by Devon Monk
“I wouldn’t know,” he said archly.
“Okay. I have to say some things or the library will throw you out. So: This is the Reed library. I am the keeper of all which resides within. I welcome you inside on this day, for this day, Death who is Than.” I lifted the latch. “Welcome aboard.”
The door was locked to everyone but me. There was no key to the library, because I was the key.
Lights flickered to life with a soft series of clicks, and the voices in the room sighed.
“Myra,” the voices said, a ghostly, ethereal chorus that was as familiar as a childhood lullaby. “Welcome back.”
I nodded to the spirits of the books in the room. A poet lounged on the couch, one leg over the arm of it, tapping a bright blue peacock feather against his lip as he stared at the ceiling and mouthed the word purple.
A flight attendant who once posed as a soldier and saved her land, walked beside the shelves, running her finger along spines.
Two barefoot runners leaned in the corner, laughing. Birds that were not birds perched in the crooks and crannies of the huge open-beamed ceiling, eyes like pebbles. Creatures that had no names shimmered in the shadows.
A gaggle of old women playing cards argued in easy companionship, a brute in battle armor sharpened his sword, and a small boy and his dog napped on a footstool.
Than entered the room after me and went still. “Oh,” he breathed.
I couldn’t help but feel a little pride at the wonder in that one word.
The main room was the oldest portion of the building. It was lined with wooden shelves carved with animals, magical creatures, angels, devils. A staircase to the left led down, a staircase to the right lead up. The rooms above and below wouldn’t appear until a person reached them.
Rules of time and space flexed here. New volumes, scrolls, tomes moved about as they wished, and their ghostly, pastel spirits appeared and disappeared along with them.
It was a very old, magical place. Built over one of the power nexuses the gods had impressed into this soil to preserve and protect the ancient knowledge.
It should have been inherited by the eldest Reed, Delaney. But Dad had left it to me. He knew how much I yearned for rules and order, information and conclusions.
Since the books liked to rearrange themselves, one volume was in charge of noting who was where at all times.
That volume was Harold. He was the spirit of a very old book which used to be part of the indexing system in the Library of Alexandria.
He’d managed to survive the fire and disaster due to several inaccurate entries made in his pages. He’d been tossed in the garbage and replaced by a new, cleaner index.
Someone had dug him out of the trash and he’d been passed from hand to hand, sometimes forgotten, other times bequeathed, until he eventually ended up with a priest who bequeathed him to a magician, who gifted him to a witch, who bargained him to a god, who gave him to a soldier, who brought him to Ordinary.
“Good to see you, Myra, my dear.” Harold looked like Cary Grant in his glory days. He even had the same rhythm of speech as Cary, and wore a suit that fit him like a glove. “And you’ve brought us a god. Death, I presume?”
Than tipped his head. “The very same. Have we met?”
“I don’t believe we have. Though you are spoken of often and, may I say, vividly.”
“Than, this is Harold, the library’s index. Harold, this is Death, though he prefers Than while he’s on vacation.”
“My pleasure.” Harold thrust out his hand for a shake.
Than stared at his hand for a moment, then gravely placed his palm against Harold’s.
“Indeed,” Than said.
“Excellent,” Harold said. “Myra, will you be having a hot cup of tea with me?”
“All three of us,” I said.
Harold executed a smart half-bow and strode toward the narrow little kitchen tucked in the back. “I have drawn the curtains in the sitting room,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Thank you. This way,” I said to Than.
“Why are your books alive, Myra Reed?” he asked as I sauntered off to the corner sitting room.
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked innocently. “All books are alive. Mine are just a little more obvious about it.”
“Ah, Ordinary.” He shook his head and said no more.
I stepped into the little room decorated somewhere between English cottage and French farmhouse, and plopped down on the big overstuffed chair that was covered in a fabric of purples and golds and blues and pinks that should not work together but did. The chair made me happy just because the big, clashing, ugly, beautiful thing existed.
Than chose the more sedate love seat. Behind him, record folders stacked flat and on edge in the slotted shelves, created a pattern that was almost modern art, it was so easy on the eyes.
This room held the loose leaf, handwritten records and tallies, little snippets and bits of forgotten passages orphaned from larger works.
It was always comforting hanging out with my fellow misfits.
“Do you know how to kill Bathin?” I asked.
“I know how to kill all things.”
“Do you know how to kill his father?”
“Yes.”
“If I asked you to do that, would you pick up your power and kill the king of the Underworld?”
He folded his long fingers together. “I rather enjoy dancing, what I have seen of it over the years. Did you know there is not a culture that has not discovered some form of it? Such a graceful thing, using one’s body for nothing more than the desire to better experience music, movement, and perhaps another living being.”
“Okay. Dancing. I like it too. Is that what kills the king? A dance off? Tell me it’s not a dance off.”
“It is not a dance off.”
“I’m listening.”
“Death is, in some ways, like a dance. Its partner is time. When one falls out of step with the other, the dance is broken, faltering. The partners fumble, trip, and the music stops.”
