Aside from the occasional streetlight, there’s nothinghere.Nothing besides deep, looming, and shadowy woods, their own headlights, and a horror-movie vibe, anyway. Without Link's car in front of him assuring the way, there’s a zero percent chance Ashton wouldn’t have turned around by now and given up completely. A part of him is still considering it.
Right on time and out of the darkness, a dilapidated building rises to Ashton’s right, what appears to be an old and long-since abandoned factory. It’s here that Link pulls off the road and parks, in a small lot bordering a strange, isolated doorway that’s set down and almost directly into the hillside behind it.
“What,” Ashton murmurs to himself, turning the wheel to park next to him. This is not what he was picturing.
Taken aback, he kills the ignition but hesitates to actually get out of the truck. It’s not kind, but Ashton almost wonders whether Link's intentions with him are actually good. He feels slightly guilty for entertaining such a thought, even peripherally, but theyarein the middle of nowhere, in front of what appears to be some sort of secret hideout. If it wasn’t for the old-fashioned gaslight lantern hanging at the top of the stairs that’s casting a bright, welcoming glow over the parking lot and the area leading down to the sunken door, Ashton might have taken his foot off the brake and bailed.
Common sense reigns, thankfully, and Link waits patiently, almost nervously, at the top of the steps. As Ashton exits his vehicle and locks the door behind him, Link reaches to straighten the sign that hangs from the arm of the gaslight’s pole. It’s a simple, painted affair that reads, “The Soul-arium,”with an arrow pointing down towards the stone-set door.
“I know it looks sketchy from the outside,” Link admits almost sheepishly, and Ashton just raises his eyebrows, definitely not disagreeing. “But she really is a cool place. Nothing like her out there. Used to be a government bunker a million years ago, but a bunch of rich guys with too much money and time on their hands bought and renovated it completely. You know, just in case the world ever got nuked and they needed somewhere to keep smoking cigars and drinking brandy, yelling into the void.”
“I see,” Ashton says, glancing around. The exterior is certainly unique, he can give Link that. “And… the foundry? How does that factor?”
Link squints up at the building set fifty yards or so behind the door, like he hasn’t really considered the question. “Pretty sure it was a decoy. There’s nothing in there, smokestacks are fake. What thereis,though, is a secret road into the bunker itself, a freaking tunnel that leads straight into the garage. Can’t say I like leaving my best girl out here in the cold, but I figured you probably wouldn’t appreciate having an underground passage sprung on you, wondering if we were headed to the Batcave or something.”
He turns and hops easily down the short flight of stairs, Ashton following a lot more slowly, one hand brushing over the sturdy, steel railing on his way down.
“And how did you come to take ownership of such a place?”
Link makes a disgruntled little noise as he fumbles with his keys. “Long story,” he mutters. “For simplicity’s sake, let’s just call it a family heirloom.”
While Ashton is certainly curious about what that means, he doesn’t press and Link doesn’t offer, finally succeeding in hauling the heavy door open and holding it for them to walk through. Light pours through the crack, and even from the limited view Ashton has, standing behind Link and peering over his shoulder, he can immediately tell that the odd exterior givesnothingaway in regards to what’s within.
“I know it’s sort of weird,” Link hedges, that hint of nervousness and slight embarrassment coloring his voice again as Ashton steps past him onto an iron balcony that overlooks an absolutely cavernous room below. The Batcave reference suddenly makes sense. There’s a matching curved staircase bending around the wall to his right, but Ashton opts to pause at the railing and take in the whole scene first.
“There’s no drive-by, walk-in traffic, and it’s nowhere convenient for townies and drunk college students to stumble in for their first ass-unicorn or four-leaf-ankle-clover at ten p.m. on a Friday. But me and Sam’s business has always been mostly fueled by word of mouth, and we’re good with it staying that way. ’Specially since we live here, and with all the press we’ve handled lately—tends to bring out the creeps. Just works out better to keep off the beaten path, you know?”
“Hmm,” Ashton says, nodding. He doesn’t know. He’s always worked in easily-accessible storefronts in busy parts of town. “I can understand that.”
