Spells & Shelves (A Library Witch Mystery Book 1)

by Elle Adams

  Mr Bennet looked about as thrilled to see me as I was to see him. “You again?”

  Aunt Adelaide approached his desk. “We’re here to ask if you gave anyone a consultation on breaking wards this week,” she said. “Someone tried to get into the library.”

  “Customer confident—”

  “These men want my niece dead,” said Aunt Adelaide, in dangerous tones. “I’d advise you to think carefully before refusing to answer me.”

  He took a step backwards. “I heard they arrested your sister. I could report you for threatening me, too.”

  “Oh, this isn’t a threat,” said Aunt Adelaide. “There’s a hostile vampire in town intending harm to my family, and he slipped past the wards on the library. I know you kept that research.”

  His jaw set. “I sell to anyone who buys from me. I don’t give away information for free. I told nobody how to break your wards.”

  “If I find you’re lying, then I’ll have to report you,” she said.

  “Naturally.” His tone was sour. “If I could curse that abomination of a library out of existence, I would.”

  Delightful.

  “He’s not guilty,” she muttered to me on the way out. “Unfortunately. I’d love to see those trolls cart him away.”

  She led us to a square building facing the pier. The local police station was smaller than I’d expected, though everywhere seemed that way after the library. Inside, Edwin stood in conversation with another elf beside a desk at the front.

  “Adelaide, I have spent entirely too much time dealing with your family,” he said. “No, you may not see your sister.”

  Aunt Candace’s voice drifted through an open door. “I’m being deprived!”

  “She’s being incredibly uncooperative,” he said. “Keeps demanding access to her manuscript.”

  “Ignore her,” said Aunt Adelaide. “I came here to report a break-in. The rogue vampire got into the library and threatened my niece. He fled when cornered.”

  The chief of police turned to Aunt Adelaide with a long-suffering expression. “I’ll send someone over to your property shortly if you’d like to wait in here.”

  Aunt Adelaide huffed. “There’s a public event happening in the library right now. We can’t have people breaking in and threatening our patrons.”

  Aunt Candace shouted something unintelligible.

  “I already arrested one vampire today,” said Edwin. “I don’t know what else you expect me to do.”

  “Wait, you did arrest Dominic?” I said. “I thought—but he’s not the vampire who came after me.”

  His gaze snapped onto me. “You mean to say he had no connection with the case?”

  “Not this Mortimer Vale person,” said my aunt. “The vampires who followed Rory here are strangers from outside town.”

  Edwin scowled. “You might have mentioned that before. I was under the impression you were still looking at that blasted cursed book.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I wanted to ask you a question. It’s about Duncan’s poetry.”

  “What about it?” Edwin shot a disgruntled look in the direction of Aunt Candace’s continued shouts.

  “I found this where Tad used to sit in the library, before he died.” I pulled the scrap of paper from my pocket. “Why would he have kept one of Duncan’s poems? It’s not written in his handwriting, either.”

  “Oh, the eccentric normal?” he asked. “It’s a shame, but I don’t think any piece of writing from him counts as reliable evidence.”

  “It’s not his, though,” I said. “Duncan wrote it. The original paper disappeared. Was Tad holding a piece of paper when you brought him in?”

  “No.” He winced at another shout from Aunt Candace. “Really, now. I’ll go and see what she wants.”

  He disappeared through a side door, followed by the other elf.

  “I was sure it was connected,” I said to Aunt Adelaide. “Tad… I swear he said something that sounded like a line of poetry once or twice.”

  Including when we’d found Duncan’s body.

  Aunt Adelaide grimaced as her sister’s raised voice came through the door. “Candace had better behave herself at the trial. Edwin is fair, but she’s not helping her own case.”

  “No,” I said. “But what I’d like to know is—how did the vampire get past the wards? Does that mean anyone can get in? Even… even right now?”

  Aunt Adelaide stiffened. “In theory—yes. I think we’d better head back to the library.”

