And then it hit me like a club on the head. The last time I had held ‘A Compendium of Seashells’ in my hands, it had been alongside another book. The one without a name and author. The one I had learned the basics about angels and demons from.
“Thank you so much, Anthony Shriner,” I whispered to myself and darted from behind the counter to the shelf I had put it last. The library was empty, so I didn’t have to conceal my intended destination behind detours, making it look as if I picked the book randomly. I simply grabbed it from the shelf and launched myself into the chair behind the counter, where I opened it and started browsing through the pages.
I ran through passages I had already read last time, searching for something having to do with wings. It wasn’t until the last chapter that I found something that sounded similar to what I was looking for.
The Loss of the Heavenly Gifts, I read the chapter title.
I let my eyes speed over the page, searching for keywords like wings, disappear, or gift and found a small passage talking about angels that cannot return to heaven for their means of rising up into the skies won’t show anymore. I sank into the text, hungry for any information I could get. Another passage told about creatures of shadow and thunder who used the sons of God’s fosterlings to torture them and deprive them of their gifts.
“Anything interesting in there?”
I jumped and snapped the book shut. Internally, I was tensed for a fight.
Mr. Baker peered over the counter, his eyes looking slightly magnified behind his glasses.
My hand clamped the book tightly as I let it drop to my side casually and turned a little, so the book wouldn’t be visible to the old man. I smoothed my expression, hoping that he hadn’t seen which book I was trying to hide from him.
“Not really,” I lied. “I think I’m gonna put it back on the shelf.” I glanced at the clock on the wall—quarter to six. It was almost time to close.
I turned back to Mr. Baker and pressed the book to my stomach, then slowly started walking in the general direction of the bookshelves.
“Do you like fantasy stories?” he said, his voice a perfectly kind melody. It was a different voice from the cranky rush of words he normally used with me. It was creepy.
I stopped, a bit surprised by his tone and his question and instantly wanted to hit myself on the head with the book for doing so. Reacting to his question like this meant he had hit some nerve. Deciding I had already reacted to his question, it would be least suspicious to turn around and answer as if nothing was going on. I moved in a small half-circle, hiding the book as much as I could under my arms, folding them across my stomach in front of it.
He looked at me, still standing in the same place. His expression was calm and friendly. Maybe I was just being paranoid and his question had nothing to do with the book.
“I haven’t read many,” I answered truthfully, shrugged and began to turn back towards the shelves. As I took my first step, Mr. Baker spoke once more.
“Interested in the local myths?” His voice was too intrigued for it to be by accident.
I stopped with my body half-averted from the gray-haired librarian. My eyes lingered on the shelf I so desperately wanted to go to—out of sight—and put the book back. I felt Mr. Baker’s eyes on my back as his question hung heavy in the room. My intuition told me that he wouldn’t leave it at that if I ignored him now, so I opened my mouth and answered with a question.
“Is there anything to be interested in?”
Myths
I pronounced the words very carefully, putting a lot of effort into making it sound casual, nonchalant. The second they were out, I was positive I hadn’t fooled him.
The silence which followed my question made the air in the room become tangibly thick with tension.
I stood frozen, waiting, counting the seconds in my head. When I reached thirty and still no answer came, I gave a muted sigh and finished my turn to face him.
Mr. Baker was still leaning against the counter like a minute ago. His eyes were fixed on me the same way they had before I turned away.
“I think it’s time we talk,” he no more than whispered.
My mouth fell open without my permission. From the way he smiled at me, bemused, I must have made quite a curious picture.
“But first, let’s close. I don’t think we’ll have much use for more audience.” He eyed me for another second as I stood, still and unresponsive, and then turned around and walked over to the entrance door. His hand dipped into the pocket of his coat, and after some searching, extracted a keychain. It held a bunch of old-fashioned metal keys and one modern keycard.
“Ah...there it is.” He grabbed the card and shook the keychain once, gazing into the distance as he listened to the sound of metal on metal ringing into the silence of the room. “You know, girl, closing is always the best part of the work in the library. It means that it’s time to read.”
I watched the old man, tensed and ready to leap out of the way if he turned out to be an enemy. Right now, I wasn’t sure whom I could trust to be what they pretended to be. A quick glance at the clock told me that it was already past six. I should be on my way to Jenna and Chris. They were expecting me. At least I would be missed if I didn’t show up. But would they come searching for me? Would it be too late?
The metallic click of the bolts snapping into place in the lock quickly brought my eyes back to Mr. Baker. He was already shuffling back towards the counter in seemingly uncoordinated steps and he was gesturing for me to do the same.
“Please, come sit with me,” he said warmly.
When I didn’t move, he gave me a disapproving look. “You’ve never been afraid of me before, girl.” A friendly smile followed his words and he looked the same as he ever did, just kinder—the cranky mask was gone completely. Why not? I asked myself and cautiously set one foot before the other until I was only a few steps away from the counter.
Mr. Baker sank himself into one wooden chair behind the counter. “There’s another one free.”