Slipping past him, Link starts down the stairs while Ashton continues to marvel at everything he’s seeing. “The Soul-arium” is truly surprising: beautifully constructed and maintained, nothing at all like its crumbling exterior facade. The atrium they’re standing in is two stories high at least, with walls and decorative pillars carved out of what appears to be marble. Link wasn’t exaggerating about the rich-guy renovations, apparently.
The wrought iron balcony that Ashton’s standing on is wide and welcoming, wrapping nearly halfway around the room. It boasts several luxurious, winged-back chairs pushed off to one side, plus a low table with a stack of magazines heaped on top. It’s probably safe to assume that this is some sort of waiting or consult area, judging by the coffee and tea bar pushed up against the railing to the left.
As he descends the staircase, Ashton can’t help but admire the nearly double-floor-to-ceiling display of backlit glass “windows” set into the wall behind the rail. They’re obviously an illusion, since not even the tops are visible from the outside, a tromp l’oeil that Ashton finds extremely effective at convincing his own brain that he’s not underground at all. There are plenty of other lighting fixtures, as well, resulting in a soft and homey glow that’s doing the heavy lifting to showcase this as a welcoming space.
Abruptly feeling foolish for worrying, Ashton is mostly just glad that he didn’t run.
The lower floor of the atrium is set up like a reception area, with plenty of plush-looking couches and chairs, a huge TV mounted to the wall, and a full bar sweeping across the entire right side of the room. Link catches him eyeing up the liquor display and shrugs sort of self-consciously, but Ashton’s certainly not judging. It’s clear from just a casual glance that “The Soul-arium” is a lot more than merely the Remingtons’ studio (and apparently, Link and Sam’s home). It’s also a space they’ve crafted specifically to be welcoming towards anyone invited in.
For various reasons (none of which he could articulate at the moment), that realization makes Ashton oddly warm. Considering how and why he came to be here, it feels reassuring, as if it matters. He notices that Link is still looking his way, smiling hopefully and maybe waiting for a reaction, so Ashton smiles back, hopefully indicating that he understands.
“It’s lovely,” Ashton offers.
Link beams. “C’mon,” he says, waving his arm for Ashton to follow as he moves past a tall reception desk and up three more stone steps, through an extra-tall archway and into an adjacent room. Naturally, Ashton follows, curious and wide-eyed, but for good reason. If he found the atrium impressive, he’s not sure that there are words to describe his feelings about the Remingtons’ actual workspace, which is definitely what this is.
It’s a library. Or, itwasa library at some point, and it’s clear that the Remingtons have worked to retain the atmosphere. More marble pillars carry over the theme from the atrium, although these are square. They’re built into stunning hardwood floors and bordered by cozy brick walls on all sides. At the far end of the room is a curtained alcove with a giant telescope featured inside, and Ashton knows that his mouth is hanging open as he tries to take it all in.
Aligned end-to-end down the center of the room are three extra-long, dark, wooden tables, each with matching chairs. Glancing over them, Ashton clocks plenty of art supplies and organized paperwork spread down the length. Link wanders closer and gestures to a laptop charging on one side of the closest table to where they stand.
“Sam,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Kid loves all that digital art shit.”
“And you don’t?”
Link laughs softly. “I’m old school,” is all he replies.
Nodding, Ashton wanders further into the space, letting his eyes rove over the table that, by default, must belong to Link. It’s sparser and more basic than Sam’s—where Sam has cluttered stacks of books, state-of-the-art tools, her tech, and a handful of fidget toys meant to spin and squeeze, Link has less. A few staple reference texts about magical art infusion, but the rest is practical supplies. Sketchbooks, pencils, pens, even charcoal and paints, all neatly kept. Ashton respects that, can relate to it, and it makes him feel drawn to Link even more.
Turning his attention to the rest of the library, Ashton takes in the way that the siblings have divided both sides of the room into sections. Using wooden bookcases that match the tables and are filled to the brim with various works on magic, art, and other, far more obscure and fascinating topics that Ashton wouldloveto lay eyes on, they’ve created semi-private stations that still fit with the aesthetic of the room.