  14

  “The poetry night is just opening,” Aunt Adelaide said breathlessly, slowing down to open the library doors.

  Sure enough, the ground floor had filled with people—witches, wizards, satyrs, nymphs, but no vampires. Or Aunt Candace. Another pang of guilt shook me. “Would Aunt Candace be bothered about missing this?”

  “Oh, no,” said Aunt Adelaide. “She hates reading her work out in public. She’s never taken part in one of the poetry nights before.”

  She’d probably never spent the night in a cell before either. “Is there anyone here who shouldn’t be?”

  “I’ll keep a close watch on everyone in the room,” she said firmly. “Sylvester?”

  “At your service,” said the owl, flying down to land on the front desk. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to tell me if anyone leaves the Reading Corner,” Aunt Adelaide said.

  “Wouldn’t watching the door be more logical?” he enquired. “I might have eyes in the back of my head on occasion, but I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “Then I’ll ask Jet,” I said. “Hey, Jet.”

  Sylvester ruffled his feathers. “Actually, if I find a certain spot in the Reading Corner, I’ll be able to see the door. I have excellent eyesight.”

  Jet flew over and landed on my shoulder. Sylvester’s owl-eyes followed the movement, and he huffed. “Involving the crow isn’t necessary. He can’t even talk.”

  “Jet, can you watch the door and warn us if anyone comes in?” I asked the crow. “Don’t look at me like that, Sylvester. I’m trying to stop evil vampires from breaking into the library and murdering everyone. The more people I have watching out for trouble, the better.”

  Jet cawed in agreement. He and the owl had a kind of stare-off, then Sylvester spread his wings. “I’m far more intimidating than he is.”

  Appeal to the ego. “Right, you are,” I said. “That means if the killer is hiding somewhere in the library right now, you’ll be the first to chase them off, right?”

  The owl drew himself up with a self-important air. “Obviously.”

  “Is the poetry night starting anytime soon?” said an irritable voice behind me. Samson, or Late Fee Guy. “The host has vanished.”

  “Oh, Estelle,” said Aunt Adelaide. “I don’t know where she—I’ll find her. Rory, go to the Reading Corner.”

  Jet cawed. “Go on,” I said to him. “If you see anything, you’ll warn me, okay?”

  He made a noise of assent, then took flight to guard the door. Despite our two guards, I wished we’d brought the police here. Still, at least I’d have warning if the vampire tried to sneak in again.

  On my way to the Reading Corner, I checked my biblio-witch notebook and pen were within easy reach in my pocket, and a slip of paper fell out. Duncan’s poem. I’d forgotten I was carrying it.

  “What’s that?” Samson asked.

  “Nothing.” I pocketed it again. “I didn’t know you took part in poetry nights.” Lucky there didn’t seem to be any sign of Cass around. Was this why he still kept hanging around the library despite his habit of returning books late?

  I made for the Reading Corner and found a free bean bag. When I moved it, a book fell out from underneath it, a small square one. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the one Cass had been reading before. I opened it and spotted a familiar title. It was one of Aunt Candace’s paperbacks, and inside it was Cass’s name. I read the first paragraph, hiding a grin. Cass was secretly a
fan, despite her projected disdain for her aunt’s books. Judging by the first paragraph, it was very well-written. If all the poets turned out to be terrible, then at least I’d have something else to read.

  A hush fell over the library, indicating the opening of the poetry night. The candles came on, making the open space look like a stage.

  “Before we begin,” Estelle said, “I thought we should pay our respects to a member we recently lost…”

  A faint disparaging noise came from my right. Late Fee Guy had sat next to me and gave me an ugly look when he saw the paperback in my hands. Who cares what he thinks

  The first poet took to the stage, a satyr with long red hair. His poem was an ode to an ex-girlfriend and went on for seventeen pages. Four people fell asleep, and when Samson started snoring, the satyr paused. “Part Two, coming next week,” he finished.

  Several people groaned.

