Page 58 of The Alien in the Archive

Page is trouble. Not just for me, but for herself. She’s curious to the point of recklessness, hungry for answers when she doesn’t yet have the right questions.

And I’m the fool who’s already given her too much—and I won’t stop.

I try to read—and immediately lose focus, seeking out Page’s mind. I catch glimpses of a lecture from a Merati scholar before I stop probing, wanting to give her privacy. If she needs a moment to breathe, I understand…

…even if she’s mine—my mate; mine to touch, to have, to claim.

I get up with an irritated groan.

This won’t do.

I need something new to read.

That’s how I find myself navigating the Labyrinth beneath the Obscuary, heading toward the main library. I don’t often leave my hiding place, but I know the ways—otherwise I wouldn’t be able to eat, to get supplies, or new books. Today, I have a particular quarry in mind.

She embarrassed me when she pointed out my lack of knowledge of human courtship rituals.

I intend to remedy that.

The library’s section on Human English literature is nearly empty of visitors as I slip out of a gap between two bookshelves, Ashlan on my heels. I stick to the fringes, avoiding the central pathways to steer clear of researchers, prepared to use telepathy should anyone catch sight of me. No one pays me any mind; they never do.

Once I’ve found the section I’m looking for, I scan the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of human books. I don’t have a translator, so I stumble a bit—but one has plenty of time to learn languages when you’re thousands of years old, and English is one that I’ve been practicing since I met Page.

Most of the books aren’t what I’m after—histories, sciences, a few about something called “cowboys”—but when I find them, it’s obvious. I pull one of the books out, titledA Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Warfare, and find a lurid painting of a male and female clutching each other on the cover.

I pull out a few more titles, each cover more provocative than the last, and flip through the pages. The language is flowery, the advice laughable, and there seems to be very little emphasis on the female’s consent. The emphasis, instead, is on the male’s conquest: the brooding duke, the rakish pirate, the mysterious stranger with a tragic past. Each one woos his intended with a combination of smoldering gazes, whispered promises, and declarations of undying love.

It’s absurd.

…and I can’t stop reading.

There’s a scene where the duke—shirt torn, browglistening after riding his beast through the rain—presses the heroine against a wall in some shadowy corridor. His dialogue is…elaborate is one way to put it. He speaks of her beauty, her strength, and how he is utterly undone by her presence. He kisses her senseless, his hands wandering with a precision that borders on choreography. And then:

“He laid her bare beneath the silken moonlight, his touch both tender and demanding, as if he sought to imprint himself upon her very soul.”

I snort, earning a chirp from Ashlan, who’s hopped up onto a nearby shelf. His antennae flick as he sniffs the book with curiosity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, holding up the book to illustrate this isresearch. “Do humans actually behave this way? It’s a miracle their species survived this long if this is how they approach mating.”

Ashlan tilts his head, clearly unimpressed.

I flip a few more pages. The heroine, despite the duke’s questionable seduction tactics, seems utterly enraptured. Her inner monologue gushes about his rugged good looks, his “velvet voice,” and the way his touch sends shivers down her spine.

I frown, running my tongue along my teeth. Does my voice qualify as “velvet”? I consider probing Page’s mind again, suddenly anxious to find out if her internal monologue matches the one described here.

Still, something about it makes me pause. The way the heroine responds to his words, the visceral pull she feels toward him…

I reach out to lean against the shelf, a sudden surge of heat racing through me. I feel all of that for Page; I want to do things to her they describe in this book. I want to taste her, to explore every inch of her body, to?—

I slam the book shut.

“Humans,” I mutter. “Ridiculous.”

But I don’t put the book back.

Instead, I’m soon walking back into the Labyrinth with a makeshift satchel full of old paperbacks, liberated from the forgotten human literature section.

Back in my alcove, I dump the satchel of stolen books onto the desk. Ashlan hops up immediately, pawing at the topmost title,Surrender to the Night. I swat him away gently, pulling the book out of his reach.

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