Revenge of the Evil Librarian

by Michelle Knudsen

  I don’t know, Old Cyn says. How badly can you screw up and still expect to be forgiven?

  I liked it better when she was just calling me names.

  Maybe I can make him understand. How I was afraid to tell him because I knew he’d be angry, but it was already done, and I couldn’t change it, and . . . I couldn’t even really regret it, because it was what I had to do to save Annie.

  Shouldn’t that be a good thing, being someone who would do whatever needs to be done to save the people she cares about?

  I think about what Peter said, about my flexible moral compass. Which I guess is what made me feel like I could lie to Ryan about the details of my deal with the demoness. And so, yes, fine, maybe it’s not okay for whatever needs to be done to be entirely open-ended. It does seem very Machiavellian, which is probably not a good adjective to attribute to one’s core personality.

  But if two people I love require different and opposing things, why is it wrong to try to shield one while doing what I need to do to save the other?

  But you weren’t shielding Ryan. You were shielding yourself. From having to tell him the truth.

  Because otherwise you might have lost him.

  I don’t know if that’s Old Cyn or Current Cyn or someone in between. I want to argue, but I can’t. Because, of course, that’s entirely correct. I lied to Ryan because I was terrified of what he would do if he knew the truth. I held back, deliberately, even after I promised not to.

  Admitting I was wrong is not going to be enough, I realize. Not to fix how he’s feeling right now. I need to make him believe that I will never do it again.

  But can I really be sure I will never do it again?

  What about kissing Peter? Old Cyn asks. Are you going to tell Ryan about that?

  That’s different. That has nothing to do with anything.

  Old Cyn is pointedly silent.

  There would not be any point in telling Ryan that I kissed Peter. Or that Peter kissed me and I kissed him back, which is technically what really happened. None. It didn’t mean anything. That’s a whole different area. People are allowed to have some secrets. You can’t really tell another person everything! I mean, for example, there are things that go through my head sometimes that I will never tell anyone. Thoughts that shock even me at times. Keeping those things safely locked inside my own brain is not the same as actively keeping secrets. So there must be other exceptions, too.

  I stop there, holding tight to that conclusion. I will tell Ryan everything about the demon situation, and promise not to hide anything else like that from him ever again. But I will not tell him about kissing Peter, and I think that is perfectly okay, and I don’t want to hear one word about it from any voices in my head who might still be listening in right now.

  That decision must sit okay with my subconscious, because I am finally starting to feel like I can sleep. I close my eyes and try to visualize tomorrow being a much, much better day than today.

  But I should have known that tonight wasn’t done with me yet.

  And apparently my subconscious is not done with me, either.

  The early dreams are guilty, skin-tingly dreams in which I replay my kiss with Peter, and then let it continue past the point where in real life I pulled away. Dream-Cyn does not pull away. Dream-Cyn takes Peter’s hand and leads him deeper backstage, where we can do more than just kiss each other. The feel of his real-life hands on my face was electric. The feel of his dream hands in other places is . . . indescribable. And everything feels so real. He lifts my shirt over my head and I can feel the rough texture of the floor against my back. I can feel the flexing muscles of his arms as he wraps them around me, the strong pulse of his demon heart beating within his human-shaped chest. His mouth feels real against my skin, his teeth as they bite my neck, and oh, his hands . . .

  Part of me is not okay with this dream and struggles to wake up. But not all of me.

  Eventually, though, either through my own efforts or the unknowable logic of dream progression, the scene changes, and I’m alone and fully dressed (but still a little breathless) and walking through the aisles of an empty theater. No — not entirely empty. Mr. Henry is there in his favorite seat, grading English essays. He looks up as I approach.

  “Careful, Cyn,” he says. “He’s coming.”

  “Who? Who’s coming?”

  He hands me one of the essays. I look down at the paper. At first it appears blank, but then red liquid marks begin to seep through until they form the words MISS ME?