He leaned forward slightly. “It is a metaphor. Death and time dancing.”
“You’re saying death happens when it’s the right time, otherwise it screws up the natural order. Did I get it?”
“On the nose, I believe one might say.”
“So I can’t hire you out as my personal hitman. No big surprise there. Will you tell me how to kill Bathin?”
“Am I not an officer of the law?”
“Reserve officer, but yes.”
“I read the table of contents in the book you gave me. I do not recall the section on carrying out a murder. There was, however, a section on catching and bringing to justice those who might commit it. Did I misread?”
“No.” I puffed out a breath. For a being who never smiled, he sure looked happy with himself.
“Here we are.” Harold strolled in with a tray holding three tea cups and two small teapots.
“Do you know how to kill Bathin, Harold?” I asked.
“I’m an index, my dear, not a dime-store novel.” He smiled and set the tea on the side table. “But if anyone can do it, it will be you,” he said heartily. “You are a Reed, after all.”
I grinned. “I should buy you some pom-poms to wave.”
“Yes, you should. I would be very good at varsity sports, were I alive. And human. And inclined to sports of any kind. Oolong?”
“Gods, yes,” I practically groaned.
Harold made quick work of serving us, then sat and held the cup in his hands, bringing it up to his mouth now and then. He didn’t drink, but had once told me he could taste the flavor and feel the heat in the steam.
Than and I sipped in silence for a moment while the library hushed and mumbled around us. I was waiting for the tug in my chest to tell me where I needed to be, but it was quiet. Content.
Maybe I just needed to be right where I was.
“All right, so I need the instruction page on how to use the scissors with one b
lade of ruby and one blade of black.”
Than stilled. “Do you have those scissors?”
“Yes.”
“Are they here?”
“Not in the library.”
“But they are within Ordinary’s borders?”
“Yes.”
“You understand they are demon made?”
“Yep. Bathin said his mother made them.”
Than nodded. “I believe that is true.”
“But I can’t use the scissors to cut Delaney’s soul out of Bathin’s possession without the book with the page. Or at least that’s what a crossroads demon told me.
“That may or may not be true. But wielding a demon blade forged by the Queen of the Underworld is not without consequences.”
“I know. They damage the user. Greatly and permanently, as far as I can tell. But I’m out of options. I’ve thought of offering him my soul in exchange…”
“I forbid it,” Harold said gently, like we were haggling over which brand of crackers to stock in the pantry.
“…but I can’t see how Bathin having another soul will do anything to fix the situation. So. Can you get me that book, Than?”
“The one with the page?” It came out as a simple question but the load of sarcasm he piled on top of those few words was staggering.
“The operating manual for the scissors. I think our best move is to get Delaney’s soul back, and face the consequences before we’re either attacked by the king of the Underworld or have that Hell vortex reopen.”
“You live an interesting life, Myra Reed,” Than said.
“Yay, for me.” I finished my tea and had just set it down when my cell phone chimed.
“This is Myra.”
“Where did you get off to, young lady?” Hatter’s voice was low and slow like molasses. All of us were convinced he put on a southern accent to get the ladies. When he got drunk—really drunk—that accent sounded more like Brooklyn than Nashville.
“First, if you treat me like a child, you’re pulling the shit shift until the end of time.”
“What’s the second thing?” Hatter asked, suitably sobered.
“I’m up at the library doing some research. What’s wrong?”
“We got a rash of calls, and Shoe and I can’t cover them all.”
“Where’s Jean?”
“She’s been conscripted by Bertie for the next four hours. If I call Jean away, Bertie will, and I quote: ‘Make you the acting president of January’s Naked Seniors Pudding and Polar Bear Swim.’”
“Chicken.”
“Guilty.”
“Who’s with Kelby?”
“Jean. She figured volunteering for Bertie would go over better if she had backup.”
So much for locating the book today. “Okay. Lay it on me. We’ll divvy the calls.”
“Cat in a tree, penguin missing, Bigfoot sighting, drunk singing by the river, offensive graffiti at the restroom on 24th, abandoned car on the beach…”
“We’ll take the penguin, Bigfoot, and graffiti. You take the cat, drunk, and car. Good?”
“Ten-four. Oh, and say…how’s it going with our new recruit?”
“We’re going to find out. Do the abandoned car first,” I suggested.
“Tide’s coming in,” he said. “Got it.”
He disconnected the call, but not before I heard him yell at Shoe to “put down the chocolate before she finds out you’re in her good stash again.”
“Son of a bitch.” I stabbed at my phone. “If he eats all my good chocolate, I will put him on public restroom duty. In August. During the all-you-can-eat oyster and booze festival.”
Harold chuckled. “No time for another cup?”
“No, we have to go.”
We walked back into the main room. There, I pulled a small volume off the shelf. A very sad peasant girl watched me as I thumbed through the pages. When I found a small fold of thin cloth and pulled it out, she nodded and disappeared. Inside that cloth was a dried flower.
This.
And since I wasn’t going to ignore my gift, I tucked the cloth and flower into my pocket.
The spirits called out goodbyes in their written language, those who were visible waved.
