330 hasn’t stopped with her Sean Connery accent ever since we got back from the ball. She’s got this James Bond imagining of what we did in her head, and I admit, excepting for the lack of beautiful Russian spies, it was a very spy flick-esque night.
We arrived at the ball “fashionably late” (how can a time traveler get late?) which I’ve learned is code for “330 wanted to wait until there were enough people there so we’d have an audience for our entrance.” Because being covert is a completely alien concept to her, even when the entire goal of our mission involves being covert.
The mansion stands prominently on a hill overlooking the reconstructed portions of Innsmouth. A large fountain is in front, shaped like a fish, around which most of the guests had parked. The front of the house is designed in a classical style: lots of columns and such. Kinda resembles the Greek Pantheon.
We went inside, arms together. The room we entered was huge, and filled with people dressed in their finest. 330 spoke with the greeter, and he announced, “Ms. Lucy Zamyatin and Ms. Elizabeth Wells!”
Wait. What.
“Lucy Zamyatin?” I whispered to 330. “Elizabeth Wells?”
“Yeah; we’re being incognito.”
“Do you even know what incognito means?”
“Course I do. I’m just not very good at it.”
I should have expected the stares. 330 stood out like fireworks inside a church. An eyepatch over one eye, scars on her face, long wild hair, and coming in wearing a tux with another woman on her arm. Whispers and stares followed us. I tried hiding from them behind 330, but given that she was the center of it, that didn’t help much.
We were soon greeted by Mr. Olmstead. I recognized him from his photo on the Foundation’s website, though upon seeing him in person, I had to wonder how many hours were spent touching that picture up to make him look halfway decent. He appeared nearly circular, with a bullet shaped head whose eyes seemed to be trying to escape in different directions.
“Ah, Ms. Zamyatin!” He said, taking 330’s hand. “I was just talking about the generous donation you gave to the Foundation!”
“What can I say? I have an interest in historical heritage.” She said.
Olmstead turned his face to me. How’s he able to look straight ahead, with his eyes so far apart? “And this must be Ms. Wells! A pleasure to meet you.” He offered his hand, and I shook it. It felt like sweat and seaweed….
330 and Olmstead began to chat small talk. I excused myself and dodged through the crowd into a hallway. Look around to make sure I was alone. Fancy place. Really big, too. When I was sure no one else was around, I put a receiver into my ear. “You there, 330?”
“Yup.” The voice came from behind me, not the receiver. She was standing right there with me.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in there talking to people!”
“I did. I mean, I am. Was. Whatever, you know what I mean. Past me’s still busy distracting them, so we’re good. Come on, let’s get moving.”
Followed 330 through the mansion. She seemed to know where we were going. At intervals we’d see security men in suits, but 330 always planned out route to keep out of their sight. We came to a locked door not much later. After shaking the doorknob failed to get any results, 330 vanished. Lock clicked, and she opened the door from the inside.
The room was an office, dominated by what at first glance looked like family portrait hanging over a desk. On second glance, I realized that the man in the suit standing behind the (younger) Jacob Olmstead had eyes much too large, a nose far too small, and teeth far too sharp. Also he had scales instead of skin, which is a little off putting. The desk was meticulously neat, bare of anything but a feather quill, a bowl of ink, and a small statue. The statue was of a hunched, greenish creature with tentacles coming from its mouth and dragon like wings from its back. Exactly like the one we’d found in that abandoned church so long ago.
330 started throwing open desk drawers and riffling through their contents. “Junk… junk… taxes… tax avoidance… cult activity… junk… junk….”
“Wait, cult activity?”
“Yeah, the Innsmouth Reconstruction Foundation’s a front for the Esoteric Order of Dagon. I thought everyone knew that.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Well, it’s not important right now. This is what we need.” 330 held up a bundle of paperwork. “When in doubt, follow the money. Matthew was right about Mr. Olmstead sending our friend Lupine quite a bit of funding. Also some supplies and material from what I’m reading. Most of it’s all going to one place.” She pointed at an address on the paper. Someplace in Maine. “And look at this note here! Lupine’s going to personally be visiting this place pretty soon! Guess where we’re going next?”
That was the point when one of the patrolling security men realized that a door which was supposed to be locked was wide open, and two strangers were intruding inside. Have to give him credit; he didn’t shout any “Hey, you!” or “What are you doing here?” Soon as he saw the two of us, he reached for his radio and started to report our presence. Only managed two words before 330 knocked him out, though. “Time for us to go!”
Our escape could have been better planned. I had to lose my shoes and, after a lot of arguing with myself, tear part of my dress (necessary sacrifices, I suppose…) before I could run with 330. Nice as that outfit was, if I’m going to keep ending up in this sort of situation, I think I’ll need to stick with pants from now on. Two more guards tried to stop us, but 330 appeared behind them, disarmed them, and tossed them aside before they could do anything.
We went out through a window, but the grounds were covered with security men looking for us. Rather than try to get through, we climbed up the side of the mansion, onto the roof. No one was looking up there. We sat on that roof together, watching the stars over the town, while the people below us grew increasingly frustrated in their futile search. At some point I dozed off; woke up with my head leaning on 330’s shoulder and her telling me that it was time to leave. They’d given up looking, so we could sneak away. Almost didn’t want to leave that roof, but we’ve got things do to.
-Lisa
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