  The red liquid begins to spread out, covering more of the paper, and I drop it before it can reach my fingers. I look back at Mr. Henry. “Who’s coming?” I ask again.

  “I’m so sorry, Cyn. You were one of my favorites, you know.” He packs up his things and starts to walk away. I try to run after him, but suddenly the seats are full of people, and I can’t get through. Faintly, I think I hear Mr. H. humming “Safety in Numbers” from The Boy Friend. Which is weird because I know he hates that show.

  I start to push past the people in the seats around me, but no one will move, and after a second I realize that’s because they’re all dead. There is blood everywhere. I try to climb over them, I need to get out of this place — the blood, the smell, is terrible — but I can’t seem to make any progress. Blood gets all over me, my clothes, my face, my hands. I can’t get it off.

  Someone laughs. It’s a loud, horrible sound that hurts my ears. I stare around wildly and see that it is Mr. Gabriel as he appeared in the library that first time we saw him in not-quite-human form. His horns and wings are black and sharp and awful. Seeing him there, even after all this time, even knowing it’s a dream — and I do know it’s a dream, even while it’s happening — seeing him makes me feel like all the air in the universe has been sucked away. I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t do anything. I can’t stand seeing him looking whole and happy and alive.

  He’s on the stage, watching me.

  “I love this show,” he says. “I mean, it’s no Sweeney Todd, and the acting is horrible, but the body count is much, much higher.”

  I force my lungs to work, force my blood to resume its course through my body. I will not be afraid of him. He’s not real.

  “What are you talking about?” I struggle not to let my voice shake. “Why are you even here? You’re dead! The demoness killed you!”

  “Did she? Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes!” He’s not going to scare me about this. I was there. “I saw you. I saw you die. I watched it happen.”

  He starts a slow, casual single time step on the stage. Somehow the fact that he is wearing tap shoes is not strange at all.

  “Good thing you know everything there is to know about demons, I guess. Otherwise . . . you could be in for a nasty surprise.”

  I renew my climbing over the dead bodies and finally force my way back to the aisle. I march toward the stage. “Say what you mean, dammit! If it’s really you in my dream, then stop messing with me and say what you came here to say and then get the hell out of my head!”

  Suddenly he’s directly in front of me, and I scream and jerk back before I can help it. He grabs my arms, locking me in place. I struggle, but he’s so strong I can barely even shift in his grip.

  He is no longer smiling.

  “All right, dear Cynthia. Here is what I mean: I’m coming back to finish what I started. I’m already here, in fact. I’m going to kill you and all your little friends. Except for Annie, of course. Annie is coming with me, like she was always meant to.”

  “You’re not real,” I manage, still trying to break free of his grip. “You’re dead. I know you are.”

  His eyes are cold and black. “You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are, you little bitch. I can’t wait until I get to kill you. It’s going to hurt a lot. Jeremy had it easy, but you . . . you’re going to suffer. It’s going to be so . . . much . . .”

  He pulls me closer until his face is only centimeters from my own. “F
un,” he finishes in a whisper. Then he darts forward and licks my face.

  I scream in horror, trying to push him away, to wipe off the sticky trail of his saliva, but he only laughs. “Oh, come on, Cyn. You like to kiss demons. I know you do. Don’t you want to feel what it’s going to be like for Annie? All the delicious horrible things I’m going to do to her?”

  “Stop it!” I’m crying now, still trying to pull away. “Let me go!”

  He does, suddenly, and I fall backward to the floor. He stands above me, looking down.

  “Get ready,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Then he disappears, and I wake up.

  All of the other girls in my bunk are standing around my bed.

  “Cyn?” Sasha asks. “You okay?”

  I sit up. “What happened?”

  The girls look at one another. “You were screaming,” Susan says. “That must have been some nightmare.”

  “Yeah,” I say, a little shakily. “Sorry . . . didn’t mean to wake everyone.”

