A little more than an hour later, we were on the road back to town. This time it was just the three of us, the van humming along the two-lane highway, afternoon sunlight spilling across the woods and fields.

  “OK. Tell us about those…those things,” Ingrid said.

  I took a long breath before answering. “They have game powers, but the STORE said they weren’t Game items and wouldn’t buy them. I couldn’t put them in the bank either. They are and aren’t part of the Game at the same time.”

  “That isn’t possible, is it?” Bhaarrt asked from the back.

  “If they exist, it’s possible. I told Sheriff Harper I couldn’t sell them, which was true. I hinted they were in my BANK at the STORE…they aren’t.”

  “They’re in the van, aren’t they, Will? I can feel them. Somewhere in the back,” Ingrid said quietly.

  “They are,” I admitted. “I can feel them too. It’s like they’re searching for someone else to use them. I don’t want that someone to be us. There’s more. At the STORE I talked to Albert Holmes.”

  “What did he say?” Ingrid asked.

  “He said I didn’t have enough gold to pay for the answer. He gave me a price though.” Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “The price is the soul of a dungeon.”

  “Dungeons have souls? There aren’t any dungeons. At least not yet,” Bhaarrt said.

  “I know. Yet. The rules mention them. Not much detail, but I think they’ll be the next big change in the Game.”

  “So…tomorrow? Next week? When do they show up, and how the hell do you get a dungeon soul?” Bhaarrt grumbled.

  “Will, you look like you know something. What is it?” Ingrid asked, her tone sharp.

  “In the books I read, one type has the main character being the dungeon. They level up, grow, and gain power by killing adventurers. The subgenre is called Dungeon Core. The core is a physical item, usually a gem, that contains the dungeon’s mind and soul.

  “If you find and break it, you kill the dungeon. If you capture it, well… in some books you can control it. Or maybe it controls you and makes you part of it. Depends on the author.”

  “You mean to say that to find out what those damned things are and do, we have to kill a dungeon that doesn’t exist?” Bhaarrt shouted.

  “Will…are you sure this is what Albert Holmes meant?” Ingrid pressed.

  “To the best of my knowledge, yes,” I said with a sigh. “In a way, we already know what they do. The dagger transfers something from a sacrifice to someone or something else. The book, according to Iago, would make him an immortal Litch. It also boosts your level. I think five levels. That’s huge at any level.”

  “But it corrupts you,” Ingrid countered. “Not just to do evil, but to enjoy it. From what I heard at the commune, he took pleasure in what he forced them to do while he tortured them.”

  “Could any survivors say where he got them?” I asked.

  “They said he always had the dagger,” Ingrid said. “The book he bought a few years ago. They thought it was just a book. Not until the Game started did they feel it…turning evil. The knife too.”

  A red light made me stop the van. I stared at it for a moment, thinking. When traffic moved again, I said, “I have an idea. If the items were Earth-made, then they had no powers at first. The STORE won’t buy anything not created by the Game.”

  “We know that. And?” Ingrid pushed.

  “And something enchanted them…something that pushed Iago into becoming a powerful, evil Litch. If it wasn’t the Game System, it was something outside it. That scares me. There are GameLit books where other intelligent beings out there have had Game powers for thousands of years.”

  Bhaarrt grunted. “That means…means…”

  “Means we may not be alone. Or something inside the Game did it. Something fashioned the Game after our computer games, books, and movies. I don’t know who or what,” I finished.

  “Will,” Ingrid asked softly, “who do we tell about this? Shouldn’t the government…the president…know?”

  “They should. And they will, eventually. If more things like this show up, it has to be reported. If we find out what’s behind it and who caused these changes…” I sighed. “Then we tell them. I think the President would take my call, or chat.”

  That broke the mood and drew chuckles from both of them.

  “After yesterday and today, she damn well better,” Bhaarrt said. I glanced back, catching what I hoped was a grin. If I didn’t know him, I’d be thinking about whether I could outrun him if he ever CHARGEd me. I knew the answer. Hell no.

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  “For now, I need somewhere to put these so no one’s tempted or corrupted. Suggestions?” I asked.

  Bhaarrt suggested a bank box. Ingrid said to bury it out in the country, deep in the woods. The bank was too obvious, too close to people. We rejected it. The woods outside town sounded better…especially if it was far from Ley Lines.

  We were nearly at their place when Bhaarrt spoke up. “I wonder if lead would block it? Lead stops radiation. I got some scrap sheets out in the shop. Maybe we could seal it up, like a Djinn?”

  “Worth a try. Ingrid? Does Norse tradition have anything like the cabalistic Seal of Solomon?”

  “I’ll check. I’ve got books…and I can search online. Do you think it’ll work?”

  “Do you think it will hurt?”

  “If it does nothing, it shouldn’t hurt,” she said. “If it does something…maybe it’ll contain it. Stop it from corrupting someone else.”

  “We won’t know until we try. If lead works, we can add the seals. I’ll also talk to Father Stoddard. Maybe bring in a rabbi and a Muslim Iman or Mullah too…if any of them have Holy game status.”