After another set of seconds I decided that if he had wanted, Mr. Baker would have had plenty of opportunities to hurt me or kill me, so I pushed myself towards the old man and sat down on the second chair in the small space behind the counter. We wouldn’t be visible from outside the library. If he planned to slaughter me, nobody would see it. Probably nobody would hear me scream either. It was still winter and the evenings were frosty enough to keep most of the population of Aurora inside their neat little homes after dark.
My hands were still holding the book close to my stomach. I felt them shake, even as they were tightly folded over the book.
“Well then, Claire,” he chuckled and the skin around his eyes went all wrinkly and his eyes twinkled boyishly—an expression I had never before seen on his face. I felt stupid as I sat stiffly in my chair, awaiting the catastrophe to come. But it didn’t.
Instead, Mr. Baker straightened up a little. He leaned forwards and shook out of his coat which he let fall over the back of the chair, then he leaned back, resting his hands in his lap and opening his mouth to speak.
“Long time ago—I think I was only six or seven years old—my father told me a story his father had told him once.”
Mr. Baker smiled as he was talking and his eyes looked back into the past of his life.
“It’s a story I want to tell you today—the story of Aurora. Not the official story. The myth that has almost died by now. Very few of the people living here know this story, and after tonight you are going to be one of them.”
As his voice became that of a story-teller and his face stayed the calm, friendly one I had gotten to know so well in my first months in Aurora, my distress lessened a little and my spine managed to relax itself in my chair. My hands didn’t move from the book, though.
“Imagine the place we are sitting right now as a huge field along the banks of Fox River. There are no cars, no streets, no houses. Occasionally, bands of Indians make seasonal camps along the rive
r or build small villages, but the land is mostly the thick woods to the east, stretching all the way back to the Atlantic, and to the west, the prairie that seems limitless and only ends in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains.”
Despite my preoccupation, I grasped his picture. The river I crossed over so thoughtlessly every day must have seemed like a dividing line between two different worlds back then. Before I could dive deeper into that image, Mr. Baker was going on.
“Nearly two hundred years ago, European settlers were on the march to conquer the continent, but some stopped here when they saw the good river we have and the incredibly rich soil. They were farmers, they had animals with them—horses, oxen, sheep. They cut down trees to build their cabins and barns, they plowed the soil and planted wheat and corn. Their life was hard, but there was plenty of land and they were glad to work.
“Soon, they needed grain mills and saw mills, which they built along the river for power. They needed blacksmiths and wagon-makers and carpenters, they needed general stores and churches. More settlers came and the dirt trails that lead from the farms to the settlement on the river became streets. The settlement became a town and the population grew quickly.”
He paused and pushed his glasses up on his nose, breaking the spell of his story.
I glanced at the elaborate old tall case clock that stood nearby. It was one of the library’s greatest treasures—more than a century old and still telling time perfectly. Right now it was telling me I was going to be late to the Gallagers. I felt a renewed urgency to get going, and his story so far was nothing more than basic history, what you could learn online or at the history museum. I had problems that weren’t going to be solved by Aurora history. Or so I thought.
“Okay,” I said, trying to be polite. “Although, actually I’ve heard most of this before.” Then, not wanting to hurt his feelings I added, “It’s very interesting, though.”
Mr. Baker sighed, the patient teacher waiting for the slow pupil to understand.
“Claire, this history has everything to do with that book you are hiding under your arms right now.”
I groaned inwardly because obviously this conversation was far from over, but still I wanted to hear about the book, so I tried to relax and not check the time. I didn’t need to, anyway, because just then the clock spoke for itself by softly chiming the quarter-hour.
“We are getting to the book,” he assured me with a smile.
“I know the book you are holding. I know what’s written in there and, more than that, I know the story that made people write this book and I know why it is still standing in this library.”
My eyes searched his face for a sign of a trap, but found nothing but kindness and honesty. Although staying on the alert, I loosened my grip on the book ever so slightly and left it leaning against my stomach.
“What does that mean, that you know?” I asked cautiously. My eyes hurt from keeping them open for too long without blinking, not wanting to miss any change in Mr. Baker’s expression, and body language.
“About the angels,” he laughed as he spoke, “what did you think?” It wasn’t a real question.
I sucked in a gulp of air and choked it back out again. Had I heard correct? Had he said angels?
He smiled at my reaction. “I see you are surprised. I expected you to be. But you have to let me tell you the rest of the Aurora story because we are almost to the angel part.”
I nodded, glad to divert attention away from myself and back to the book. I forced my breathing down to normal. I didn’t know exactly how much of a secret the existence of angels was, but I knew that there couldn’t be too many believers or the book in my lap would have become a bestseller.
