The Knight of Pages
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The Knight of Pages
A Paranormal Suspense Novel
by Alexie Aaron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
~
Copyright 2019 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron
ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON
STAND-ALONE PARANORMAL SUSPENSE
The Knight of Pages
HAUNTED SERIES
in order
The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow
Ghostly Attachments
Sand Trap
PEEPs Lite: Eternal Maze 3.1
PEEPs Lite: Homecoming 3.2
Darker than Dark
The Garden
Puzzle
Old Bones
Things that Go Bump in the Night
Something Old
PEEPs Lite: Checking Out 9.1
PEEPs Lite: Ice and Steel 9.2
The Middle House: Return to Cold Creek Hollow
Renovation
Mind Fray
The Siege
NOLA
Never Forget
The Old House
Restitution
A Rose by Any Other Name
The Long Game
Given Enough Rope
The Return
Risen
The Candle
Book of Souls
A Daughter of Nyx
Sideshow
Crossroads
Coming soon: Sticks and Stones
CID GARRETT P.I. SERIES
Cid
High Court
Tiny Houses
The Promise
CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES
Decomposing
Death by Saxophone
Discord
The Wages of Cin
Unforgivable Cin: An Opera in Three Acts
SHORT STORIES
Evil
I dedicate this book to Amanda Nooks.
Amanda and I spoke one day on Facebook about the impact books had on us. We discussed the books we chose to read, and then we pondered the idea: what happens if we didn’t choose the books at all, but the books chose us? Amanda graciously allowed me to use our idea and write this novel.
~
No books were harmed in the creation of this novel. I have listed any books I quote in the back of this novel. Check them out. I assure you, every one of them will give you hours of entertainment. Love, Alexie Aaron.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Books Referenced in The Knight of Pages
Alexie Aaron
Chapter One
Navigating the over-stacked aisles of One More Time used bookstore was not for the faint of heart nor the casual reader. You had to be dedicated to deal with the owner’s idea of the alphabet, genres, and that only the hardcovers would find places on the actual shelves. Paperbacks were stacked leaning precariously in vertical columns of best-selling fiction. Once you crept by the halls of pulp, emoting the bookseller’s frustration of too many books and not enough help, and up the stairs, you found yourself in a quiet place insulated by cloth-bound adventures, dramas, comedies, and poetry.
Going to the counter and requesting help finding a particular volume was a fruitless endeavor unless the bespectacled, towering, wiry, pale knight of used books had just had it in his hand moments ago; otherwise, he would wave you away like a gnat. But if you wanted to discuss the contents of what he deemed books of worth, then he had time for you. He would push back a lock from his mop of salt-and-pepper hair, which refused to be tamed by any product suggested to the forty-year-old. Nash Greene’s green eyes would fix on the patron’s face a moment. His long spindly index finger would push his glasses upwards along the bridge of his Roman nose while his lips held a noncommittal position until the customer had made his case.
If you got a twitch from the right corner of his mouth, you had made a valid point. If you got a full smile, you were in trouble. Words would exit his mouth with such velocity that the conversant would take a step backwards, and if smart, would contemplate how to exit the shop quickly. Nash would suffer idiots but never pompous pretenders. He would gently guide the ignorant through the rough passages of a literary masterpiece, but he had no time for the parrots of English 101 professors - men and women who dutifully jotted down the coined phrases to memorize in order to, hopefully, impress others in their literary groups.
Clara Tyler walked into the shop, greeted by the set of old brass bells hung over the door that Nash had inherited from the previous owner of the shop. He looked over and nodded as the familiar redhead slid her backpack off her strong long-distance-swimming shoulders and dug through it as she walked towards the counter.
“Afternoon,” Nash managed, intrigued by the package she drew out and set on his counter. “Girl Scout mint cookies. Clara, are you trying to seduce me?”
The thirty-five-year-old blushed, adding a deep-red hue to her pale scalp. Ignoring the heat from her face, she said, “When I left yesterday, I found these girls cowering a few feet from your door. I asked them what was wrong. They told me they were working up their nerve to come in here.”
Nash raised his eyebrow. “Am I that scary?”
“Sometimes.”
“I have never intentionally tried to scare a child,” Nash argued. “Especially the little ladies in green who peddle these overpriced but delectable cookies.”
“It could be that the place is haunted,” Clara said, nodding her head in the direction of the stairs and the hardcover books.
“That’s a rumor. It’s never been proven,” Nash sniffed.
