Chapter Fifteen
I appear in a dimly lit corridor.
Overhead, flickering ceiling lights cast little light. The floor beneath my shoes is linoleum, old and worn-down by generations of hurried students. Yes, I’m deep inside the Cal State Fullerton library complex, though not the part any normal student would recognize.
The red door next to me is located on the third floor in the center of the southernmost wall. Most students and faculty will never see the door, or even know that one exists.
I raise my hand and knock. Three precise taps. A moment passes, then another. Meanwhile, the book in my bag has taken to shrieking, shuddering, and making a fuss.
“Shush, you!” I intone, not sure if there are guards nearby.
Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, then a sharp click!
The door creaks inward with a sound like a sigh, revealing the muted room beyond.
Rows of bookshelves stretch to the ceiling.
The scent of old vellum and something darker hits me—ozone, maybe.
Burnt sugar maybe. More screeching from the books from within.
I sense that some recognize the book in my bag. Then again, they’re just dumb books.
“Good evening, Sam,” says the familiar warm voice. Max. “Late for even you,”
I step inside. “Sorry, Max. I have something here I’m hoping you can shed light on.”
He tilts his head, as if listening. “A book?”
“But of course.”
“Angry fella, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s like I’m carrying a baby with a poopy-diaper.”
“Except this angry baby is likely a bound demon.”
“Yikes. Here, you take it.”
“I don’t want it!”
“Oh, crap. Really?”
“Just kidding. Here, let me take it off your hands.”
I had over my bag. Max proceeds to slide the book out, then turns away from me before cracking the cover open.
“Oh, dear,” he says immediately.
Maximus Archibald—alchemist, librarian, light warrior, and headmaster of the Inner Earth Academy—moves over to the circular reference desk in the center of the room.
His black long-coat is tailored, his silver bow-tie sits slightly askew, and his eyes are as bright and intelligent as ever, as he studies the book from beneath heavy brows.
He’s good looking, fit, and fairly spry for a 500 year old man who’s again more and more every time I see him, now that he’s grown weary of immortality.
“I’m sorry to barge in unannounced,” I say, sidling up next to him.
“It’s a delight to see you, no matter the hour.”
Meanwhile, the book is twitching and spasming before him, moaning faintly like something dying. Or something super evil.
“Your book isn’t happy, Sam.”
“I kinda stole it.”
Next, Max murmurs something in Latin under his breath. As he does, golden light suddenly coils from his fingers and seeps into the book’s spine. It lets out a final whimper before falling silent.
“Bound,” he says. Now, he starts really flipping through the pages. They don’t behave, though, and fight back, snapping like jaws. Bending away and avoiding his fingers. Max sighs and mutters another incantation. The pages finally lie flat.
“Where did you get this book, Sam?” he asks without looking up.
I tell him about my case and my nearly week-long surveillance of Mark’s house.
“Your target isn’t just dabbling in the dark arts, Sam. His family created black magic as we know it today.”
“Say again.”
Max suddenly stands and paces, running a hand through his hair. “His name is Mark, right?”
“Yes…”
“Mark Elizur Cain?”
I frown. “Not sure about the middle name, but yeah—that’s him. How do you know that, Max?”
He stops, turns. “Because I know of him, and of his family. The Elizur line. They trace their bloodline all the way back to the Builders of Babel. You know, in the Bible. The Tower of Babel? They’re descendants of Nimrod, ancient Babylonian king.
We’re talking pre-Deluge sorcery, Sam. As in before Noah’s flood.
These were the first magicians. The ones who invented the kind of magic the rest of us are only beginning to understand. ”
“That’s… comforting.”
Max continues, eyes bright with a mix of awe and dread.
“Mark is descended directly from the family that first summoned monsters into this world. They created the original werewolves, mermaids, and dozens of species people chalk up as myth.”
“You got all that from one spellbook?”
He holds it up reverently. “The spellbook, Sam. It’s the only known text that can create shifters. Only one bloodline ever had access to the spell itself. Werewolves exist because of this book. Vampires, too. You and I are living proof of the fallout from this magic.”
I swallow. “Okay, wow.”
Max shakes his head. “Mark hasn’t completed the spell.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because every caster in the Nimrodian line must create their own new shifter species before they gain full access to the family’s trust. A multibillion-dollar trust, Sam. Illuminati-level money. If Mark had finished the spell, he wouldn’t be living in a modest house in Brea.”
“Fair point.”
“Though from every indication, Mark is likely already a dinosaur shifter—and his bite would create more. Sam… we’re living in a world with dinosaurs now.”
I sigh. “Fantastic.”
“He’ll feel compelled to make more. It’s part of the requirement. Southern California won’t be safe until he’s satisfied... and until he’s created dozens more like him.”
“How do we stop him?”
“Silver, of course, like with any other shifter.”
“How do you know so much about the Nimrodian line?” I ask.
“Would you like the easy answer or the long answer?”
“Easy, for now.”
“My family knew his family. I, too, come from an ancient bloodline, though mine trace themselves to the Nephilim. However, I have rejected all of my family’s twisted demands. My mother did not. It is why she had such great power, and why I’m still pretty good at this magic stuff...”