“Where did I stop—” He scratched his chin absently and then began again. “Ah, yes—Aurora is growing. The railroad comes in the 1850s and not just for transportation. The location in Aurora is perfect for building locomotives and train cars. Suddenly, thousands of laborers are needed for manufacturing jobs of all kinds. They come from all over Europe and build their houses and churches above the downtown so they can walk to work. Along the river, bridges spring up, factories are built, sidewalks connect elegant buildings of three and four stories. You young people know them as apartments and trendy restaurants, but once the heart of a city beat there.”
His reference to the present day broke the spell again and I shifted in my chair, sneaking another look at the clock. He followed my gaze with a patient smile and drew me right back into the story with his next words.
“Around the same time, a series of ominous deaths started.
The first to die is John Andrews Jr., son of a prominent factory owner, who is found dead by his sister in the family home. There are no signs of violence or illness. They bury John Junior and his father, John Andrews Senior, kills himself a few weeks later—hangs himself.
“Only a short while after that, a young woman, not older than you are, Claire, is found on the streets, her body lifeless. Again, no signs of external violence, neither was she ill. There are no wounds or other signs of an accident either.
“People know that the boy and the girl couldn’t have simply dropped dead. It just wasn’t likely. But as there is no sign of poison found—
“Just a month later...two other bodies. Again, no trace of violence, poison, sickness. The deaths are a mystery to the police. People start to be afraid. Theories fly about the wicked murderer who doesn’t leave traces. Townspeople look suspiciously at any newcomer. Some even revive the Indian legend of Devil’s Cave, which many years earlier people thought was the riverbank hideout of a renegade Pottawatomie warrior.”
I listened to him, hanging on his words like a child at story time. I didn’t know where this tale was going to end, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know, but I was hooked.
“Eventually, there was a murder with a witness. The beautiful daughter of a bookkeeper at the rail yards is found dead on a downtown street by a young man. He says he was on his way home when he heard a noise around the corner. When he got there he saw a human shape which looked as if it might have had wings. He says he couldn’t be sure because it was dark and it might have been the shadows, but he could be sure about one thing. The creature was floating in the air, a foot above the ground. And the girl was lying on the street in front of it—too far away for it to touch her. As he sprinted to help her, the creature disappeared just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Word about the winged creature spread faster than you could imagine. After less than a day, the entire town speaks of a creature that stalks the night, waiting in the shadows to kill its victims without a touch.
“Then for a while nothing happens, no deaths. Just the panicking inhabitants of Aurora and their superstition—or that’s what most of the people would think when they heard this story. But not you, Claire, you know better than to think of superstition.” He gave me a look that felt like he was x-raying me. It made me shift with discomfort.
“Then, when after a month another body is found, the body of a child, the local priest is the first to call for a search. He wants to find this demon that kills people without even having to touch them or point a weapon at them. A mob of people follows his call, all angry and driven by the feeling of helplessness against such a force of the devil. They trust the priest to lead them to the creature. They think, as a man of God, he must have the best chances of fighting and defeating the evil.
“In just a few days, they find him. A posse, headed up by the priest and the bookkeeper, are roaming the town when they discover a human form crouching over a body on the street. People report that he had huge white wings and his eyes were glowing bright blue. He was an awe-inspiring sight, but fear is very powerful. They must save their town, and without hesitation the bookkeeper pulls a pistol out of his waistband and shoots. Now the bookkeeper is a hero and the townspeople, unwilling to think about any aspect of the strange situation other than that they are safe again, return to their lives.”
The melodious chime of
the old clock interrupted briefly. Half past six. Getting late. But I wasn’t ready to leave.
“They just killed him?”
His eyes snapped back to me as I spoke. “Yes.”
I shook my head disbelievingly.
“The killings didn’t stop, though. On the contrary, they became more regular. Dead bodies were found almost every week. This made the bookkeeper think. He tried to find a pattern. Age, gender, profession of the victims, or hair color, skin color... He found nothing. Not until one day a man came to his office. He asked for a word. When he was alone with the bookkeeper, he showed him his wings. It was the first personal contact between human and angel that is known of in this region.
“Of course, the bookkeeper needed some time to fully understand what was going on. The angel said he was a guardian angel, that he knew the bookkeeper was going to be the next victim, that he shouldn’t wander the streets alone these days, until everything calmed down a little. He also told the bookkeeper that the only reason he was showing himself to him was that he needed to know that the winged creatures were the good ones, not the enemy. One angel killed was bad enough.”
I felt my mouth fall slowly open.
“Fortunately, the bookkeeper believed the angel. He brought the priest in on the secret and, together, the three worked to entrap the creature of darkness.
The plan was good and the angel was powerful, and so a demon, without the citizenry knowing anything, was killed in Aurora. But only one—the other one got away.”
“There were two?” I half-whispered.
Mr. Baker nodded, seemingly pleased with my reaction. “Yes, the first one was a short, dark-haired man. He was killed almost immediately. But the second one—blond with shoulder length hair—before he got away, he promised to keep returning until he eliminated each and every single part of the bookkeeper’s family.”
The gray-haired man fell silent. He looked at me over the rim of his glasses.
I stared back. “What happened then? Did he get all of them?”
Black Page 9
