Page 1 of The Librarian of Souls
1
Augustine
2752 days
The seventies were a disgusting era of interior design. The 1970s, that is. I am quite fond of the 1870s design choices. The grandeur of it all, how the decor could overwhelm the senses in such a deliciously satisfying way. Haughty socialites would gawk and squawk about the distance that piece had travelled or how much Lord Barrington had paid for that particularly risqué statue in his study. The era was rife with jealousy and greed and such glorious indulgence. They had their faults as well, but the Maximalist style is much better suited to my tastes.
Yellowing linoleum and buzzing fluorescent lights do not, however, suit me. The parish centre basement for Our Lady of Mercy was last renovated in 1976 and truly, it shows. Orange, faux wood panelling lines one wall and against the adjacent is a faded, tobacco-stained wallpaper that used to be a garish floral design. The rest of the walls are cluttered with filing cabinets and children’s artwork of Christian iconography.
Honestly, I can barely recall how this all used to look before that. The years have started to blur together. My age is catching up with me, slowing me down, and making me set in my ways. Centuries of existence weigh down upon my back as I slog through the monotony of living in this modern world. While everything is constantly changing, I remain the same because humans will always sleep, and they will always dream. It has made my existence stagnant and predictable.
A human’s waking hours are when their emotions are the most deeply buried. You can only catch the slightest tang of their tempting feelings in the air as they scurry about. Even those who try to hide their emotions cannot, from my observant eye. The auras around them are dull. They could not even draw the eye away from a boring book.
When they dream, they are fresh. Fear, anger, envy, lust. The scent of human emotions in the dream realm, in my realm, is like walking into a bakery after the first loaves of bread have been removed from the oven. Their auras overwhelm the senses, surround, encapsulate and vibrate with the very soul of their beings.
But all I can smell and taste in this foul basement is the stench of the creatures around me.
I pour boiled water into my mug, the cheap tea bag expanding and floating to the top. Lapsang Souchong is smokey and bold but still not the sort of tea I would serve for gatherings like this. The pine resin notes assault my senses with a harsh chemical quality that tells me this blend was done with profits in mind before the actual taste. But then again, as I take my usual seat in one of the only wooden chairs left amongst a sea of plastic, I look around at the other beings and think this is exactly the sort of drink they would find fancy.
Orthia, the sea witch, sits with her usual scowl and smells of the docks. A tattered scarf is tied around her throat, an accessory I have never seen her without. Her hideous fishing waders are stained with grease and years of defilement. The only time Orthia leaves that decrepit old ship of hers is for these weekly meetings. Her Love, that foul slime ball of an almost god, seems to force her here. They seem to be the voice of reason in whatever storm brews within the witch. Occasionally, her eyes gloss over. A milky white hue distorts her dull brown eyes, but when she blinks again, she is less petulant. Since the golden age of piracy, we have dealt with Orthia and her Love’s tidal demands and, still, so much of her is a mystery to me. I cannot say I know her truly, just that her aura is a dangerous black that reeks of rage.
Next to her is our resident sewer rat, or lizard, to be more precise. Ramón is the only male stupid enough to sit near the sea witch. The beast believes himself to be some sort of mafioso, or whatever term for the leader of an organised crime group the humans use now. The green scales that cover his skin are a beautiful, deep shade that looks horrendous amongst all this orange. As he smokes his cigar, the long and heavy tail at his back swishes back and forth as he eyes our other members. Ash falls on his trousers, and I sneer at the reminder that we use the same tailor, that we have the same tastes yet are completely different in regards to our needs.
Off to the side, one of our newer members, an awkward ghoul of sorts, speaks with the woodland fae leader. I do not know his name, but I can tell Nora is trying to scam him, get him to agree to some bargain he cannot possibly commit to. She knows she is not supposed to work her asinine fae magic during these meetings, but the shy ghoul does not know. And what he does not knowwillhurt him, eventually. Especially if he cannot prove himself to be useful to our group.
That does not mean I can shirk my duties to our community, to our network of creatures trying to do more than subsist on humanity. If we are to continue to thrive in this environment and enjoy the pleasures of modernity, it is of utmost importance to have control of our appetites. We each have a role to play to maintain the balance with the mortals, a connection to a different section of humanity that benefits us and protects our existence. Mine is to be the note taker, the history keeper, an account of all who have lived in Gwenmore and what they have done. Arlo will be given his role, or he will be forced out.
