She saw a flash in the crowd ahead of her, like a spark jumping from a passing train. But the tracks weren’t that close. She couldn’t even see the turnstiles. The crowd flowed on and she had the definite sense that her assailant couldn’t be pursued, much less caught.
She still had the real book, though. She bunched her purse under her arm, holding it more tightly, and hurried into the library.
Sylvia worked in a branch of the library that was an old Carnegie building. It had been renovated to make it more accessible and the large windows made for a bright interior space. She relaxed at the sound of children, already gathered for the morning reading session with parents. She waved to the two librarians on the front desk, then dove down the stairs.
Fortunately, she worked in the archives in the basement. No one would get near her without her noticing. No one would bother her, or know if she spent a little time researching the book’s contents instead of digitizing old files.
Most of the time, no one even remembered that she was here.
She shut and locked the door behind herself, glad that she’d made a habit of doing that. The head librarian had been surprised by a homeless person one night while in the archives, so had enacted the rule. There was a doorbell that any of the other librarians could ring to be let in.
Sylvia heaved a sigh of relief. The archives weren’t just her domain—they were her refuge and on this day, she was glad of that. She turned on her laptop and sat down at her desk with purpose.
It was time to figure out what was so special about this book.
Sylvia started with the title.
Maeve.
An older name for Queen Mab, goddess and warrior queen of Irish origin. Maeve chose mortal champions as her consorts and made them kings—through the Great Rite of sexual union and the warrior’s drinking of her mead, which may have contained menstrual blood—then discarded them when she chose another, braver, bolder or more faithful male companion. After the arrival of Christianity, this pagan goddess was reduced to a fairy queen, and depicted as being of a very small size. Her appetites remained the same, however, and her power was still said to be disproportionate to her apparent size.
It seemed unlikely to Sylvia that an ancient warrior queen would have written or kept a book, but she was prepared to consider the possibility. She opened the book, noting that it was easier to see the writing inside this time. Maybe she was getting more accustomed to turning her head just right to see it. She still couldn’t understand all the script, which seemed to be in several languages, so she studied the pictures.
First were the unicorns. After several pictures, there was a map of the world with red X’s in several spots. Then there was a list of names, each of which had a dark red line through it and what had to be a date.
Was this a list of actual living unicorns?
If so, there had only been three of them.
And the dates? The red line made Sylvia doubt that the dates corresponded to sightings. No, she had to think that the unicorns had died.
Or been killed.
Assuming they’d been real in the first place. The last date was in the year 1853, and the same date was written on the first line drawing of a unicorn in the book. She’d seen it before. The last name on the list was circled with a note “horn and harness”.
Sylvia shivered. Did this Maeve keep trophies of creatures she’d killed?
Next was a line drawing of an elf, at least Sylvia assumed it was an elf by the points of its ears. She thought the script was in a different language than in the first section, and wondered if it was in the language of the elves. Did elves have a written language? They did in The Lord of the Rings, but that was fiction. Wasn’t it? The list of names was much longer, but again, each one had been stroked out with that red pen and dated. The last name was circled and there was a notation “ear”.
That was worse than the unicorn horn.
This hunt had taken a lot longer. The dates ranged from the 1200’s through 1924.
Mermaids were next and the pattern was the same. Several illustrations, a map—this time with the X’s in the oceans—a list of crossed-out and dated names—more than unicorns, fewer than elves—then the gruesome listing of the trophy beside the last one. “Mirror and comb plus scale.”
Sylvia fanned through the book until she got to a section where the names weren’t all crossed-out. Vampires. The list had been long, but there were thirteen names remaining. Micah. Rosemary. Belladonna. Sebastian....The map had thirteen bright red X’s in New York, which was just weird.
Had vampires congregated in Manhattan? Had they moved to the Big Apple for some reason? Or was this the last of them, huddled together to defend themselves?
Although it was hard to think of vampires as vulnerable, the crossed-out names suggested otherwise. Maybe the vampires had just arrived. Maybe they were being hunted.
It wasn’t like she could Google it.
She tipped the book, thinking that something had glimmered on the page and caught a glimpse of three words scribbled on the map beside the island of Manhattan.
Coven of Mercy.
What did that mean?
“So, Sebastian was right. You can see the truth of the book,” a man said and Sylvia jumped. She looked at the door but it was still closed and locked. She spun to find the man standing in the shadows at the end of the aisle of filing cabinets, his arms folded across his chest. He had dark hair and dark eyes and was conservatively dressed, and so still that he was almost one with the shadows. “That defies expectation and is very inconvenient.”
“How long have you been there?” she demanded. “How did you get in?”
“Long enough,” he said and began to stroll toward her. “You must know that there are tiers of passageways beneath the city.”
“The subway.”
“More than the subway. There’s a vast network. One can travel anywhere in Manhattan without ever emerging on the street.” He smiled and she saw that his incisors were pointed. “Thank goodness.” His skin was pale, paler than it should have been, and she felt that sense of restrained power.
