5. Artemis #3
I took a few cautious steps closer, telling myself I could always stop. I could always leave. I was an adult woman with boundaries and a sometimes non-existent sense of self-preservation.
I was also a librarian who had just found a missing book and was riding a dangerous competence high.
“Where are the books?” I asked.
His smile widened even more, which felt like an escalation. He stepped back toward the open rear of the van.
“In the back,” he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
Of course they were.
I stayed where I was. “I don’t see any books.”
“You won’t from there,” he said pleasantly. “You gotta come look.”
My brain began shouting. This is bad. This is obviously bad. People don’t hide books. People hide bodies.
I should have turned around. I should have gone back inside. I should have told Mr. Foster there was a murder van behind the library and let him and his frog shirt handle it.
Instead, I stood there, frozen between fear and curiosity, staring into the empty van like it might suddenly reveal a stack of first editions if I squinted hard enough.
“What kind of books?” I asked.
“All kinds,” he said. “Old ones. I’m not sure, exactly, I’m just delivering them.”
Fuck.
I edged closer, every step cautious, my muscles tight, my senses sharp. The alley felt quieter now, like the sound had been turned down without my permission. The open doors loomed, tall and blank.
He moved farther inside the van, stepping up and out of sight for a second.
“There,” he said from within. “See.”
I stopped just short of the bumper and stared at the empty space. “There are no books.”
He laughed.
Before I could step back, he was down on the ground with me again, hand coming up and covering my mouth with more strength and speed than his form suggested.
This was bad.
With his grip firm on me, he guided me into the van. My heart slammed hard against my ribs, and I twisted, kicking at empty space, trying to make noise, trying to do anything that felt useful.
The door slammed shut, closing me in the dark space.
My brain, traitorous and loud, supplied one last thought.
This is why you don’t trust a white van. Or any van. Or men who smile too much.
He tied my wrists behind my back with zip ties that bit into my skin and made a soft, final clicking sound I was never going to unhear.
“Hey,” I said. “That’s unnecessary. I was already uncomfortable.”
He ignored me and pushed me down onto a metal folding chair. The cold of the metal seeped through my jeans, and I could practically hear it taunting me: No one cares if you’re comfortable. The man looped another tie around my waist and the chair back.
I tested it immediately.
Nothing moved.
“Okay,” I said, my breath coming in quick, panicked bursts. “This is definitely not a book delivery.”
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his jacket. “I just need to ask you some questions.”
That was not reassuring. That sentence had never once been reassuring in the history of humanity.
“Cool,” I said. “Love questions. Big fan. Maybe start with why you kidnapped a librarian on a Tuesday morning?”
His jaw tightened. “You were looking for a book.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s literally my fucking job.”
He paced once, slow and deliberate, then stopped in front of me. “Recopilación de Linajes de Dragones Notables de este Milenio.”
I stared at him.
“You were searching the archives for it,” he snapped. “Why?”
“Because a man asked for it,” I said. “That’s how libraries work. Someone wants a thing. I find the thing. No one gets abducted in a van.”
“That book isn’t for public access.”
“Neither am I,” I said, tugging uselessly at the zip ties. “And yet here we are.”
He exhaled hard, clearly annoyed. “Did you find it?”
I tilted my head. “Depends. Are you going to kill me if I say yes?”
Silence.
“That feels like a yes-adjacent silence,” I said.
His patience snapped. “Who are you?”
“Artemis Ripley. Head Librarian. Graduate degree holder. Chronic overthinker. Allergic to shellfish and men who ask questions in unmarked fucking vans.”
“Do you know any dragons?”
I blinked once.
Twice.
Then I laughed. I couldn’t help it. A sharp, incredulous bark burst out of me and echoed off the metal walls.
“Oh my god,” I said. “Is this a bit?”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“A bit,” I repeated. “Performance art. Do you have hidden cameras set up in here? Is this some sort of guerrilla marketing thing for… I don’t know, a podcast about rare books? Because if this is truly about dragons, I need you to know they’re not real.”
He didn’t say anything.
I swallowed, forced myself to slow my breathing. Because my brain was a menace, a line surfaced fully formed. I recited it calmly, clearly, as if I was a book being shelved instead of a person zip-tied to a chair.
“I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” I met his stare. “That’s Louisa May Alcott. In case you’re wondering.”
His mouth tightened in a flat line. “Stop talking.”
“Oh good,” I said. “You are familiar with literature. That would’ve been awkward.”
He straightened, then with the same flat tone as before, he said it again.
“Do you know. Any. Dragons.”
I leaned back as far as the chair would allow and said, very carefully, “Okay. So, we’re doing this.”
He stared at me.
“You’re serious,” I continued. “You are asking me, a woman with student loans, if I know any dragons.”
“Answer the question.”
“Sure,” I said. “My dad was a dragon.”
He froze.
“Wow,” I went on. “This feels cathartic. I should’ve tried telling the truth sooner. Anyway. He was a weak one. No fire. Bad wings. He mostly just sat around, hoarding tequila bottles and disappointment.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t say it was,” I said. “He died bitter and small, which I assume is not what you’re looking for.”
His jaw worked. “This is not a joke.”
“Then why does it feel like one?” I shot back. “Because from where I’m sitting, this is either a dark romance meet-cute or the stupidest interrogation I’ve ever been part of. And I’ve been to academic conferences.”
He moved closer. Too motherfucking close.
“Why were you looking for the book?”
I shrugged as much as the chair allowed. “Because it was missing. And I don’t like it when things are missing.”
“You found it.”
“Did I?”
His hand came down hard on the chair back, rattling the metal. “Enough.”
I reacted without thinking. I threw my head back as far as I could, then thrust forward, aiming for his face.
I missed him completely.
The chair tipped, and as it did, the world tilted.
I hit the van floor with a painful clang that reverberated through my head, and stars burst behind my eyes. The chair landed on its side with me still strapped to it, wrists numb, cheek pressed against cold metal.
The brute looked down at me, then straightened and stepped back. “You can stay like that,” he said.
“Wow,” I muttered. “Chivalry truly is dead.”
I shifted, testing the chair. The binding dug into my ribs. My hands tingled painfully behind me. Fear crept in around the edges of my panic.
He crouched in front of me again. “Last chance. Who are you working with?”
“No one,” I said. “Unless you count my on-again, off-again therapist, and frankly, she’d have a lot to say about this.”
“Did you tell anyone about the book?”
“I called the patron who requested it,” I said, immediately regretting the honesty. “That’s it.”
His eyes sharpened. “Who?”
“I don’t know. He’s tall,” I said. “Bilingual. Inconveniently handsome. If you’re looking to kidnap him next, good luck. He looks like he could bench-press a fucking horse.”
That gave him pause. I probably shouldn't have shared that information. Story of my life. Loose-lipped Fartie.
My heart started doing that fast, ugly thing I hated.
“So,” I said, because the silence was unbearable. “If this is a dark romance, I need you to know I do not consent to enemies-to-lovers under duress.”
He didn’t laugh. No, he looked tired and frustrated. Clearly, he hadn’t expected me to be such a complication.
And that told me everything.
This wasn’t random.
This wasn’t a joke.
And this book obviously mattered a lot more than I’d thought.