Page 65 of The Librarian of Souls
His fingers tear apart Augustine’s jacket, fumbling and gripping and shaking until the pin is in his hands. I hate it. Seeing him touch Augustine makes my blood burn, but I can’t do anything from this chair. I just have to get Lance away. I will lie to save us for now.
“It won’t work.” I start, my throat seizing violently as I cough.
“Why not?” Lance’s voice sounds almost small, desperate and wet from crying. “Why won’t it work? It has to work.”
I draw in a ragged breath. “You have to take it to him. Bless it.”
There is nohim, there isn’t anybody. As far as I know, that is just an accessory that Augustine likes to wear. From what I have gleaned from him as well, there is no being who gives blessings away, it is always a transaction.
As frantic as Lance was on Augustine, he is more frantic when he grabs onto me. He rips the tape from my body, and I scream. My skin burns, but air rushes through my body and makes my head swim all the more. I slump harder into the floor.
“Take me. Take me to him now. You owe me.”
Lance doesn’t give me a choice. Grunting, he pulls me up. My aching arm is tossed over his shoulder, and the sands surround me. They’re warm, so soft and gentle on my skin it is almost soothing. Lance half drags me to the door, my knees buckling every time I try to step forward.
“That way.” I point him in the opposite direction of the lifts, and he doesn’t even question it. I am taking us to that tunnel because I don’t know what else to do. I know that is how Nora got into the building, so maybe Lance will get lost in there long enough that Augustine will find me. The further away from him get, the more my bond mark aches. I don’t want to leave him alone, but I have to keep him safe.
It takes a while for us to get to the storage room. Every few moments, we stop because my legs have given out or because Lance attempts to wipe away the golden sands still trying to take over his body. I feel like I am going to pass out again by the time we get there. My head is pounding and my vision blurs and focuses at random.
“There’s nothing here,” Lance groans, his own knees beginning to shake.
I blink, trying to clear my vision and orient myself. It is exactly like Augustine said it would be. An overcrowded room of shelves and broken computers and office furniture. My head falls forward as I try to think where the tunnel is, what shelf it’s behind. Picturing the buildings above us makes my head throb, but I do it. Finally, I point my finger in a direction.
“Behind the shelf, tunnel.” My words slur and I can barely string my instructions together.
Lance drops me. I crash into the hard floor and it’s almost a relief. Pain radiates up from my hips and down from my shoulder, but I am alone. Metal screeches across the floor suddenly and then all is quiet again. He doesn’t move the shelf back, he doesn’t say goodbye, he doesn’t need me any more. Lance stumbles into the darkened tunnel while I lay here, forgotten.
Gold fills my vision slowly. The sands that once covered Lance are now coming for me. I shake as they softly cover me, warmth radiating from them like the first sunny day of spring. There is nothing I can do but wait, and as if my brain knows what I really need, my eyelids droop.
***
This isn’t my dream.Something about this version of the library screams it isn’t built for me. The curtains seem heavier, and the art of the walls looms more, darker and quieter. The only light here seeps out from under a shut door. As I approach it, I see the thin brass plaque that says “The Librarian” in a stamped font. My knock echoes around the vast expanse of the library, off the towering shelves and into the great depths I can’t even see.
“Enter.” Augustine’s voice is quiet, yet booms through his library and vibrates my whole being.
As I turn the handle and enter the room, fabric rustles around me and I feel the weight of what I am wearing. I look down and see lush, vibrant green chiffon and silk draped across my body in a style I can’t place but know it’s Augustine’s doing. Even with the unwieldy train behind I can’t help but smile when I look up.
My monster, my boogeyman sits behind his desk, with a cup of tea in one hand and a book in the other. Another steaming cup sits across from him in front of a sturdy chair. He hasn’t looked up from his book yet, his brow set in a hard line that tells me he is trying to solve a puzzle that is truly stumping him. Carefully, I take my seat and wait for him. The tea in front of me smells like flowers and honey, and the smile on my face stretches even wider.
This feels so right and normal, like this is where I am supposed to be. My chest flutters and fresh tears well up behind my eyes. I want to spend eternity with Augustine, watching him, surrounded by him. Everything about this is perfect.
“Mon abeille,” Augustine sighs, setting his teacup down. “I am sorry to keep you waiting, but I am trying to understand why this book arrived at my library. I have not taken this soul, yet here it sits.”
“Whose is it?” I ask, picking up the biscuit on my saucer.
“Well, I do not know. I cannot see a name attributed to this-this action man thriller? Gods, is this what modern men read now?” He gesticulates, the paperback flopping his hand before he tosses it down.
The cover looks like something from an airport or that would be promoted at the checkout aisles of a grocery store. It’s over-saturated but still dark and has big, bold letters on it. There isn’t a title, but clear as day on the cover is the author, the soul whose story is told in this book.
Lance Jameson
I choke on crumbs in my mouth. Guilt swells in my stomach as I try to swallow down all the other feelings churning inside me. He’s dead. Lance had been a friend, or a mentor at least, and he is dead now. It… it’s my fault. It has to be, right?
On instinct, I pick up the book, ready to flip it all the way to the end of it. The moment my hand touches the cover, gold sands burst from my fingers. They buzz and dance across the cover of the book until the font is gilded and the cover designed anew. A classic noir mystery novel with a darkened character on the cover holding a smoking gun and walking into a tunnel. A book I would have devoured as a teenager when I had the time and will.
“Fuck.”
My heart pounds against my chest. I drop the book back on the desk, my empty hand reaching for my throat, my mark, but when they get close to my skin, I panic. What if the gold sands come for me? They know I don’t belong too. They are gonna turn me into something else.