The same sense she’d had when the waiter had given her the book, but without the sexual charge.
Maybe he wasn’t her type.
He raised a brow. “And you can see me, which is very interesting.”
“You’re standing right in front of me.”
“But mortals can usually only see me when they’re going to die.”
That wasn’t good news. “Am I?”
“All mortals will die, sooner or later.” His gaze slid from hers, as if he was evading the question, which wasn’t the most reassuring choice.
“When?” Sylvia demanded.
“I’m not at liberty to say. It’s considered bad luck, if not bad manners.” His expression was rueful.
Sylvia glanced down at the book then back at him. “But you didn’t expect me to be able to see you, so that’s not why you’re here.”
He smiled, inviting her to continue.
“You’re here because of the book.”
He nodded.
She turned to the page on vampires and held it up. “You must be on this list.”
“I’m afraid we all are.”
“You mentioned Sebastian. Is he the one who gave me this book?”
“And who stood guard over you last night. You might have noticed him in your dreams.”
Sylvia wasn’t about to tell this stranger and vampire about her sexy dreams of Sebastian. “He’s this Sebastian?” She tapped the book. “The vampire on the list?”
“There aren’t any others left.”
“So, this book is an inventory.”
“It’s a list that she’s using to hunt us all.”
“Why give it to me?”
“For safekeeping.”
Sylvia sighed with exasperation. “Bad plan. Someone already tried to steal it.”
“That won’t be the last attempt.”
“Then why give i
t to me?”
He sighed. “You weren’t supposed to recognize it for what it was. That would have made it safe in your care, and you safe as its custodian.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She can read the thoughts of others. Ignorance is the only thing that would have saved you, and perhaps us.”
“She? You mean M—”
He moved with lightning speed, his fingertips over her mouth and his eyes filled with alarm before she could utter the name. “Do not say it aloud,” he whispered, leaning over her and suddenly seeming much more frightening than before. “It’s bad enough if you think it.”
“But where is she?”
“Everywhere. Nowhere. She is not constrained by dimensions and realms, as we are.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.” He turned and walked down the aisle again. Even as she watched him, the edges of his figure seemed to soften and merge with the shadows.
“You forgot your book,” she said, holding it out toward him.
“You must keep it now, for better or for worse.” His serene manner infuriated Sylvia.
“You can’t do this!” she protested. “If I’m in danger because of this book, then you have to take it back.”
“It’s too perilous and it wouldn’t matter anyway. You’ve seen it. The memory is in your mind. You are already prey, or will become so, whether you surrender the book or not.”
“I’ll throw it away.”
“It still won’t matter.”
Prey. Sylvia didn’t want to be prey. “Why can’t I just give it back?”
“The dark Fae do not suffer mortals to know their secrets.”
“Then mortals shouldn’t have their books.” She dropped the book on her desk, looking at it with disgust. “This thing should have a warning label.”
“Would one have stopped you from looking inside?” He seemed to be genuinely curious, which meant that Sylvia had to tell him the truth.
“No,” she acknowledged. “But I would have made a choice, then. I would have known that opening the book was trouble.”
He shook his head, his expression confident. “But you did know, didn’t you? You knew immediately that there was something odd about it.”
Sylvia nodded, because he was right.
“And you opened it all the same. Repeatedly. So you made a choice and you are part of the battle now.” He turned to walk away again.
“You drop something like that and you’re just going to leave? If I’m part of the battle, shouldn’t I know more about the war? Shouldn’t I know how to defend myself? You got me into this by giving me this book. You can’t just abandon me.”
He paused at the end of the aisle. “I never suggested we would.” He lifted his hand, indicating her desk and Sylvia pivoted to find a card beside her keyboard. It hadn’t been there before and she hadn’t seen him put it there, but then, she hadn’t seen him close the distance between them to stop her name from being uttered aloud.
“Reliquary,” she read from the business card. There was an address that she thought was in Soho and even a website url. She looked up at him. “You run a shop?”
“Only the finest of antiquities, by appointment. Shall we say nine?” He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and rounded a corner, disappearing behind the shelf of files. She heard a slight creak, caught a whiff of dampness, and knew he was gone.
But where? Sylvia marched down the aisle, book in one hand and business card in the other. There was no sign of him. The room was long and narrow, and the only way out was back along the aisle she’d just walked or down the next one. He wasn’t in either.
She remembered his comment about tunnels and scanned the walls. They were covered with bookshelves and boxes of files. The ceiling was ten feet high and she would have seen him over the shelf if he’d jumped. She dropped to her knees and ran her hands across the floor. She couldn’t see the trapdoor right away, but she felt it. It was tiled to match the cheap linoleum used on the archive floor, but slightly higher. As she ran her fingers along the ridge, it sank down to be level again.
Just as if it wasn’t there.
But it was and she knew it now. Sylvia couldn’t feel a clasp or a handle, but maybe he’d left it open when he arrived.