  “The more we layer on, the better chance we have,” I told her. “I just want this away from me. I can feel it calling, promising quick levels. I want that…but I want it the right way.”

  We pulled into their driveway. Bhaarrt and I went straight to his shop, a 20-by-30 pole barn with electricity but no heat, the only air conditioning a couple of fans and the wide-open doors. I put on my gloves before hauling the bag from its hiding spot. I wanted as little physical contact with the bag as I could get away with.

  Bhaarrt rummaged through piles of scrap until he found lead sheets. Thin, but soft enough that his Ogre strength and Warrior strength boosts bent them easily.

  We wrapped the packages in another plastic bag, duct taped it tight, then wound duct tape around the whole thing until it was waterproof and sealed. I cut up a cardboard box to smooth the lumpy edges where the knife pressed against the book.

  Ingrid came out with two printouts. A couple of copies of each one. One rune she called ?gishjálmur, for a warrior’s protection. Another was Solomon’s Seal.

  We slipped the papers between taped cardboard and lead, one on each side, then asked Ingrid to check. She said it felt weaker than before. Maybe every step helped.

  When the wrapping was done, we had two full layers of lead around it. Bhaarrt soldered the seams. Ingrid traced the two runes on the large sides and Bhaarrt traced that with solder. I added an Ankh and an Eye of Horus for good measure. He traced them too.

  By then it was just after six. Father Stoddard had said he’d be in his office until half past. I thanked my friends and hurried to the church, bag in the back of the van

  At the rectory, I thanked him for his help and gave him the short version of what happened at NeedLess, the items, and told him I was trying to contain these things until they could be destroyed. I asked for his help to seal them away until that day came.

  “William, I can feel the evil. Faint, but there. I see the marks you’ve put on the box. Now you want Christian symbols too?”

  “Yes, Father. I want as many different faiths as possible to hold this back. Alone, I don’t think any of us can. Its power calls to people, corrupts them. We’ll have more cases like at the commune. I don’t want that.”

  He nodded grimly. The story was already in the news.

  “What’s more, I don’t want to be the one who lets it loose. I can still feel it calling, even now. I have the most power in the area, and it wants it. I may think I can resist, but that’s the book and dagger talking. I can feel it.”

  He studied me a long moment. “William…you aren’t a believer. I’ve always known that. But you’ve still supported us. I saw you cross yourself when I blessed you before the battle. God saw it too. You may not claim religion, but deep down, you believe. My bishop may not approve…but we don’t have time to ask him. Come to the church with me.”

  In the church, I set the box on the altar at his direction. He went into the sacristy and came back robed for the task. I’m not Catholic, but I trusted him to choose what was right.

  He blessed us both and traced crosses on the box with chalk, then again with Holy Water. He marked my forehead with oil. I expected sparks or boiling from the holy water. Nothing, just damp metal.

  Then he prayed over us, asking for protection, especially for me. He traced a cross on my forehead with some oil he brought out with him and said a short Latin prayer.

  This time I felt something. A presence. Maybe divine, maybe a blessing, maybe just the Game reacting…but I felt it and saw a brief white glow around us. I felt something magical, maybe Holy. I don’t know if he cast something, some blessing, or it was divine, or what, but I felt it.

  The box’s call grew faint. I bowed my head and held still until he finished.

  “William. Go do what you need to do. You go with God as you do his work as well as yours.” He told me.

  “Thank you, Father. Thank you for everything. It’s weaker now. You did it.”

  “You’re welcome, my son. Now go get rid of that damned thing. I hope I never see or hear of it again.”

  Back in my van, I tried the synagogue and the mosque. Both went to voicemail. I left messages asking them to call back for an urgent religious matter.

  I didn’t want to take it home again. Using my phone, I checked the Geologic Survey’s Ley Line map. I picked a spot near a back road, someplace with little traffic even in hunting season. Then I headed home for a shovel.

  In the garage I dug out an old army folding shovel I’d picked up decades ago at a surplus store, that probably dating back to WWII or Korea.

  Fifteen minutes, a quick coffee, and a snack later, I was driving north out of town on the back roads. It wasn’t long before I found the area I’d chosen on the map and parked just off the road.

  The woods were quiet. I hiked in far enough to lose sight of the road and van, then shifted parallel until I found a fallen tree to hide the box on the side away from the road. I cut a turf square, dug a hole, and lowered the box inside. Covering it with dirt and the turf, I scattered extra leaves and sticks on top. Close up, you could tell the ground had been disturbed. From any distance, it looked like the rest of the forest floor.

  I noted the GPS coordinates on my phone, then wrote them down on a notebok I’ve kept in my pouch since before most people started keeping their notes on their phone.

  As I walked back to my van, I realized I was remembering how to move through the woods like I learned decades ago in Boy Scouts. It was quieter and left less of a trail that someone could follow.

  “Hunters with TRACKING could still do it. PokerRun could probably do it. I hoped no one else could.”

  On the way home, I marked a second site ten miles away in case I needed a decoy. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe the box…but I wasn’t about to take chances.

  This also wasn't the place I intended to make its final resting place.

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