  Next up was a group of elves, who recited an equally long poem in a language nobody could understand. I resumed reading Aunt Candace’s book instead and only tuned in again when Samson stood up beside me, swaggering to the stage. He cleared his throat loudly, to wake the sleeping audience members, then began his recital.

  It was about as bad as I’d expected. I adjusted my position so he wouldn’t be able to see me reading, turning the page of the book. Someone had written in the margins. I squinted at the lines, frowning. It looked like poetry. Samson had got into trouble for writing in the books once already. No wonder Cass had been mad at him, if it’d been her books he’d written in.

  Hang on. I knew that handwriting. I’d seen it on the piece of paper I’d found in Tad’s hammock. The paper with one of Duncan’s poems written on it.

  An uneasy flutter went through me. If I compared the handwriting to what I remembered of the other piece of paper from the cursed book, it wasn’t the same, I was sure. Two people had written down the same poem. But who’d written it first? Tad had known the poem—he’d recited its first line at one point—but Estelle had been certain he couldn’t write. He didn’t even know his own name.

  I leaned over to where Samson had been sitting and sneaked a glance at the book he’d left half-open beside his seat. I had to crane my neck to read it, but one glance confirmed the handwriting matched the note in my pocket.

  Samson had copied Duncan’s poem. Or the other way around. Was he trying to steal credit for his work after his death, or was there something else going on? One of them had copied the other—and only one of them was dead. But the only way to prove anything would be to find the other piece of paper. The one that had fallen from the book.

  Samson finished reciting and looked expectantly at the audience as though hoping for applause. Some people clapped half-heartedly, but most were asleep or otherwise disengaged. I slipped out of my seat and shuffled around the shelves to where Estelle sat.

  “Hey,” I whispered. “I don’t suppose you know where that paper went?”

  She blinked. “What paper?”

  “You know the book of curses? That piece of paper we found inside it, the one with poetry on it?.”

  “We already checked the room,” she whispered back. “Why?”

  “I thought Duncan wrote it, but I just saw Samson’s handwriting and it matches the second copy of the poem I found. The one that was in Tad’s hammock.”

  She frowned. “Really?”

  Tad had known the words of the poem. He must have heard it before. I looked at the central stage and saw Samson had gone. Wait, wasn’t Sylvester supposed to be keeping an eye on things?

  “Where’s that owl?”

  Estelle looked up at the shelf where the owl had been sitting. “Good question. Sylvester?”

  A couple of people looked up, but most remained half-asleep. I stepped backwards, my gaze searching the shelves for the owl—and the bookshelf behind me moved suddently. I stumbled over my feet, into an unfamiliar corridor.

  “Ah.” Oh, no. I didn’t recognise where I was. It was too dark. “Library, this really isn’t the time.”

  “It wasn’t the library.” Samson stepped into the corridor before me. He held a piece of paper in his hands. “Were you looking for this, Aurora?”

  15

  “Did you write that?” I indicated the paper. “And Duncan copied you? Or was it the other way around?”

  “I wrote every word,” he spat. “Every word of it. He stole it from me.”

  The library was quiet, as though the books were holding their breaths. Worse, there was no sound from the Reading Corner at all, and I didn’t recognise the corridor the library had brought me to.

  He noticed me looking. “The library’s actually pretty easy to fool, if you’re adept with words. And I’m a master.”

  I suppressed a snort, despite myself. Those mangled lines he’d recited weren’t the words of someone with a poetic mind.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just so absurd. You used your poem as a bookmark and wrote lines in every book you took out of the library. That’s a careless thing to do if you’re so concerned about being caught out for murder.”

  “I didn’t leave it lying around out of carelessness.” He gave the piece of the paper a shake, and I saw he was wearing gloves.

  “The paper is cursed,” I said. “That’s what Duncan touched, not the book.” And it was pure luck that nobody else had put their hands on it until Tad. After all, it’d been sealed inside the book before my aunt had cracked it open. “Why did you seal it?”

  “I didn’t. He did. He was trying to counter the curse, and it didn’t work.” He wasn’t smiling. His mouth was a thin angry line. He was still mad at Duncan, even now.