Clara laughed. “Don’t pretend to be outraged. You’ve heard the sounds. I’ve been chased out of there when I’ve had the urge to introduce some semblance of order.”
“There’s no ghost.”
“How do you explain the books moving in and out of alignment?”
Nash frowned.
“Come on, you’re not deaf. If you haven’t seen it, then you’ve heard it.”
Nash bit his lower lip.
Clara studied the man, doing her best to push back the attraction she had for the shop owner. It started the moment he unlocked the door that first evening when she had discovered his shop. The shop had interesting hours. It opened at ten, as most shops did, but it was closed between the hours of three and five. The day she discovered the shop, she had arrived at four forty-five and chose to wait until five. He had looked down at her, puzzled. “If you’re lost, the Barnes & Noble is two streets down. Hang a left and…”
“The Second City Jazz club?”
“Nope.”
He continued to name places as he followed her. She stopped suddenly, turning on her heel, and Nash walked into her. She stepped back and tripped over a book left carelessly on the floor. He caught her before she fell. He may have saved her from falling to the floor but not from falling for Nash himself.
The sound of the cash register opening pulled Clara back into the present.
“What are you doing?” she asked as Nash counted out four dollars.
“Reimbursing you for my cookies.”
Clara knew this was the universe testing her. If she waved the money away, she would have to acknowledge she wanted more from Nash, possibly scaring him off. If she took the money, she would maintain the tentative friendship, but would it place her in a Mobius strip of perpetual friendship with no chance of developing into something more?
“It’s on me. You can return the favor by setting aside a first edition of Good Omens, if one ever does cross your threshold.”
Nash picked up the money and jammed it into the drawer. “You’ve got yourself a deal. How was work?”
Clara worked as a chef at Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz, the trendy breakfast-only restaurant two streets over. “Pretty busy. I really wish Chicagoans would return to their love of fast-food sandwiches.”
“No, you don’t,” Nash argued.
“Maybe not,” Clara agreed.
Nash picked up the package and slid it under the counter. “I’m going to go out and buy a lottery ticket.”
“Why?”
“You brought me Girl Scout mint cookies, and you agreed with me. This is a landmark day. A herald of good fortune, a…”
“Oh, shut up. Have you ever purchased a lottery ticket?”
“Only when I felt like throwing my money away.”
“That’s a no.”
“Gee, first I find out I’m too scary for Girl Scouts and, also, that I’m cheap.”
“I would have used the word careful.”
Nash picked up a recent acquisition and studied the spine. “I like the word careful. I’m careful with my money sounds better than cautious. Why didn’t you use cautious?”
“Cautious eludes to timidity. You’re not frightened to spend a buck; you’re just careful what you spend it on.”
Nash liked Clara. He realized that, more and more, he was looking forward to her stopping in. It wasn’t her easy-on-the-eye looks or her body slightly rounded by the constant tasting of sauces. It was her mind. The delightful and insightful things that came unexpectedly out of her mouth never bored him. Being with Clara was like reading a masterpiece. He may have wanted the story to go in a different direction, but he was very pleased with the present plot.
“Why did you buy this place?” Clara asked.
“I’m leasing the building. I own nothing but the corpses of trees in various forms.”
“How clever,” Clara said.
“Clever and careful.”
“Back to your ghost.”
“There is no ghost.”
The sound of a large tome hitting the floor above them seemed to call his answer into question.
Nash looked at his watch and strode purposefully to the door. “It’s not a ghost. It’s the gloaming.” Nash held the door, expecting Clara to walk out before he locked it. Clara stood her ground.
“Tell me about the gloaming.”
Nash shut the door, flipped the open/closed sign around, and placed his hand on the lock. “Clara, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d really like you to leave.”
“Tell me about the gloaming.”
Nash moved quickly to the counter, grabbed his coat, and put a firm but soft grip on Clara’s arm. “I’ll tell you, but not here.”
Another book hit the floor. Clara allowed herself to be ushered out of the bookstore. She didn’t complain when his hand left her arm only long enough to turn the lock on the door.
The premature darkness cast by the long shadows of the high-rise buildings surrounding them had the light-sensitive streetlights fighting their programing to come on. It was only three in the afternoon, but the absence of light said it was dusk to the antiquated devices.
“I’m at a loss of where to go?” Nash questioned.
“How about I sneak you into the Biscuit. Johan’s not going to mind.”
