Chapter 8
Jade
The old front doors creaked shut behind Luther as he left, and the moment they clicked into place, my whole body loosened like I’d been holding myself rigid for hours. Thank God. At least he hadn’t vanished from the library like a ghost this time, that would have been too much for my frayed nerves.
I braced my hands on the nearest shelf, inhaling slow, shaky breaths.
Dust swirled into my lungs, coating my tongue with a foul taste, but that was a small price to pay.
The tension he carried with him—sharp, cold, electric—seemed to cling to my skin even after he was gone.
Far worse was the echo of that moment when he leaned over my shoulder, so close I could feel the hum of his presence, the heat of him despite his cool tone, the solidness of his body behind mine.
I hated how conscious I was of it. Of him, and of the fact that I was a woman and he was very much—irritatingly—a man.
A man with glacial eyes, unfairly sharp cheekbones, and a voice that managed to be condescending and elegant at the same time.
A man who smelled faintly like cedar and something darker, something that whispered of old secrets.
“Focus, Jade,” I muttered, shaking myself. “Books. You’re here for the books.” Right. Yes, the books I could handle, because books always made sense. Books didn’t lean over my shoulder and make my pulse stutter like a teenager’s. They were solid, real, and they needed me.
I returned to my notebook with renewed purpose.
If I let myself dwell on Luther for more than five minutes at a time, I’d get nothing done.
I already had a list for this shelf: nine titles needing immediate stabilization, twelve in decent condition, and five requiring specialized treatment.
Shelf by shelf, I’d conquer this place, and maybe—just maybe—prove to myself I hadn’t burned my entire life down in Boston for nothing.
Three shelves later, I was deeper into the library, walking carefully over warped floorboards and dodging an ancient globe that listed dangerously to one side.
Restoring art was not my strength, but seeing that beautiful, ancient globe prickled at me to try, anyhow.
It wasn’t any more right than the state some of these books were in.
That was when the feeling started: a prickling along my spine, the certainty of being watched. The crawling, creeping sensation that someone or something had eyes boring into the back of my head.
My pen hesitated over the page. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I whispered.
“It’s an old building. It creaks. It smells like a tomb.
Of course you’re jumpy.” Still, I glanced behind me more often than I wanted to admit.
Part of me wondered, traitorously, if it might be Luther again, watching me work with that unreadable, cold stare.
I refused to think about how that idea made me feel; it was not a path I could allow myself to go down.
A soft sound cracked through the silence, echoing through the abandoned library in an eerie fashion.
It was followed by a light scrabbling noise overhead.
I jerked upright so fast I nearly dropped my notebook.
Damn it, this was the last thing I needed, I was so jumpy I was ready to bolt out of here from just a small sound.
“Rats,” I told myself firmly, hearing how thin my voice sounded. “Just rats.”
I am not a rat! I froze, my skin crawling with unease. The voice wasn’t spoken; it wasn’t heard with my ears. It sort of… arrived in my head, as though someone had whispered directly into my thoughts. My heart jumped into my throat.
“W–who said that?” I demanded, turning in a clumsy circle. Was this the last straw? Had I finally lost my mind? I mean, kicking my ex/boss in the nuts had certainly been a moment of insanity, career suicide. Now I was hearing voices...
Silence, not so much as a groan or a squeak, not even from the uneven floorboards beneath my feet. I could hear the pounding of my heart, the blood rushing in my ears. Then, cautiously: …You heard me? It was a quiet voice—sweet, somehow—but that didn’t make it any less creepy.
I blinked rapidly, wiping a hand over my eyes and touching my ear.
I’d expect to see things in here—shadows looming in every corner and under every shelf.
Hear things? No… It should have been a rat.
I wanted it to be a rat; that would have been better.
“If someone is in here messing with me, I swear...”
Fascinating, the voice interrupted, bright with interest. No one ever hears me except Luther.
Luther, of course. Like that made total sense.
The last thing that stiff, overdressed snob would be dealing with was voices in his head.
There was no way, he just wasn’t the type.
But apparently, I was. Didn’t that suck?
“Oh yes,” I muttered. “This is it. I’ve finally snapped. Mold-induced auditory hallucinations. Perfect.” It would go perfectly on my curriculum vitae, right next to “kicks boss in the nuts.” I was doomed.
