Page 6 of The Librarian of Souls
“Gents, c’mon, we all want to go home.”
Lance saves the day and blows his whistle. Everyone turns to face us and I swallow my embarrassment before I have to start speaking with authority.
“Okay, hello, I am Joanna Cole. I am the administrator for Concord Construction. Payroll, work requests, scheduling changes, PTO, anything relating to your job this season is run through me.” I pause to catch my breath, sweat beading across my forehead. There is a murmur in the crowd, but I ignore it. “For on-site requests or complaints, you have all been introduced to your manager, Gary, so please contact him first.”
I run through a list of general safety information, explain overtime pay, collect all their papers, and hand out my business card. This is the one time of year I ever really need those stupid things. On a final note, I remind them that we are guests here and that we need to be quiet and respectful of the people in the offices above trying to do their jobs.
“Any questions?”
A burly guy with his hair pulled back raises his hand. “Do they still have canons and shit here?”
“I don’t think that is relevant to the job,” I say, really confused about why this guy thinks I would know this anyway. From the basement, you could probably think that. A quick scan of the walls around here and I can see hooks and stains where stuff used to be kept here. But there is definitely nothing dangerous in the basement.
“Ya know, ‘cause back in the day, this used to be where they kept all the weapons and stuff. Heard it was all haunted.”
“There is no-”
“It’s not haunted,” a sour-faced-looking man shouts over me. I think I remember him from last summer, but there is a newish scar on his face that I don’t recall. “It’s cursed because of some Fae magic to keep soldiers from dying.”
I don’t know how or why this topic came up, but I have completely lost control of the discussion. Several of the men are shouting about not wanting to work on a haunted site, more of them are arguing about the existence of fairy people. Gwenmore doesn’t have Salem levels of fame, but there is a rich history of founding families, secrets, and other horrors that run deeper than the Paspawa River that splits it in two. It brings the community together and separates them all at the same time, as the ensuing argument before me shows.
Personally, I don’t really care either way. If they aren’t hurting anyone with their belief in magic, it’s none of my business. Life is hard enough as it is, if decorating a random tree in the park or keeping salt by the front door makes you happy? I say do it.
But never have I had an introduction meeting like this go so off the rails. It isn’t until Lance blows his whistle again that they finally stop talking and pointing fingers.
“Please leave anything in this room that isn’t labelled with a CC or Concord Construction alone. We are just here to do our job and leave,” I tell the group, already feeling the weight of the paperwork this crew is going to give me on my shoulders.
There are more murmurs, a few pertinent questions about being paid by check rather than bank deposit, another few about site stuff that Gary answers. At some point, I zone out while Lance goes into his safety training. Before I know it, the meeting is done. It’s quitting time. I shake hands mindlessly with a few of the older guys I recognise. There is still a stirring of people talking about Fae magic, about what it would be like to live forever and not get old. I catch Lance talking to the sour-faced man who first brought it up. He actually seems seriously interested in it and I don’t know why, but it rubs me the wrong way. He never seemed the type of person to believe in that kind of stuff, but maybe I don’t really know Lance.
I have never been one to believe in the mystical or spiritual. My mom was a science teacher and my mimi was an accountant, both of them only believing in cold hard facts. The one time we stepped into a church was to take a tour of the bell tower at Our Lady of Mercy, the catholic church at the top of the historic district. The only thing I remember about that trip was Mimi letting me get extra hot fudge on my sundae afterwards for not complaining about all the stairs.
I wave goodbye to Gary and leave the armoury. Outside, the air is fresh and brisk. The sun is starting to set, but the street lamps haven’t turned on yet. Splashes of burnished gold sunlight illuminate the library across from me. A breeze at my back pushes me forward and before I know it I am standing in front of the doors again. My fingers dance up to my throat as I stare at the heavy glass doors that have replaced the old wooden ones. I could go in. The thought makes my pulse jump under my fingertips and I feel a heat radiating from the base of my neck.
Then someone knocks into me on the sidewalk, and I’m suddenly very aware that I am standing here looking lost when I should have been heading back to the office. The rest of the walk back to the office is hazy, spending most of my time thinking about my reaction to standing outside the library. It’s all cleared up when I see my desk. In the short two hours we were away, a mass of emails and papers appeared. For all the effort I put in early, it hasn’t made a dent in my workload.
My stomach grumbles, and I think about the leftovers I stashed in the fridge when I arrived. I could take those home, eat them for dinner while watching reruns on TV, and try to make my brain turn off for a little bit so I could sleep. Or I could eat at my desk and catch up on emails for a few hoursand thengo home to try and turn my brain off.
The office microwave dings three minutes later, and the shepherd’s pie I made two nights ago burns my fingers. I shake my hand out while I rummage for a fork. There is just enough space on my desk to set the Tupperware down to cool while I buckle in for some work. Minutes and a few emails turn into hours, but at least scheduling is done, and everyone is now registered into the payroll system.
I rub my eyes, tears forming to try and rehydrate them. They ache from the strain of staring at my computer for too long. It’s late, the sun is well past set, and I should be exhausted. My body should be ready to collapse into my lumpy mattress and drift off to dreamland, but I know if I get the bus home, that hour of sitting around will only make my thoughts louder. I think about contacting my weed girl but decide against it. I don’t need my sweat to reek of skunk for weeks.
There are options, I have options. Pay checks go out next week. I have a bit of spare cash, so I could go and get a drink. Maybe even venture out of my comfort zone and find some stranger to take me home for a quick fuck. As the thought enters my head, it almost instantly curdles. It brings a gross taste to my mouth I can’t place. My nails tap against my keyboard for a bit longer as I send off one final email to a supplier about something trivial while I contemplate what to do. The ache in my neck from this morning is still there when I stretch. A rush of feelings hit me like a truck when I rub on the spot. Ones that make my eyes close and my tummy flutter.
I know what I want to do. But I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t because that will lead to me doing it every night, and I can’t do that. I can’t make a habit of falling asleep in the library. No matter how appealing a few hours of sleep are. No matter how comfortablemychair, tucked away in the quiet, cosy nook is, it is not a public sleeping area. No matter how attractive certain inspiring librarians are, I will not get my hopes up about seeing them again because that is just ridiculous. You can’t repeat dreams, anyway.
4
Joanna
Iwish I had called in sick to work. My stomach has done nothing but roll, flip, and cramp for a week now. I feel feverish, but when I take my temperature, it’s perfectly normal. I’m more tired than usual and ready to snap- whether in anger or a fit of hysterical sobbing is yet to be decided. This is some of the worst PMS of my entire life.
And my neck still fucking hurts.
I’ve rubbed my skin raw trying to massage out the ache. Icing and heating the spot where it hurts the most for the past week has just made it worse. Even wearing a necklace at this point irritates my skin. I called my doctor, but with no skin irritation, swelling, or fever, he told me to just try to de-stress and get some more rest.
“Drink something other than coffee.”
