Chapter Five
Julian woke in his bed with no memory of getting there. For someone who never forgot anything, that was momentarily disconcerting. He lay still, cataloging his situation.
There was nothing amiss. The duvet was tucked around him firmly to keep him warm against the chill. His glasses were folded and placed on the nightstand, well within reach of the bed.
The book he’d been reading - a historical analysis of folklore and mythology - was closed and placed on his desk. Julian peered at the spot where a bookmark was sticking out, certain that it was in the correct place.
It had to be the shadows. There was no other logical explanation for it. Somehow, the shadows had noticed him dozing off in his chair and had moved him to the bed.
They had touched him, actually lifted him, which was a remarkable accomplishment for something with no substance. They had even removed his outer clothes, leaving him in his T-shirt and boxers, so he would be comfortable while he slept.
“That’s very considerate,” Julian said to the morning light filtering through his curtains. “Most people would find it creepy, but my neck doesn’t hurt, so objectively that was the correct choice.”
The air in his apartment felt warmer, as though the shadows had lingered close while he slept.
Julian wondered if the being from the alley - his shadow guardian, he’d started thinking of it - had watched him through the night.
The thought should have triggered every self-preservation instinct.
Instead, Julian felt oddly secure, like he’d been wrapped in something protective.
He made coffee and checked his phone. There were three texts from his mother about her plans for Thanksgiving dinner later in the month.
She never expected him to attend, but she liked to keep him updated.
Patricia had also messaged him, reminding him that his suspension was unpaid and he should “use the time to reflect on workplace conduct.”
Julian deleted Patricia’s message without responding - a child wouldn’t respond if sent to a naughty corner, and Julian felt that was how Patricia was treating him.
He drank his coffee black while reviewing his notes from yesterday.
He’d compiled seventeen pages on shadow entities, guardian mythology, and documented cases of beings that fed on corruption.
The research pointed toward something ancient, something that existed in the spaces between documented reality.
There had been no information on why that something ancient would choose to leave him a token or tuck a mere mortal into bed instead of consuming him in an alley, but that was why Julian was learning.
The logical conclusion was that the shadow being viewed Julian as significant in some way. The question was why.
Julian was midway through his second cup of coffee when he noticed the balcony door.
It wasn’t open - he always locked it as soon as darkness fell - but he was sure he could make out a shape sitting on the small iron table that was outside.
A shape that definitely hadn’t been there when he locked up.
He approached slowly, coffee mug still in hand, and stared through the glass. There was a book resting on the table. A leather-bound and what appeared to be aged book. Even from inside, Julian could see the quality of the binding, the way the morning light caught the gilt edges of the pages.
His breath stopped. That shouldn’t be out there. Setting down his coffee, he unlocked the door and stepped onto the balcony. The November air bit at his bare legs, and a part of Julian’s brain registered he probably should’ve put pants on, but his entire focus had narrowed to the book.
Despite the urge to do so, Julian didn’t touch it immediately.
Instead, he crouched beside the table, examining it from every angle.
The leather was Moroccan, dyed a deep burgundy that had faded beautifully over time.
The spine showed careful restoration work - it was expertly done and probably completed in Europe.
There was no visible damage to the binding threads. The pages showed the telltale signs of hand-laid paper, with uneven edges indicating pre-1800 production methods.
Julian’s hands were shaking as he finally lifted the book. The weight felt right - it was substantial but not overly heavy. He opened to the title page, and his heart stopped entirely.
Ars Notoria: The Notory Art of Solomon. London, 1657. First English edition.
“Oh, my gods.” Julian’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “This is the Fitzer translation.”
He knew the book. He had written a paper on it in graduate school. Fewer than a dozen complete copies existed in documented collections worldwide. The British Library had one. The Bodleian had another. Private collectors guarded the rest jealously.
And now, for some reason, one had appeared on Julian’s balcony.
He carried it inside with the care it deserved, setting it gently on his desk.
His hands still shook as he examined the front matter, the printer’s mark, the marginalia in what looked like a seventeenth-century hand.
Everything checked out. He wasn’t holding a reproduction or a clever fake, the book was real… priceless…and almost definitely stolen.
Julian sat back in his chair, staring at the book. The shadows had brought him a first-edition occult manuscript worth approximately two hundred thousand dollars, assuming a buyer could even find a seller willing to part with one.
“This has to be a lavish courtship gift,” Julian said aloud. “You brought me a courtship gift.”
The shadows in the corner of his room moved, responding to his voice. Not dramatically - just a slight shift, like a cat acknowledging its name. Julian’s lips twitched into something that might become a smile.
“Most people bring flowers,” he continued, addressing the shadows directly. “Or chocolate. You brought me a book that probably has three museums and a dozen private collectors searching for it.”
The shadows darkened, as if sheepish. Julian’s almost-smile grew.
“I’m not complaining. This is perfect, actually. Flowers die. Chocolate is empty calories. This...” He touched the book’s cover gently. “This is knowledge. This is history. This shows you were paying attention to me - the person most people ignore. That’s priceless in itself.”
He stood and walked to the corner where the shadows pooled the darkest, aware that normal people would be deathly afraid. But Julian didn’t feel that way - he had nothing to fear. He felt seen.
“You’re still here, aren’t you? Not just watching from outside anymore. I already know you’ve been inside my apartment.”
The shadows shifted again, and Julian swore they conveyed something like guilt mixed with defiance. It reminded him of a cat he’d seen once, who’d been caught on his sister’s kitchen counter, but who had no intention of getting down.
“It’s fine,” Julian said. “I don’t actually mind. You moved me to bed last night. Tucked me in. That implies a level of care that contradicts predatory intent.”