“Myra,” Harold said just before I walked out the door.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” I said.
He rested his fingers on my shoulder. Harold wasn’t a ghost, so his contact wasn’t cold or spooky. Still, being touched by a spirit made of words, a book’s soul and personality, was a heady experience.
I held my breath as a wild rush of knowledge, longing, hope, and determination shivered and rolled through me. For that one breath, I was connected to every author who had held quill to write on Harold’s pages. More tenuously, I was connected to every volume and book they noted.
He was an index, connected to thousands of books, some of them lost forever. The sharp cut of sorrow—all those voices silenced—shuddered through me and then relief, as the new titles the Reeds had entered into Harold took over. We had written in his pages for years, making sure he was no longer filled with death and loss and sadness.
I exhaled, and all the voices, all the wordy thoughts and knowledge faded, faded, and were gone.
“Yes, Harold?”
“I think it is time you read your father’s last journal. Perhaps over a cup of tea?”
I knew what he was offering. He would sit with me, up in our little room in the attic. He would listen to my questions, he would let me grieve my father. Then he would read me something ridiculous to remind me that somehow, even in sorrow, there was joy.
“I can’t. Not…not right now.”
“But soon.” He bent just a bit and caught my gaze. “I think it’s important, Myra.”
“All right. Soon.”
He nodded and stepped back.
I waved Death through the door, then pulled it shut. The latch clicked, locked until I touched it again.
“Shit. I forgot Ryder’s books. Can you get them out of the trunk?” I tossed my keys to Than, and he caught them handily.
It only took us a second to get the box toted into the library. “Sorry,” I told an amused Harold. “Some books Ryder found.”
“Wonderful!” he said. “Welcome, all.”
I popped open the lid of the box and scooted it next to the nearest shelf. “Is this good for now?”
The spirits in the room were appearing, one after another, to stare at the newcomers for a moment before disappearing. So many people and creatures and ideas and concepts popping in and out of visible existence, it was like watching raindrops turn into people who evaporated the moment they touched the ground, only to be replaced by more raindrops and people.
“We will all be just fine until you return. Thank you, Myra, my dear.”
He leaned forward and pecked a very fatherly kiss to my forehead, then clapped his hands and bent over the box. “Now, who do we have here?”
I smiled and turned.
Than was staring at me, his endless black eyes glittering with curiosity.
“Let’s get to work,” I said, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe bringing Than out here, into my most private escape, had shown more vulnerability than I wanted.
Or maybe, my heart whispered, you wanted to see what death could do, wanted him to help you find a way not to kill Bathin, not to lose Delaney, and not to grieve like you are still grieving for your father.
I ignored my heart and left the library with Death on my heels.
Chapter 14
Call number one:
“It was huge!” Mrs. Kestner waved her hand straight up above her head. She was a local who worked at the bank. She also was an avid hiker.
“What were you doing out hiking at night, Mrs. Kestner?” I asked. “Alone?”
Her house was one of the many tiny cottages built in the thirties. This one had an addition off the back. The front room, which had once served as both the living and family room, was now a tidy home office and cra
fting space with a bright yellow couch, matching chairs, and some leafy plants in the corners.
Than stood at my side, observing.
“I got held up at work, and then Georgia needed me to pick up the kids and get them home because Paul was also working late. Georgia’s pulling a double at the hospital, you know.”
I didn’t know her daughter’s shifts, but I nodded and took notes in a little book. “Don’t you think it might have been a bear?”
“It was carrying light bulbs.”
I looked up from my notes and raised my eyebrows, giving her my patented I-don’t-really-believe-you look. “Light bulbs.”
“Yes. Look, I know how this sounds. But I saw Bigfoot. The real Bigfoot! Tall, hairy, ape-like…but with these eyes.”
“Uh-huh. Do you want to describe Bigfoot’s eyes?”
“They were round, and…soft. Gentle. I think Bigfoot is just a gentle misunderstood creature. Poor thing.”
What Bigfoot was, was a kleptomaniac with a weird fascination with light bulbs.
“Well, I don’t think Bigfoot is real, Mrs. Kestner. I think what you saw was a bear.”
“No. It was much taller than a bear. And the light bulbs!”
“Don’t you think those might have been marshmallows? We’ve had reports of campers who lost some food out of their coolers.” That was a lie. I was covering for the big lug who was going to get an earful from me real soon.
“We thought it might be raccoons,” I went on, “but I see we need to get the rangers out here to make sure the bears in the area are tagged.”
“But…Bigfoot. I’m sure of it.”
“Did he stink?”
“What?”
“Everyone knows that Bigfoot stinks worse than hot garbage.”
This was actually a lie we’d sowed into the public myth of Bigfoot years ago. It helped throw people off the whole Bigfoot thing, because in truth, Bigfoot liked his cologne.
“Well, no, I didn’t smell anything like that. There was a scent though. I’ve smelled it before.” She frowned then snapped her fingers. “Axe cologne. I smelled Axe cologne. Tell me, Officer, what kind of bear wears Axe cologne?”
