by Angie West
***
The library was actually more of a study. Built in pine shelves lined the walls and held a multitude of volumes. The room also held an antique-looking oak desk and matching chair, two chaise lounges, and four padded high-back chairs. I chose a piece of stationery and a pen from the desk and set them on the end table next to the chaise lounge while I searched for the books I needed. The next logical step in my journey would be to locate the meadow. It wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about Kahn, too, I thought. Rule number one. Know your enemy; although, in this case, I had to admit that I was terribly outmatched by my opponent.
I selected two world history books and a map and curled up in the chaise to read. I lost track of time and was surprised when Marta knocked on the door with a mug of coffee and a plateful of oatmeal cookies.
“Doing a little light reading?”
“Something like that.” I bit into a soft, chewy cookie. “Thanks.”
She nodded and lingered in the doorway.
“Is something wrong?” I set the book down.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Fine.” I assured her.
I must not have looked convincing, because she lingered a moment longer before finally shutting the door.
I downed half of the coffee in one large gulp and turned my attention back to the volume I had been reading. I skimmed through the last six chapters and set it aside. It made for interesting reading, but unfortunately it mentioned very little about Kahn, and what it did mention was nothing I didn’t already know.
The second book wasn’t much better. There were plenty of horror stories and accounts of the war, but very little of it was helpful to me. Or was it? I perked up when I came to the chapter about the revolution years. The revolutions had lasted for twenty-five years before the Matrons had intervened and created the protected zones.
But before that, during the revolutions, speculation was rampant about the formidable king—and something called a shadow man, which I understood to be a kind of adviser to the king. I read with rapt attention the second-hand accounts of those who had tried to take Kahn out of power. Every attempt seemed to end in a miserable failure—except one. I double checked the date and flipped a few pages back. One month before the Matrons intervened.
This particular account told of a band of foreign travelers who called themselves Racanes. There were four of them, and they were very unusual in both speech and dress. Some believed them to be insane. One touted himself as a holy man. They stayed for one year and took an active role in the revolution during that time. They proposed that the talisman of a portal was the key to Kahn’s downfall. One was killed in battle, and the remaining three disappeared.
I set the book down very carefully and picked up the stationery and pen. I was still lost in my private thoughts and making notes when Mark came into the room.
“I thought you would be asleep by now,” he said quietly.
“No. What time is it?”
“It’s after eleven.”
“At night?”
He looked at me as though I had grown two heads.
“Yes, at night.”
So they marked time the same as us, I noted with interest.
“Cookie?”
“No, thanks.”
I shifted on the chaise. “If you need to work in here, I can go,” I finally offered.
“No—stay.”
Something in his voice had me looking up sharply, but he moved to stand in front of the window before I could see his eyes.
“Okay, I’ll stay.”
He nodded and picked up one of the cookies he had just turned down.
“Do you want to see what attacked us in the lake today?”
“You have a picture?”
“There are some in one of these books. You don’t have to look if it will upset you.” He turned around, leaned one hip against the desk, and studied my face.
“No, I want to see it,” I insisted.
He smiled faintly and moved to select a book from the shelf behind me.
“Right there…that one.” He said, pointing to a grainy image on the paper.
It was a water shot and hard to see the beast clearly. All I was able to discern was that it was of considerable size. That much I was already well aware of.
He turned a few pages and pointed to a second photograph.
“What in the hell is that?” I pressed my back against the chair and stared at the picture in shock. It looked like an overgrown hound of hell. From the looks of the creature, it was half human and half dog. I took the book from Mark’s hands and held it up to the light for a closer inspection, and decided it looked part demon as well.
“Handsome little thing,” I shuddered.
“Yes he is, isn’t he?”
“But he’s not nearly as big as the thing in the water that chased us…unless he casts a very large shadow.”
“No, you’re right; they were smaller when they were land beasts. The water makes them grow.”
“Jeez, you mean they aren’t done growing?”
“I sincerely hope that they are.”
He put the book back onto the shelf and stretched out on his stomach on the lounge across from me.
“What are you reading?”
“Just a little history; I love history.” I was talking too fast and I knew it, so I bit my tongue and smiled, hoping Mark would take the hint and leave me to my work.
The only problem with that was: he had no clue I was working, and I couldn’t tell him.
“No, really, what are you working on there?” He gestured to my notes.
“This?” I held the paper close to my chest. “This is nothing. It’s just a poem.”
“A poem about history?” he frowned.
“No. Yes.”
“Well, which is it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, hand it over.” He grinned. “I don’t think I have ever read a poem about history.”
“You can’t read it.” I sniffed. “I’m very sensitive about my work.”
He lunged for the paper anyway. I jumped out of the chair and all but leaped behind it, clutching the papers for dear life.
“I said no, damn it.”
“Such language.” He grinned.
I glowered at him.
“Well, now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Annabelle.”
“If you don’t back off, I’ll hurt something else.”
He shook his head and laughed, but stayed where he was.
“Smart man.”
“Smart woman.” He grew serious then and put his arm around my shoulders to lead me to the door.
“You know,” he said casually, “I just thought of a great idea.”
“Oh? Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know—are you?”
“A little.”
“Don’t be. As I was saying, I have just come up with the perfect way for you to make it up to me.”
“Make what up to you?”
“You hurt my feelings.”
I rolled my eyes. “This ought to be good.”
“You can let me take you to the beach tomorrow.”
I stopped in the hallway and ducked under his arm. “No, thank you—I’ve already been to the beach. And nothing is going to get me into the water again for many years to come.”
“Not that beach,” he sighed.
“Nope. Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”
“Trust me?”
I looked into his eyes, remembering how he had jumped into the lake to rescue me. I swallowed and looked away.
“Fine,” I sighed, defeated. “I’ll go to the beach with you tomorrow—but I’m not swimming.”
“Fine.” He shook his head and smiled. “Tomorrow, then.”
I stomped up the stairs muttering, “Leave it to a man to use the trump card.”
“Sweet dreams, Annabelle.”