  “It’s okay,” Lisa P. says. “Almost time to get up, anyway.” It’s true; the morning sunlight is streaming in through the windows.

  Sasha squints at me and leans forward. “What’s that on your face?”

  I get up and go into the bathroom. Sasha and Susan follow me, I guess to make sure I’m okay. Or maybe they’re just curious to see whatever it is on my face. I stand in front of the mirror.

  There’s an angry red rash in a long vertical stripe just to the left of my mouth.

  Exactly where Mr. Gabriel licked me in the dream.

  I hold it together long enough to get dressed and get out the door.

  Washing my face did nothing. I mean, it got rid of the sweat and salt from my tears (I was apparently crying in my sleep as well as screaming), but the rash is still there. I don’t know what it means. I’m afraid of what I think it means. I need to talk to . . . someone. Can I go to Ryan? Surely he’ll put aside being mad at me to listen to this.

  At least, I’m pretty sure.

  I need to talk to Peter, too. Peter will probably have more immediately useful insight. But I don’t want Peter. I want Ryan. I want Ryan to slip an arm around my waist and pull me into a really tight hug and tell me everything is going to be okay.

  I run ahead of the other girls to the dining hall and look around. Ryan is miraculously alone at a table; everyone else we usually sit with must still be on line for food. I start in his direction.

  Jules steps into my path and puts a hand out to stop me.

  “Cyn, I don’t think he wants to talk to you right now. I think you should give him some more time.” Then she notices my rash. “What happened to your face?”

  “Jules, you do not want to mess with me today. Get out of my way, please.”

  “I’m just trying to tell you —”

  I can’t handle this right now. I really just can’t. “Back the hell off, or you will be sorry. Can I be any more clear than that?”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, and then she starts to look mad. “Look, Cyn. You can’t stop me from watching out for my friend. You really hurt him.”

  That’s it. I push past her very ungently and make my way over to the table.

  “Ryan,” I say. “I know you’re still mad, but I need to talk to you. Right now.”

  He looks up, the start of what is clearly going to be something like go away on his lips, then freezes when he sees my face. “What happened to your —”

  “I’ll explain everything. Everything.”

  Jules comes up from behind me. “I told her you didn’t want to talk to her,” she says, half apologetically, half like a bratty little tattletale. “She told me to back the hell off !” She seems to think he’s going to come to her defense.

  I don’t say anything. I’m not going to beg him. He must know I wouldn’t be pushing if it weren’t really important. More important than what’s happening in our relationship right now, even though that is really important, too.

  For a moment he just looks at me. Then he shakes his head.

  “No.”

  “Ryan, please —”

  “No, Cyn. I’m sorry.” His face is set and closed. Like a stranger. “I can’t just roll over every time you ask me. Your stuff is not the only stuff that matters.”

  I blink. “My stuff? Ryan —”

  He shakes his head again. “I don’t want to hear it. Not right now. You screwed up, and now you have to deal with it. Jules is right. I don’t want to talk to you.” Then his expression goes even colder, and he adds, “But that shouldn’t be too much of a problem, since we all know you prefer to work alone, anyway.”

  I just stand there, trying to think of something else to say.

  Then I realize that Toby and Maria and several others have approached with their trays in time to hear this exchange, and they are all standing awkwardly behind me, unsure what to do.

  And then Peter steps up beside me with his tray. “Hey, guys. What’s going on?” He plants himself at the table diagonally from Ryan.

  “This is none of your business,” Jules says.

  “It’s none of yours, either,” I tell her. “But that doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”

  She turns to face me, folding her arms across her chest. “Ryan was my business long before he was yours, Cyn. And he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want you here right now. So maybe you should just leave.”

  Ryan looks down at his tray and says nothing.

  Peter looks at Ryan, and then at Jules, and then back at me. His eyes are glinting with pleasure, and I realize that he is — literally — eating this up.