Nash nodded. The other choice would have been his or her place. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not. True, they had known each other for coming on a year, but beyond in-depth conversations about books, they hadn’t moved past the friend zone.
They turned the corner, and a blast of sunlight momentarily blinded them until they moved once again into the city’s shadow.
Clara let them in through the back entrance. “Wait here.” She trotted over to the alarm and reset it. She waved Nash over. “Let’s go down into the pit - unless you’re hungry. I could make you…”
“I’m not hungry,” he interrupted. “I have to admit to being fascinated by anyplace called the pit.”
Clara smiled. “Johan carved out a space in his basement for we employees to have a place to go to get, as he calls it, ‘our shit’ together.”
Nash followed Clara through the gleaming kitchen and down the stairs.
“Mind your head,” she said, reaching up and tapping the offending low header of the cellar door.
Nash ducked under and watched as Clara moved through the darkness until she found a switch. The illumination wasn’t strong, but from what he could see, he was being led through a passage made of boxes of napkins and toilet paper, which was followed by a broken-furniture graveyard until it opened into a small sitting area. A sofa and several large overstuffed chairs placed helter-skelter gave a hominess to the basement room. An expensive relic of early espresso makers dominated the corner along with a pristine, antique, deep sink and a small refrigerator that sported a faded Northwestern University sticker on the front.
“Welcome to the pit,” Clara said. “I’m going to make myself a Clara special. I demand you join me. Any allergies?”
“To unfermented soy,” Nash said. He found himself a large armchair and sighed as it not only accepted his long frame but seemed to understand the need to have one’s feet on the ground.
Over in the contrived kitchenette, Clara looked like a mad organist, her hands flying here and there as she was momentarily surrounded with a burst of steam from the old machine. Nash took a moment to admire his friend. The woman was strong from years of being a chef. Her hair fell down her back in waves of auburn. The waistband of her jeans gapped in back where the mass-produced denim didn’t allow for the pear-shaped form.
“Just about finished,” Clara said, her back still to him.
Nash shook himself free of the thoughts that began to creep into his mind, thoughts of pulling Clara to him and sliding his hand down her back.
Clara balanced a tray and kicked an ottoman, as she walked, over until she trapped Nash in his chair. She placed the tray down on the footstool and asked him, “Cream?”
“That depends on whether the Clara special demands cream?”
“It does.”
“Cream please.”
Clara poured a small amount into the large cup. Instead of stirring it, she allowed the cream to bubble upwards, mixing with the dark brew that smelled suspiciously like expensive bourbon. She handed him the cup and waited until he took a sip. It was glorious.
“Very nice,” he said.
Clara smiled, replaced the tray with her behind on the footstool, and picked up her cup. She crossed one leg and then the other until she sat yoga-style atop it. She took a sip of her coffee before looking into his eyes. “Tell me about the gloaming.”
Chapter Two
Nash took another sip and enjoyed how the liquid warmed him. The combo of caffeine and alcohol
balanced the other out. Whatever stresses he was holding on to had drifted away. “I call it the gloaming because of the darkness that comes over the shop between three and five. As you know, especially in summer, there can be four more hours of daylight after this time, but not in my little shop. It’s just as much twilight as if vampires were free to come in and browse.”
“Do you believe in vampires?” Clara asked.
“Not the Twilight kind or even the marvelous creatures written by Anne Rice. And no, the only vampire who visits my shop is my landlord.”
Clara laughed. She’d seen the pale creature who bustled in without more than, “Where’s my check?” and bustled out again with said check. She never was sure if this hooded being was male or female or if it really mattered, but in retrospect, with the exception of the pale skin and liquid movements, he didn’t really resemble Bram Stoker’s 1897 vampire at all.
“The gloaming comes and brings with it a darkness that feeds the books.”
Clara took a gulp of her brew. Her eyes watered, but she wouldn’t allow herself to cough. She did squeak out, “Feeds?”
“Gives them power. I’m not talking about the books coming to life. You’ll not find Tom Sawyer insulting Queequeg in my stacks.”
“I should hope not,” Clara said.
“And it doesn’t affect most of the books, just the special ones.”
“I don’t understand,” Clara admitted.
“Back in the store, you mentioned the books that go out of alignment.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to tell me about the…”
“Humor me.”
“Very well. One of the first times I was in your shop, I was walking down one of the fiction aisles, and I remember thinking how beautifully straight the books were, the spines barely touching the other books. When I got to the end of the aisle and turned around, several of the books had been moved. Pushed forward as if to say…”