Page 11 of The Librarian of Souls
“… and I can’t find this book by Milson Bushwhipper. It’s about the armoury across the street.”
Milson. Thank the gods, that loathsome druid is dead, but his terror still knows no end. That book he wrote is a beacon to all those determined to prove the tunnels under the city are real and that there really is a secret treasure hidden in the hills south of the city. It has caused nothing but drama amongst these quack historians, but it brings them to me. Food is food at the end of the day.
“This way.” I direct the man to follow me until we are at the full shelf dedicated to Gwenmore history.
“I’ve looked here,” he claims, having the gall to smell annoyed with me. I cock my head in his direction and raise an eyebrow. “The lady up front said it was in, but I can’t find it.”
“Yes, but as this book is rather old and a part of city history itself,” I move around the side of the shelf and roll the ladder across the circular rail to be in position. Still holding my keys in my palm, I select the one I need and begin to climb. “We keep it under lock and key. To review it, you must sit in one of the front rooms that the other librarian will unlock for you.” I pull the book from the glass case at the very top of the shelf and then relock it.
“It’s just a book.”
“It is one of a kind,sir. Do not damage it, or the city will press charges.” I stare at the man for a long moment before stepping down.
“No need for that,” he placates easily enough, although I do carry the book as we headed to the front.
“What is the reason for your interest in the armoury?” I ask, the worn leather-bound book heavy in my hand.
The man walking next to me muses on my question, like he is weighing his options. I am merely trying to protect my property from someone who cannot control himself. His faint aura is a plain red colour and his emotions are being held in tightly. This man is doing everything he can to not appear suspicious of something. By the time we are at the front, Arlo has finished up and is standing off in the corner waiting.
“That’s the freak that ran away,” the man tells me in barely hushed tones, clearly loud enough for Arlo and everyone near us to hear.
“Mr. O’Shea is a guest of mine. Treat him with respect if you wish to keep using the Ravenscroft Somnium Library. We are a safe space for all beings,” I practically hiss.
That is one thing I will not tolerate. For as much as I see everyone below my attention, humans are the lowest. They are lucky to have the peace that they do with beings such as Arlo and me so close to their vicinity. I can smell the sudden rotted spike of fear from the ghoul from here. His emotions are on display for everyone to see now.
“Mx. Meadows, please check out study room one for…”
“Jameson,” the man says.
I hand the book to the librarian and quickly step behind their station to check out the book for Arlo. The picture on his library card shows a young man who is lost. The grainy black-and-white image doesn’t give away much else. His eyes are a little wide, his mouth set in a firm line like he is trying to hide it completely. Checking my watch, I scan the card. His scent is doing something to my sands, as I fight down the urge to lash out at him for tainting the air. He has not done anything, but something about tonight is drawing lines through all of myself.
When the librarian returns, I instruct them to make sure that book is locked in the safe in the front office if the man leaves before I return. I trust them to make sure it is done and follow Arlo out into the night. A shiver rushes through my sands as we leave. The wind is cold against my back, but this is something different. Mistrust makes my sands agitated, making me want to do something that would completely break my control.
But I keep the floodgates pressed firmly closed. My slip-up in my office is nothing I am ashamed of, yet I know my control is slipping. What little it eased me still cannot stop me from turning back and looking at the armoury, wondering what that man thinks he will find in that building.
6
Augustine
2759 days
Irefuse to tap my pen nib against the open page of my notebook. If I do that, it means admitting that I am twitchy and in a rush to be done with this dull meeting so I can run like a fool back to the library. My lapse of control this afternoon may have sedated the bond for a few hours, but now my sands are threatening to seep from my pores like sweat just to be back at the library. It is taking all of my control to simply keep them inside of me. I need to stay in control.
I am not even thinking about that conspiracy quack. How can I when every part of me is screaming for her?
I do not want to miss the plump, lusty morsel that has yet to return to my domain. My little darling has consumed my every thought since that night. It was a mistake to bite her, to bond her, to feed so gluttonously from her, but the emotions wafting off of her were too intoxicating to resist any longer. The fates, or genetics for all I truly know, kept drawing me back to her just like it had before. It taunts me with shining auras and emotions that make my sands palpitate beneath my flesh until my control snaps.
The first stage of the bond is a feral one, driven by instinct that I have spent centuries burying inside myself for the simple fact that I must coexist amongst my food to stay alive. I do not know what will happen if it is ever completed because I have never done such a thing. When the darkness fades and the light of day reveals who I truly am to my fated prey, they have all run. I know, instinctually, what I must do to complete the process, but that is it.
Yet something about this one is different. From the moment I met her and entered her dreams, everything felt different. There are desires that lurk deep within her that seem to crave a darkness that calls to me, signals to the more monstrous beast I keep locked deep within my sands.
But more than that, she craves.
The longer I picked and nibbled at the emotions of her subconscious, the more entranced with her I became. To know her anger, her joy, her doubts, her fear– with every crumb of feeling I gathered from my sweet indulgence, my desire to know the causes of all her strife and emotions, and to possess her, grew until my control snapped.
“I only ate his arm, so ya know, progress and shit,” Ramón says, a chuckle if that is what you can call the noise he makes after that vexing debrief of his past week. Around us the circle nods, but all I can think about is that there is a witness to his antics, to his existence, that will need to be taken care of in some form or another. Ramón should have just eaten the poor chap and saved us the trouble.
Deg’Doriel checks the time, something I have been avoiding doing since I sat down with my low-quality tea. What if she has come and gone while I have been here?