  Suddenly I want to be anywhere else in the world than right there. I can’t stand the cold look on Ryan’s face or Jules’s self-righteous arm-crossing or the way everyone in the dining hall seems to now be staring at us. Also, I am definitely about to cry, and I don’t want any of them to see.

  “Fine,” I say quietly, which is about all I think I can manage. I turn and walk out, no idea where I’m going other than away from that spot. But I look back when I reach the doorway, unable to help it.

  Jules is now sitting across from Ryan, her hand on his, talking softly to him. As I watch, he lifts his head to look at her, and I see his expression softening now that I’m not the one he’s focused on.

  I leave before I start to throw up.

  Everyone’s at breakfast by now, so the paths are clear and quiet. The tears have begun by this point, but I try to ignore them. Crying isn’t going to help. Crying is stupid. I head off into the fluffy green nature, swiping angrily at my mutinous leaky eyes, until I can’t see the dining hall anymore. And then I find a bench and then I sit down and then I stare at nothing and try to think. Not about Ryan; about the other stuff. The demon stuff.

  My stuff, apparently.

  Okay, then.

  First order of business: Could Mr. Gabriel really still be alive? Before today, I would have said absolutely not. Because: I saw him die. I did.

  But . . . what he said in the dream is true. I don’t know everything about demons. Maybe he could have survived somehow. I would think the demoness would have told me, or Aaron . . . but maybe not. Maybe they don’t even know. Or maybe it’s the kind of information they’d hold on to until they could use it to their advantage somehow. Because: demons. I have to keep reminding myself what that means. Not the good guys. At least not most of them.

  And then there’s the rash on my face. I reach up and flinch as my fingers brush the tender skin.

  Something did that to me. I can’t quite believe it’s just some kind of dream-induced psychosomatic manifestation of inner stress.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps approaching. My stupid heart immediately leaps up in hope that it’s Ryan, ready to talk, but of course it’s not. One of the counselors — I think his name is Luis — walks over and sits beside me on the bench.

  “Hi!” he says.

  “Uh, hi.” I’m not sure how to politely express that I don’t wan
t company right now. “Luis, right?”

  “Oh, I’m not Luis,” Luis says. “Not right at this moment, anyway.” He looks at me, and I know.

  I fling myself from the bench and turn to face him from several paces away.

  “It’s you,” I whisper. “Oh, God. It’s really you.”

  Not-Luis smiles brightly. “Hello, dear Cynthia. I told you I’d be seeing you today. And here I am.” He squints at me for a second. “You should really do something about that rash.”

  I stare, barely able to breathe.

  “How — how can you be here?” I ask. “I saw you die.”

  “Yeah, you said that last night. It’s going to be very tedious if we have to have the same exact conversation again. Do you mind if we skip it?”

  I want to run. But I’m not sure I can make my legs work. I can’t believe this is happening.

  But it is.

  There is no doubt in my mind who is looking out at me from behind those borrowed eyes.

  “Fine,” I say. “What’s next, then? Is this the part where you kill me? What are you waiting for?” I’m not sure what I’m trying to accomplish. I think I just feel better talking than standing there silently and quaking in fear. “I mean, seriously, you’ve come all this way, why not just do it now? Come on over and kill me.”

  He gives me a mocking, fake-sympathetic look. “It won’t be nearly that quick for you, I’m afraid. And besides, I’m not ready. I’ve only got this body for a few more minutes. I need to wait until I have something a little more . . . long-term. So I can take my time.”

  He smiles again, and I only barely manage to remain standing. That is not going to happen, I tell myself. He’s not going to win. We’re going to stop him. He’s not going to torture and kill me.

  But there was a whole lot of awful and malevolent promise in that smile.

  And as Peter pointed out last night, there is some question as to who we actually includes right now. Which makes me feel very horrible and alone.

  “Well!” Mr. Gabriel/Luis says, standing up. “I should get going. I just wanted to say hello. In person. I’ll see you again very soon.”