Maybe the archives weren’t as safe as she’d thought.
There was more than one way to keep a trapdoor closed. She dragged a filing cabinet over the trap door with considerable effort, then looked at the card again.
He hadn’t told her his name, but he was on that list.
Before she could open the book again and consider the possibilities, the doorbell rang.
“Give me a minute!” she shouted and ran back to the computer. She wiped the browser history, pulled up an archive record, and shoved the book and card into her purse. Then she went to the door, opened it and smiled at her co-worker. “Sorry. I dropped a file behind that filing cabinet and was right in the middle of moving it out from the wall.”
Sylvia went home to eat before going to the antique shop. She also wanted to talk to her aunt. She was so busy thinking about the book and the implications of having it in her possession that she strode down the street with her head down.
She ran right into Caleb.
It was a spectacular collision, one that sent her purse and tote bag skyward and their contents scattering. Caleb had been carrying a burlap sack of peanuts in the shell, which was large enough to obstruct his vision. It split, raining peanuts all over the sidewalk. They both fell down and stared at each other in surprise. Caleb was dressed for work, wearing a dark blue security guard uniform. He looked trim and neat.
His gaze slipped over her and he smiled as Sylvia straightened her glasses.
“I’m sorry...”
“No, I’m sorry...”
They exchanged apologies as they both crouched down to pick everything up. The notebooks were scattered all over the place, most of them splayed open, and Caleb stacked them up with care, smoothing the bent corners. Sylvia’s purse had apparently exploded, because her wallet and keys and everything else was loose. She thought the book was gone, but then saw Caleb put it back in her purse with her wallet.
She exhaled in relief, and tried to help him gather the peanuts again. The burlap bag wasn’t going to hold all of them, now that it was split, so she offered her tote bag to him.
“But your books...”
“I can carry the little stack upstairs. It’s not a big deal. You’ll have a much harder time with ten pounds of loose peanuts.”
He smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I offered to pick them up for the circus today, but they probably aren’t expecting me to bring them individually.”
They laughed together and got the peanuts into either the end of the burlap bag that was still intact or Sylvia’s tote bag. Caleb stood then offered his hand to Sylvia, helping her to get up. There was a warm glint of appreciation in his eyes, one that made her very aware of the strength of his hand.
“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you coming.” He picked up the stack of notebooks and handed them to her.
“I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”
“Are you sure you’re okay with those?”
“They’re just notebooks. I’m find.” Sylvia smiled and Caleb smiled, and time seemed to stop. When a window high overhead creaked open, she realized that they were standing and staring at each other like besotted idiots.
And that Celeste in 4F was watching.
“I hope you have a good night at work,” Sylvia said, thinking it was a lame comment but not knowing what else to say.
He shrugged. “I’ll settle for uneventful. One of the snakes got out of its pen last night.”
“Oh. Did you find it again?”
He nodded. “When the patron in the third row screamed.”
“I guess she got more thrills than she expected.”
“I guess so.” He smiled again and Sylvia could have sto
od with him all day. A gust of wind made her skirt swirl and sent a cloud of dead leaves spinning down the street. Caleb leaned over to the big window that was in the front of his apartment.
“Be quiet tonight, Loki,” he said, although Sylvia couldn’t see the dog. “I’ll be back soon.”
Sylvia had gone to the gate that blocked the front patio from the street. There were narrow steps there that went down to the door beneath the main door to the building. Once this lower level had been the kitchen, storage and some servant quarters, but now it was Eithne’s office in the front and her own apartment at the back. Sylvia wanted to ask her about Caleb moving in so quickly.
“How are you settling in?” she asked.
“Well enough. It doesn’t take long to unpack in two hundred square feet.”
“It’s not a lot of space for you and Loki.”
He grinned and looked suddenly younger. “They offered me a trailer at the circus. This is luxurious in comparison.” He waved two fingers at her and turned to leave. “I’d better get going so I’m not late.”
“You work at night?”
“This circus is only open at night.” He smiled and continued down the street, heading toward Stuyvesant Park. She’d have to look at that flyer again and see where the circus was located.
Funny how she hadn’t heard that there was one around.
Sylvia knocked on Eithne’s door but there was no answer. That didn’t surprise her: her aunt seldom answered the door. She used her key and locked the door again behind herself. “Aunt Eithne!” she shouted, not wanting to surprise her. “”It’s me!” Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked down the corridor. There was an office on this floor, directly under Caleb’s apartment and the same size, then Eithne’s apartment was at the back, under Rachel’s. The big difference was that Eithne had the patio and backyard to herself. 2B and 3B had small balconies but no one came into the garden except Eithne and Sylvia.
The door to Eithne’s apartment was open, as it often was, and Sylvia smelled soup. Lentil soup, maybe with a bit of bacon or ham. She could smell pastry, too, and her stomach grumbled with predictable enthusiasm.
Maeve’s Book of Beasts Page 7