A few more of the lesser beasts trickle into the seats; werewolves, vampires, lesser demons, sprites, and the lot. The crowd is not too extensive tonight, which is nice for me. I would much rather be at the library than listen to these beasts moan on and on about hunger and self-control. They do not know true hunger.
The craving, the desire, the gnawing feeling in your stomach and teeth that demands nourishment. They have not truly felt the ache that comes from decades of starving themselves simply for the pleasure of continuing to exist on this pathetic rock. They do not know what it is like to subsist off the barest amount, just enough to remain in control without alerting our prey of our existence. Out of habit and irritation, I take a sip of my tea and grimace at the artificial taste.
Where is that well-fed leader of ours on this fine evening?
“Auggie, what’s got your knickers in a bunch tonight?” Ramón hisses with an amount of cheer that grates my ears. I adjust my glasses and remind myself that killing him will get me exiled from the city, which I helped build all those centuries ago, into this hellish utopia before me today. No amount of history will allow the rules to bend for even me.
“I have a lot of work to do, and we are running behind schedule.”
“Books, books, books.” His long, forked tongue slithers out between his fanged teeth. “Why not enjoy your old age? What is it this year? Millennia?”
I want to lash out. I want to let the wispy veins of sand running through me sink into his body and turn his brain into pudding. My gums ache as my teeth sharpen and my sands try to surface. Unfortunately, the reptile feels no fear, and I already know his brain is more blood clots than not. He would be an extremely unsatisfactory meal, awake or asleep. There would be no satisfaction in gorging on whatever soul the rat possessed. The others watch; their little tricklings of fear and anticipation are a breath of fresh air to keep my cool and collected.
Before I can retort, he arrives with his mobile phone pressed against his ruddy cheek. His form for the past few years has been a shorter, portly man with a nearly white beard. As are men of the cloth, I suppose. Through the ages, they have consistently been the men that society deems least attractive. Third, fourth, and fifth sons with no skills or good enough looks to snag a useful position for their families. They are also always the ones most likely to make a deal.
“Yes, Margie, yes, yes, I know the parish council-”
How he puts up with Margie Lawson, president of the parish council, astonishes me. I have seen him suck the soul from a child for crying too loudly. For all his heartlessness, Deg’Doriel is a fantastic actor.
“Of course, god bless.” With a shiver and a smell of singed flesh, the priest skin suit disappears. “Dumb bitch.”
A crown of sharp, short horns surrounded by falsely angelic curls and a good two extra feet bring our little spiritual guide, still dressed as a priest, back to his true power. The demon who first decided we would live under this new world order alongside the humans, decided also starving ourselves for the sake of actually living longer, towers over the room. Sharp, bright teeth glint under the fluorescents, and his thin tail whips angrily behind him as he heads to the central seat.
“I’d apologize, but I’m about to rip the heads off anyone that speaks to me directly, so please, someone fucking start this meeting.”
Slowly, the usual twenty or so of us go through our last week. I transcribe all the meetings and make a note of who needs to be watched for this reason or that in a dark leather-bound notebook with a fountain pen I have had since the 1920s. It is ivory etched with a fluttering of feathers, a work of art itself. A gift from a dear friend during my short stint as a dancer when she first opened up her exclusive club in the city. It’s a priceless piece of history and it belongs to me.
The notes allow me a certain level of control over the lives of others that attend our weekly club. I crave knowledge like this when I cannot truly feed on the emotions that envelop humanity. To know someone is to know their joys, their goals, and their fears. And oh, is that a tempting morsel. I suppose my role is one that I have always been suited to, but even so, the monotony, the same problem presented over and over again, has begun to tarnish my existence.
There are some unsurprising changes in controlled days. A vampire drank a human dry after three weeks of controlled usage, and another wolf killed a hiker because it is spring and the humans are venturing out further into the Trust despite clear signage. The sea witch’s number of days is about to have its annual shift, and with spring comes the reawakening of her Love’s hunger. The Fae are preparing for the midsummer sacrifice; Nora anticipates ten will do this year as long as the wolves can keep to themselves. The rest of us all hold steady with our appetites and do not succumb to the gluttony of humanity.