He returned to his desk, running his fingers over the book’s cover. The leather was cool under his touch and impossibly smooth. Someone had loved this particular edition - it had been cared for across centuries. And now the shadows had stolen it for him.
“Where did you get this? Actually, don’t answer that. Plausible deniability is important when receiving stolen antiquities.” Julian paused. “Although I suppose if I’m providing body disposal advice, worrying about stolen books is somewhat hypocritical.”
He opened the book again, carefully turning pages.
The text was in English but included diagrams and symbols that predated the translation - original elements from earlier Latin versions: prayers, invocations, instructions for summoning various forms of divine knowledge.
Medieval scholars believed the book could grant an understanding of all arts and sciences through angelic intervention.
Julian had always found it fascinating how humans tried to systematize the supernatural. They seemed to have an innate need to create rules and rituals for forces they didn’t understand. And now here he was, receiving gifts from a shadow being that probably predated this book by millennia.
“The irony isn’t lost on me,” he told the shadows.
A sudden movement caught his eye, and he realized there was something else on the balcony table, something he’d missed in his focus on the book. Julian returned outside. The weather wasn’t getting any warmer, and the cold air gave him goosebumps on his exposed skin.
A leather wallet sat where the book had been. A unisex version that looked expensive. Julian picked it up and opened it.
Patricia Holbrook’s driver’s license stared back at him.
Oh, my goodness. Julian had a sudden urge to cover his mouth and laugh out loud. His heart rate spiked, but he wasn’t scared. No, he might be worried about admitting it to anyone else, but there was a definite sense of satisfaction lodged in the middle of his chest.
He flipped through the wallet’s contents. Credit cards, insurance cards, sixty-three dollars in cash, and a coffee shop loyalty card that was two stamps away from a free drink.
His fingers tightened on the leather. The shadows had taken the wallet from Patricia, recently, based on the date stamp on a receipt from yesterday morning. Which meant they’d gone to her, had gotten close enough to lift her wallet, all because she’d suspended him.
“Did you hurt her?” Julian asked the air.
The shadows in his apartment darkened and rippled against the wall. Julian got the impression they hadn’t. The idea of redistributing her belongings floated through his brain.
Julian examined the wallet more closely.
There wasn’t any blood or damage. He imagined the shadows had pickpocketed his supervisor, likely when she was walking through a parking lot, or perhaps when going to get her coffee.
Then they’d delivered the evidence to him like a cat presenting a dead mouse.
Julian was getting definite cat vibes from the shadows.
There was a part of Julian, the part that always tried so hard to fit in with societal expectations, that knew he probably should feel guilty.
Instead, Julian felt that same calm certainty he’d experienced in the alley - the recognition that the shadows operated on a justice scale that aligned perfectly with his own rigid sense of right and wrong.
The shadows believed Patricia had been unfair to him - and they weren’t wrong.
She had been. So, the shadows had corrected the imbalance in their own way.
“You do realize this wallet is evidence of a crime,” Julian said, but he was already walking back inside, the wallet in hand. “I should return or report it.”
The shadows practically radiated skepticism.
They already knew they had nothing to fear.
Julian set the wallet on his desk next to the priceless manuscript.
“It would appear you’re trying to court me with stolen goods and petty revenge.
That’s...” he searched for the right word. “Charming. In a deeply concerning way.”
He sat down, looking at both gifts. The book showed an understanding of who he was and what he valued. The wallet showed that the shadows had marked him as worth defending. Most people would run, call the police, or seek help. Julian knew that from an academic perspective.
He pulled out his phone and took photos of the book’s title page and two internal diagrams. Then he opened his notes app and began cataloging every detail.
Because if a supernatural entity was courting him with valuable stolen goods and acts of protective larceny, the least he could do was document the experience properly.
“We should establish some ground rules,” Julian said out loud as his fingers flew across the keyboard.
“First, no hurting people unless they’re genuinely dangerous.
Patricia is rude and mediocre at her job, but that doesn’t justify violence.
Second, if you’re going to keep bringing me stolen books, I need provenance information so I can track the rightful ownership.
Third...” He paused, checking. “Third, you should probably manifest at some point so we can have an actual conversation instead of me talking to shadows like a person who’s lost touch with reality. ”
The shadows moved across his floor, reaching toward him. Julian held still as they brushed against his ankle. It was a very cool sensation and definitely gentle. The touch sent sparks up his spine, and he got goosebumps that had nothing to do with being cold.
“I felt that,” Julian said unnecessarily. He coughed to clear the sudden lump in his throat. “You’re touching me.”
The shadows retreated immediately. Julian caught himself reaching after them. “Wait. I didn’t say stop. I was just...making an observation.”
They crept back, more hesitant now. Julian extended his hand, palm down, and watched the shadows pool beneath it.
When they rose to meet his skin, he didn’t flinch.
The sensation was like silk, or as if he had his hand in water that didn’t make him wet.
It took a moment to comprehend that it was actually happening, because shadows were simply an absence of light, yet Julian could feel their touch.
“There,” Julian said softly. “See? I’m not running away.”
The shadows wrapped around his wrist, a gentle bracelet of living night.
Julian’s heart rate picked up, but he still wasn’t scared, and maybe that spoke volumes about the way his brain worked, but he was sure excitement was the best word to describe how he felt.
It was as if he realized that something special had just happened.
“You’re my shadow guardian,” he said. “And I’m your...what? Your beacon? That’s what the research suggested. A light that balances darkness - a truth that anchors the shadows.”
The shadows pulsed against his skin, and Julian took that as confirmation that his ideas were right.
“All right then.” Julian took a breath. “Then we should probably discuss what happens next. Because I don’t actually understand supernatural courtship protocols, and I’d prefer clear communication over guessing.”