Pen was unsure what to make of the man. He lit a Lucky Strike, then offered one to Lenny, who accepted it with a grateful nod.

“We got a package in the early spring of ‘44 at the base where I was stationed,” Lenny began, exhaling a plume of smoke. “I worked in a team of three scientists, examining items the government couldn’t make heads or tails of. One day, this crate shows up, and inside is a flat slab of black obsidian. The back was covered in strange carvings, letters, and symbols, but nothing we recognized. And dead center?” He tapped the air with a yellowed finger. “The Monas Hieroglyphica.”

He paused, taking a long swig of his spiked coffee.

“We knew right away it had something to do with the occult. Ran every test we had, checked for radiation, traces of metal, even ran it through the X-ray machine. But far as we could tell, it was just what it looked like. A rock. None of it made a lick of sense. Then one night, we’re working late.

Clear night, with a full moon, rare for that place, usually rained all the time.

Roger, one of the other Americans, was carrying the stone back to the locked closet where we kept classified stuff.

As he passed the window, bam ! Moonlight hit the surface.

” Lenny leaned in. “Poof, Roger vanished. I swear on my life. One second he’s there, the next he’s gone. Then just like that, he’s back.”

Lenny exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it was, but there’s something in those hills. A strange kind of magic, I’m telling you.”

Pen took a long drag of his cigarette, gaze fixed on the swirling smoke as Lenny’s words echoed in his mind.

The story had hooked him. It reminded him of The Night of the Long Knives by Felix H.

L., his dog-eared copy. It was one of his favorites that Ward had gifted to him on his twelfth birthday.

One of the first books to make his pulse quicken with possibility.

“I think you better get home to Marge, Lenny,” Rose said sharply, swooping in and snatching his coffee cup away.

“Aw, come on now,” he said, reaching for the cup.

But Rose had already begun dumping its contents down the sink.

Lenny grumbled, but didn’t argue further.

He pushed himself up from the stool and shuffled over to Pen, placing his old wrinkled hand on his shoulder.

“You be careful over there, young man,” he added.

Pen nodded as Lenny snuffed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray next to him and ambled out into the night.

“Good riddance,” Rose said as the door thudded shut behind him, wiping the counter with a force that made it clear she’d had that conversation before.

“How much do I owe you?” Pen asked, popping the last soggy french fry into his mouth.

“Seventy-five cents, handsome,” Rose answered with a wink.

Pen handed her a dollar bill with a smile, missing, or maybe ignoring, the look of mild disappointment on Rose’s face as he stood and headed for the door.

Outside, the rain had eased to a persistent mist. His shoes clopped against the wet pavement.

Lenny’s story looped in his mind. Obsidian stones, vanishing soldiers, strange magic.

He told himself it was just an old drunk’s tall tales, but a prickling of unease curled in his chest. Maybe this trip was a mistake.

Maybe it was too spontaneous. Escape disguised as adventure.

“Ward, if you’re up there, give me a sign,” he said, looking up.

Just steps from his room, a moth drifted down from one of the lights in the parking lot and landed gently on his hand. Its wings were wide, the color of freshly tilled earth, with splotches of gray, tan, and orange, reminding him of the rug in his room.

The moth didn’t flutter or twitch. It simply rested. Then, just as gently, it took flight, heading east, toward the Atlantic, toward Scotland.

“Thanks, Ward,” he whispered.

He had his answer.