Page 80 of Girl, Unseen

‘Holy sh…’ Ella muttered as she fumbled for her phone and then cursed the backwoods and their crappy cell service. She scrolled for Luca’s number, but then a creak from the doorway froze her in place.

She whirled, hand flying to her Glock.

But instead of a ritualistic psychopath or a mission-oriented serial killer, she saw a familiar face.

‘Felix?’

The kid stared at her from the doorway, but he wasn’t the angry young man who'd fought her in the barn. Nor the sullen suspect who'd sat in interrogation.

This Felix looked hollowed out, like something vital had been scooped from his chest and replaced with shadows.

Then his face crumpled, and the tears began to flow.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

Luca had talked his way in and out of plenty of sticky situations before – sweet-talking witnesses, smooth-talking waitresses, even charming the sour-faced secretary back at HQ – but conning his way into NYU's archives was a new level of hustle, even for him.

The woman who approached him looked like she'd been vacuum-sealed in tweed. She introduced herself as Dr. Patricia Warner, and her salt-and-pepper hair had been pulled back so tight it made Luca's own scalp ache in sympathy.

‘Dean Harper said to expect you.’ Warner's glasses perched on the tip of her nose like they'd been magnetized there. ‘Though I must say, the FBI doesn't usually take an interest in our restricted collection.’

‘First time for everything.’

His charm offensive with Dean Harper had worked better than expected. Her resistance had melted under the combined assault of official credentials and what Luca’s mother called his silver tongue. Harper had even expedited the paperwork, though Luca suspected that had more to do with the dean wanting to stay on the Bureau's good side than any real desire to help.

Now, here he stood, following Warner down a spiral staircase that belonged in a Victorian ghost story.

‘These texts are quite delicate.’ Warner pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves at the bottom of the stairs. She offered him an identical pair. ‘Some are hundreds of years old.’

‘I'll treat them like newborns.’

‘See that you do. Is there anything specific you’re looking for?’

The archivist had that look Luca recognized from a dozen bookish types. The kind who'd rather spend their days communing with dead poets than alive normal people.

'Yes, actually. But I don't know what,' Luca lied. He wasn't about to say the name of the book in question, just in case the Order had ears around these parts. For all he knew, there were still seven cultists out there who might gun him down on Ezra Crowley's orders.

‘Very well. Any section in particular?’ asked Warner.

‘The alchemy section, if such a thing exists.’

Warner unlocked the basement door with a comically-large key and pushed it open. ‘No alchemy section, but lots of books relating to magick, mysticism, astrology. The books are ordered by subject and period, so you might need to search a little to find what you’re looking for.’

‘Got it. You have English translations in here?’

‘Plenty. Remember that most of these volumes are irreplaceable. Some are the only surviving copies in North America. The University takes their preservation very seriously.’

‘I’ll be a perfect gentleman.’

Warner's expression suggested she'd heard that one before. She led him inside, past shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes where Medieval Latin gave way to Renaissance Italian. Greek texts sprouted between German translations. Some pure English, thank God.

‘I’ll leave you be. I'll be outside if you need anything.’

Luca nodded his thanks, turned to the shelves and began his search. The restricted section sprawled before him like some bibliophile's fever dream. This was no sterile modern library with its neat rows and perfect organization. The collection inhabited a kind of organized chaos that probably only made sense to its curators.

The most delicate specimens seemed to be in glass-fronted cabinets against the walls. Leather volumes lay on velvet cushions, their spines boasting titles in faded gilt that Luca could barely make out. Some volumes looked ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

The main shelving units formed a maze in the center of the room. Dark wood rather than institutional metal, with brass plaques marking different sections. Unlike the preserved specimens in their glass coffins, these books stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the shelves. Some leaned drunkenly against their neighbors. Others lay flat, too fragile to stand upright.

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