No, no, you’re not broken, the voice said quickly. Well… probably not. Wait, hold on. Why can you hear me? He didn’t know either? This was getting better and better. Although, why I expected the freaking voice in my hallucination to have answers, no clue.
I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I don’t know!
I don’t even know who you are!” I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know, either, but I was in it now, might as well push through, right?
Wrong. I was so not prepared for answers, answers that were never going to fit in my nice, orderly world of books, registers, and catalogs.
The silence that followed my question stretched for a long while, and I almost believed it was over, that he was gone.
I wobbled on my feet as I turned back to the nearest shelf with a deep breath.
Okay, focus. You can do this. It was just a flight of imagination, get back to work.
I’d scribbled the first few notes down on this new shelf when: … Up here.
I followed the direction of the… thought? Vibration? I had no vocabulary for this. But I looked up toward the chandelier, dim with dust, half its crystals dangling sadly. Strands of dust and cobwebs were thick enough to obscure most of the previous glitter and grandeur.
Why did I look? I didn’t want to look, but now I had, and nearly screamed.
Hanging upside down from one of the arms was a bat.
A small bat. A tiny bat wearing a red silk vest and a gold chain.
I stared, mouth open in shock, chills skittering down my spine.
He stared back, beady eyes bright with amusement.
“You,” I whispered, pointing. “You’re… talking to me.
” Why did I acknowledge him—his presence?
That was only going to make him more real, and that was the last thing I wanted, needed.
He puffed up proudly, as far as a bat even could puff. Telepathically, yes! he agreed eagerly, as if that were important. It was simply another way of pointing out that I was hearing things that weren’t real, and now, seeing them too.
“And last night,” I added faintly, “at the window, was that you?” I had been so certain I’d seen a flash of red and gold, a bat fluttering away into the darkening twilight. The delusion must have started then. Wasn’t that grand?
He made a very unconvincing show of ignoring the question, examining a dusty crystal instead. He tapped it with one of his small thumbclaws; it made a soft chime echo through the library, delicate and sweet. I am offended by the implication, he huffed.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. “I’m hallucinating. I’m absolutely hallucinating. Too much mildew, not enough sleep. That’s it.” I could feel my future slipping from my grasp, sinking into the dust at my feet, pulling me down.
You’re not hallucinating, he said cheerfully. You’re simply compatible. I wasn’t even sure why it felt like I was talking to a he, the voice was light and high, befitting the bat’s tiny stature. Must be part of the delusion to know these things.
“Compatible with what?” I asked, my voice a high, panicked squeak that did not seem to dissuade the bat from talking to me, telepathically, apparently.
A talking bat… If I’d been handling children’s books moments ago, that might have made some kind of sense.
I hadn’t, though. There did not appear to be a children’s section in this library; all the books were old, ancient.
Unclear! The bat answered brightly, as if his confusing replies weren’t contributing to my spiraling thoughts. His answers? More likely, they were just products of my own overactive imagination. That was the last straw.
“I need air,” I muttered, stumbling back from the chandelier. “I need lunch, and tea, and maybe a psych evaluation.” Yeah, definitely a psych eval, but that was going to have to wait, somehow. I needed to finish this job without becoming a rambling, raving lunatic.
The bat gasped, Rude! He sounded so deeply offended that I sucked in a surprised gasp of air and nearly choked on a cloud of dust. Now I’d offended the figment dangling from the chandelier, his wings shifting over his slight, furry body with clear irritation.
“Sorry,” I said automatically, because I had apparently lost all sanity and manners alike.
“I just, I need to leave.” There was no reply to that, thankfully.
Notebook, bag, folder; I gathered everything in frantic handfuls and practically fled out the front doors, gulping down the fresh air like someone who’d been underwater too long.
Sweet Dreams Guaranteed felt like a beacon, warm and safe across the street. I hoped its kind owner was home because lunch with Gwen sounded exactly like what I needed: a rational conversation with someone sensible, human, and grounded.
Maybe after that, when I came back, the moldy spookiness would feel less overwhelming. Maybe I could convince Gwen to sit with me in the afternoon while I worked. And maybe, just maybe, there wouldn’t be any more talking bats. But I wasn’t holding my breath.