Seven Infinities Away From Home

TWELVE - Division No. 18, Saskatchewan

Much to Lauren's annoyance, the trip to the secluded address had decided to be taken in Venice's old station wagon rather than her own truck. The eleven-hour drive had been split between the three, with each of them driving for about four hours before swapping somewhere on the side of the road.

By the time they were almost at their destination, the car smelled like nothing but fried chicken and potato chips. Napkins were scattered all over the floor to the point where it almost looked like an abstract art piece.

The third row of the car held Lauren and Iain's backpacks, but Venice's travelling suitcase took up most of the room. It'd taken much longer than expected to get them all permission to leave, but by then, they were just thankful to be able to in the first place.

"There's nothing out here," Venice complained.

According to their GPS, they were only a few minutes from their destination, and Venice was beginning to think they'd been sent on a wild goose chase by that kooky old man. Iain, on the other hand, still had hope.

"That Avaren guy sounds really mysterious, and if what her grandfather said was true, then he's just gotta live out in the middle of nowhere."

"Don't be ridiculous," Lauren said, not taking her eyes off the road.

The end of the path that was just barely able to be called a road was in sight, and for the first time in about two hours, there was a sign of life other than the occasional yipping of coyotes and hawks flying overhead.

"Is that a gate?" Lauren asked.

Venice squinted to get a better look, but Iain just laughed.

"Dunno, can't see through your head!"

"Oh, cut it out!"

Lauren pulled the car up to the end of the snowy dirt road and put on the parking brake. The ground was slippery, coated in a thick layer of ice which cracked as they drove on top of it. Venice looked even paler than usual after the near hour of barely staying on the road.

Something about the place was rather eerie, with the foggy skies obscuring the setting sun. A lake's waves could be heard crashing against a distant shore, and the horrid creaking of ice sheets was felt in their chests every time. Loons cried their mournful songs, and a couple crows fluttered off as the doors of the station wagon shut.

"Wonder what's behind that," Iain mumbled, squinting through the giant gate.

The faint sound of a horse-drawn carriage making its way towards them came to their attention. The three held their collective breaths as they awaited its arrival.

Two pure black horses pulled a matching Victorian carriage along the path. The inside was empty, but a man sat in the front with the reins, top hat decorated with a red pheasant's feather.

The man stopped the horses, who bowed their heads in obedience.

"What has brought you to this estate?" he asked in a heavy Scottish accent, tipping his hat.

Lauren stepped up to the gate, holding the folded and wrinkled note from back during the funeral. The man snatched it from her, clearing his throat before reading it over.

"It's the address, young lady."

"I know, Arken Eternas sent us, sir," Lauren said hastily.

The man thought for a moment.

"Very well," the man replied, motioning to the carriage with a gloved hand. The gates slid open without any touch, and as they climbed in, Venice could have sworn she saw an orange glow from beneath his gloved hands.