  “Look, I’m not saying stealing is a good thing, but murder? Why not report him over it?”

  “I tried. The police didn’t care.” He scowled. “He said he put his heart and soul into those words, so I decided to take him literally.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “So is stealing.” He took a step forward. “He stole every word of mine and took credit for it. He had to be punished.”

  He was deranged. He was also blocking the way out. And how had he made the library move? Only biblio-witches were supposed to be able to do that.

  “An innocent man died, too.” My hand inched towards my pocket, but if that piece of paper of his came near me, I was dead.

  “Tad? That’s his problem. He was a freak anyway.”

  He heard you. He was trying to warn us. I took a step back. “I’m going to have to report you to the police.”

  “I can’t let you do that.” He was still holding the paper. “You’re not the only one with the ability to manipulate words.”

  The page moved, jumping out of his hand and folding itself into a paper aeroplane. He gave a thin-lipped smile. “That’s my gift. I can manipulate paper. It took a while to learn how to do it on the wards, but there’s nothing I can’t learn from this library.”

  I backed up another step. He was the one we should have been keeping an eye on all along—and not because of the late returns issue. The vampire hadn’t messed with the wards—he had.

  The paper flew at me, warping into the shape of a bird. I dove behind the shelf, hoping the library would spring to my defence. I didn’t know enough biblio-witch magic to stop him, let alone block a curse that had captured two people’s souls.

  “Hey! Sylvester!” I shouted. “Jet!”

  “Do you really think I’ve made it possible for anyone to find us in here?” The paper bird flew at me again. I lunged for the nearest gap between the shelves, rolling out into another corridor. The place was a maze with no visible path back to familiar territory. Like he’d planned it.

  I swallowed hard, holding myself behind the shelf. If he came around the corner, he’d see me. There were no floating lanterns in this dark corridor, but he wielded a curse and I was barely a witch.

  “If you’re thinking of using any of your new tricks, Aurora, you’re wasting your time,�
�� he said. “Your magic isn’t anywhere near enough to stand up to a curse.”

  No kidding. I doubted a beginner’s spell would work on a deadly soul-trapping curse. I had to think of something. I dug in my pocket and pulled out the paper and pen, but no words came. Think. Come on, think.

  The scrap of paper with Samson’s poem on it fell from my pocket. The real, not the fake. The curse isn’t in the paper. It’s in the words. He’d written them, but he’d chosen to put the curse on the poem copied by Duncan.

  What if I changed the words? What would happen to the curse then?

  Magic rushed to my fingertips as I pressed the nib of the biblio-witch pen to the page. Line by line, I scratched over the words. Erasing them. Replacing them.

  Free the missing souls.

  Undo the curse.

  A strangled yell came from the other side of the shelf, followed by the sound of paper tearing. Hoping it was working, I added, Let Samson be caged in his own words.

  Samson yelled again, louder. I risked a peek through the gap in the shelves and watched him struggling against a set of ropes that’d appeared from thin air. The ropes shifted, revealing they were made of words, an endless string of floating letters. Whoa.

  As he flailed, he fell back into the shelf, causing paperbacks to topple free. I dug in my pocket again, found the rolled-up parchment, and hit the alarm.

  A wailing noise struck up, and the bookshelves shifted jerkily as though pulled by invisible strings. Through the gap, Jet flew towards Samson and landed on him, pecking at his face. He screamed and covered his head with his hands.

  “Jet!” I said. “How do I get out of here?”

  The crow cawed, fluttering over to the shelves. They’d moved aside, revealing a path back to the Reading Corner.

  Trusting him to watch Samson, I sprinted out into the middle of the poetry night. “I’ve caught Samson,” I gasped. “Look. He’s the murderer.”

  The spectators stared at me. One of them clapped uncertainly.

  “That doesn’t rhyme,” someone said.

  “I mean, literally.” I pointed, giving a clear view of Samson tied up with his own words.