Page 31 of Tempest Blazing
"Please, call me Garanth. Thank you for accommodating my schedule."
Click-click-click. My pen tapped against my notepad—nervous habit I'd never managed to shake. "Of course. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?"
"I'm fine, thank you." He settled into the chair across from me, eyes scanning the upper level like he was cataloging exits. "Interesting choice of venue. I would have expected somewhere more... formal for an academic interview."
Something cold brushed the back of my neck. I smiled, setting down the recording device. "The Library values authenticity over formality. Speaking of which, I'd like to record our conversation if that's all right? It helps ensure accuracy for the archives."
"Certainly." He nodded toward the device. "Quite a sophisticated piece of equipment for a library."
"We have some talented artificers on staff." I clicked the record button, watching the small crystal flare amber. "So, before wedive into the formal questions, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? How you got started?"
Garanth relaxed slightly, settling back in his chair. "Well, I started boxing young. Family tradition, you might say. My father ran a gym, nothing fancy, but it kept food on the table."
Too easy. Too smooth. His manner was conversational, nothing about him screaming 'underground criminal.' But that smoothness—it reminded me of my mother buttering me up before the next emotional gut punch.
"And this was all pre-Unveiling?" I asked, scribbling notes.
"Oh yes, long before humans knew we existed. Different world back then." He smiled, all nostalgic warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "Had to be careful about showing too much strength, too much speed. The underground circuits were the only place we could really let loose."
I found myself leaning forward despite every instinct screaming not to. "That must have been challenging, hiding such a big part of yourself."
"Indeed. But we managed. Had to, really."
"How did you transition from fighting to... well, the business side of things?"
He launched into his story—injury, numbers, organizing instead of fighting. His delivery was smooth, practiced. Too practiced. Each answer felt rehearsed, like he'd told this exact story a hundred times before to a hundred different marks.
My pen grew heavier with each evasion. Every response circled back to nothing—vague dates, unnamed locations, convenient gaps in memory. Like watching a play instead of having a conversation.
In the window's reflection, I caught Draven at his table, posture loose but eyes locked on us like a hawk watching prey.
"Fascinating," I said after another vaguely worded response about his business practices. "And you've kept connections to those networks?"
"One never truly leaves that world." That smile again—all surface, no depth. "Though I'm curious—how did someone in your position come to be interested in this particular aspect of supernatural history?"
"The Dragonne Library has extensive archives, but we've noticed gaps in certain areas—"
"The Dragonne Library." Something flickered behind his eyes. Sharp. Interested. "How interesting. I'd heard they'd hired their first human librarian."
My throat tightened. I kept my voice neutral. "That's right."
"Though..." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he was solving. "I believe you're more than just a librarian now, aren't you?"
The words hit like ice water. For just a second, I could have sworn his eyes flashed red in the café lighting.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Oh, forgive me. Perhaps I'm mistaken. But word travels in certain circles about... unusual developments at the Dragonne Library. Rumors of something unprecedented happening there." His tone stayed conversational, but predatory hunger flickered in his gaze. "Such interesting times we live in. You must be at the center of quite a few changes."
My blood turned to slush. I'd never mentioned anything beyond my librarian role. Never even hinted at Thalon. The interview suddenly felt like a trap snapping shut around my ankles.
Movement in my peripheral vision—Draven shifting forward, tension coiling through his frame. He'd noticed the change too.
"We're getting off topic," I said, voice steadier than my racing pulse. "About your current business ventures—"
"Of course. My apologies." But his smile had teeth now. Less salesman, more predator.
We continued the dance—me pushing for real information, him deflecting with practiced ease. Frustration clawed up my throat with each non-answer, each deflection that led nowhere. He was playing with me, and we both knew it.
