The ferry responsible for getting Elise to Alcatraz was, to put it mildly, fucking ancient.
She clutched the metal railing of the deck as the ferry rocked over another set of white-crested waves. She’d only done the trip once before, but it looked like even twenty years didn’t fix her motion sickness.
Elise focused on the gleaming white walls of the Alcatraz Aerie in the distance, hoping it would help her equilibrium. Waves lashed at the jagged rock of the island. Hardy coastal plants and low-lying shrubs clung to the earth around the Aerie, holding on with determined roots to thin soil and brittle stone.
Salty spray coated Elise’s cheeks as she stared up at the island and its only structure. White walls and tall towers pockmarked with narrow doors and rickety stairways stretched up from the craggy surface. It was the only place of worship Loft’s acolytes claimed in the Bay Area, and it was beautiful in the brutal, unadorned way the god’s worshippers were famous for.
The last time she’d been there, a pilgrim had been found dead in the boat house. Her father was sent by The San Francisco Light to write about what quickly turned into a snarled case full of jurisdictional squabbling and she’d begged to come along.
She wasn’t sure if she felt pride or queasiness when she stepped off of the ferry and onto the dock. Was it a mark of coming full circle, of stepping out of her father’s shadow, to chase her own story across the water?
Maybe, but Elise wasn’t the overly sentimental type. It was hard to be when you spent your life in the passenger’s seat of a crime reporter’s car or getting eviscerated by your editor every time you pushed so much as a sticky note past him.
She was a dogged sort of witch with a goal. Seasickness certainly wouldn’t deter her from getting what she was after.
Hitching her overnight bag over her shoulder, Elise adjusted the old, faded baseball cap over her eyes to block out some of the glare bouncing off of the water. She and her handful of fellow passengers, mostly gaunt-faced pilgrims, hurried off of the dock and onto the wide concrete platform below the haunting structure of the Aerie. A dizzying set of stairs linked the platform with the structure, but she knew many of the pilgrims didn’t bother with them.
Most who sought succor in the cold arms of Loft were those people who lived and died in their domain — the sky. Harpies, winged shifters, even the rare dragon or two came as pilgrims to the Aerie. They didn’t need the stairs, nor the ferry, for that matter.
She tried not to feel too bitter about that as she began the slow trek up the old, weathered stairs. Her fellow wingless travelers were a quiet bunch behind her. Only the sound of the waves and the whistling breeze of a clear San Francisco day joined the steady beat of their footsteps on the creaky wood.
Salt was heavy in the air. Elise took in deep breaths and savored the scent. Living in the city, it was easy to forget that she spent her whole life no more than a few miles from the cold, hungry ocean. The smell of salt and water didn’t travel far beyond the immediate shore, and unless you were in a high rise or at the top of a steep hill, you lost sight of the water almost as soon as you stepped off of the beach.
It was impossible to forget on Alcatraz, though.
The sea sprawled around the rocky island, full of sharks and rip currents and schools of sharp-toothed mermaids. Even when she had her back to the waves, Elise felt the lash of them against the sheer rock and felt the salt on her skin, smelled it in her nose.
It was heady and terrifying, just as Loft and their twin brother, Tempest, was.
Elise wasn’t particularly religious, but she wasn’t immune to the shiver of awe that ran through her as she stepped under the white washed archway of the Alcatraz Aerie. A single compound, it housed devoted acolytes and pilgrims alike. The feeling of so many souls worshipping in one starkly beautiful, isolated place gave the air a heaviness that settled deep into her marrow.
She wasn’t there to worship a capricious god, though.
Following the plain, no-nonsense signs, Elise and her fellow sweaty pilgrims made their way across the courtyard in the center of the compound to the visitor’s office.
Inside, the decor was just as stark as the outside. A simple wooden desk sat in the middle of the room. Behind it, a harpy dressed in simple off-white robes sat typing on a projected keyboard, her claws clacking against the unpolished surface of the desk.
Her wings were mottled gray flecked with black, matching the hair she kept in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. When the last of the pilgrims piled in, her black claws stilled just long enough for her to flick gold eyes in their direction.
“Welcome, pilgrims,” she trilled. Her tone was dry and professional, but even so, it rang with the beautiful notes of a full-blooded harpy. Scanning the clear, razor-thin screen in front of her, she explained, “The ten AM arrivals have been assigned nests twelve through sixteen of the eastern tower. They are all the same, so do not disrespect this sacred place by squabbling over who gets what.”
The harpy reached for something behind her desk before she placed four pamphlets down. “Those are maps. Take them or don’t. Meals are at eight, noon, and six. Eat them or don’t. Communal showers are available in all towers. Water is strictly regulated on the Aerie, so you will get exactly four minutes of showering time. Use it wisely.”
Elise swiped one of the pamphlets off the desk and, giving the harpy a nod, moved behind the small group to head towards the door. Someone piped up to ask about what happened if they were to miss a meal, but she didn’t need to stay to hear the rest of the harpy’s lecture.
She wasn’t staying for days of mediation or religious contemplation in the high rookeries, nor terse discussion with the acolytes.
Elise was there to catch a glimpse of a rumored visitor.
Following her map, which was printed on cheap recycled paper in black and white — the acolytes of Loft were a no frills bunch even when it came to paper — she found the nests assigned to her group. They were little more than featureless alcoves built into the sides of the spiraling towers connected by staircases and landings that jutted out from the building.
Each level had its own bathroom, but that was the extent of the amenities. The walkways and stairs were exposed to the elements. Only a thin metal railing separated pilgrims from an ugly fall onto the rocks and waves below. The nests themselves were only slightly better off, as they had narrow wooden doors to keep the elements at bay.
Choosing the nest farthest away from the bathroom so she wouldn’t hear people coming and going at all hours, Elise ignored her protesting leg muscles and stepped inside.
They really take the “no luxury, only contemplation” bit seriously, she thought, examining the cot on the far side of the room and the bare plaster walls. A single light fixture built into the far wall above the cot illuminated the tiny, windowless space. The sound of gulls calling filtered through the thin wooden door behind her.
Seeing as there was no other choice, Elise shrugged off her bag and took a seat on the cot. She used her forefinger to flick off her baseball cap and stretched out her aching legs.