The Librarian and the Lycan (The Aether Heart Saga #1)

Chapter 1

Alanna

The special collections section of the library is my sanctuary, a hushed realm of ancient paper and sacred quiet. At least, it usually is.

But today, something feels off.

I can’t pinpoint what, exactly. The air smells the same—comfortingly musty, like old books with a thousand stories to tell.

The labyrinthine stacks extend deep into the bowels of the building, as they always do, undisturbed and peaceful.

But there’s a prickling at the back of my neck that won’t quit, a sense of anticipation that has no rational source.

I don’t like it. This feeling of tension.

It reminds me too much of the outside world—the bustling metropolitan chaos just beyond the grand library doors where everything is unpredictable and overwhelming.

Far too easy to get swept up in the onslaught of noise and the whirlwind of activity, or even carried away by my own thoughts that sometimes feel too loud, too many, too much.

But here? Here, things are supposed to be organized and predictable. Here, I’m in control, and can take refuge in my work. Preserving and cataloguing beautiful, rare texts calms the chaos, honing my focus until all other concerns fade away. Even this strange unease, whatever it is.

And today, I have a treat on my hands. The final box of a new acquisition. Maybe that’s the source of my anticipation, since I’ve been trying to get away from my other duties all day to work on it.

The unremarkable cardboard box sits on my worktable, filled with an assortment of antiquities and unusual books from the estate of Dr. Caspian Ashcroft, a recently deceased scholar.

By all reports, he was an eccentric and reclusive man who dedicated his life to improbable theories—or, as my sister Emily would put it, “a crackpot lunatic.”

Either way, he left most of his extensive collection of oddities to the library, and it’s my job to go through it.

Some is valuable, some is being redirected to museums, and some can be characterized as, well, an assortment of handwritten nonsense and cool rocks a toddler would totally love to stash in their pockets.

Time slips away as I work and before I know it, the box is nearly empty.

The strange feeling hasn’t faded—if anything, it’s been building with each item I remove, like I’m getting closer to something.

Closer to what, I have no idea. Now, only one tome remains at the bottom, a real brick of a book with a bespoke leather cover.

It bulges with random papers and who-knows-what-else shoved inside, presumably things deemed important by Dr. Ashcroft.

This book feels intriguing. Important. Certainly the library will want to keep this one.

I hesitate, furrowing my brow. That last thought was deeply illogical. How could I possibly know something like that without a thorough examination? I haven’t even cracked the cover yet. And why does my heart feel like it’s in my throat?

I shake my head, telling myself I’m being ridiculous. Too much coffee. And yet, the pull of the book is indisputable. I reach toward it—

“Wow, okay. I know you love these old books or whatever, but it’s a bit rude to make me wait this long. I can only entertain myself on TikTok for so long,” a teasing voice interrupts.

I snap back to reality, the world outside of the manuscript room expanding into existence once more.

My usually neat ponytail has begun to loosen, stray auburn wisps escaping to tickle my face, and I know my eyes probably still hold the distant gaze of someone lost in centuries-old texts.

My shoulders have that familiar ache that comes from hunching over my books for too long.

Shit, what time is it?

“Em!” I yelp. “I’m sorry, I got lost in what I was doing. An oversight.”

“Huge.” Em grins as she says it, her bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Her blonde hair is pulled up in a messy bun that defies gravity, with dyed cobalt streaks that match her eyes, and which are a vibrant shock against the library’s muted tones.

Em makes everything look effortless. Beside her technicolor brilliance, I always feel plain—with my unremarkable hazel eyes and my constant struggle to look adequately presentable.

But I could never hold that against her.

I cock an eyebrow. “Although I deeply suspect the claim that you would actually get bored of TikTok.”

“Yeah, it’s sus. Anyway, did you know the library is actually closed now?

They probably would have entombed you in here if not for me.

So you’re welcome, Alanna.” Em slouches away from the rare manuscript room, her long limbs moving with casual grace and her backpack haphazardly dangling off one shoulder.

With no choice but to follow, I cast a wistful look back at the unopened book, before locking the door behind us.

It’s fine. I’ll inspect it tomorrow. No rush on these things, that’s part of the joy of the job.

Tonight is sister time. I consider myself fortunate that my 16-year-old kid sister actually wants to hang out with her boring librarian older sister at all anymore. Being ten years apart has never stopped us from being close—and adolescence be damned if it thinks it can come between us now.

“I’m surprised they let a hooligan like you in after closing, actually,” I say.

Disturbing the stillness of the after-hours library as we go, Em trails after me toward the front of the building.

As we pass through the main hall, it looks as though the overhead lights, which had been off since closing, impossibly flicker on, then off.

It’s nearly imperceptible amidst the final gilded streaks of summer sun that filter through the library’s tall arched windows, casting long geometric shadows across the stacks and the polished marble floors.

All evidence points to it being a trick of the sunset.

Still, I raise my eyes toward the ceiling to confirm.

In doing so, I’m reminded of how magnificent this part of the library is.

With its sweeping arches, open spaces, and high ceilings, it is far less intimate than the special collections area. But almost as precious.

“Oh-em-gee, did you just say ‘hooligan’? What are you, like a pirate or something? Do pirates say hooligan . . .?”

“I doubt it,” I reply. “It probably originated in the UK, likely from an Irish surname—”

“No. Nope.” She holds her hands up, as if repelling my words. “No lectures on etymology today, please. I know you’re a librarian and all but, like, keep it in your pants, okay?”

I stop walking. “Aww. Em.”

“What?” Her eyes immediately narrow.

“You know what ‘etymology’ means. Clearly you do listen to my very interesting and exciting lectures. It warms the heart, truly.”

“Ugh. I just spend too much time with you, that’s all.” She rolls her eyes, but can’t keep a smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Laughing, I say, “So, movie night at my apartment? Maybe . . . something with pirates?”

“Boooring. Let’s go out. Let’s do something. Sneak me into a bar. Take me to a rave. Buy me some drugs. Introduce me to a bad boy billionaire with a six-pack. Oh! I can snort the drugs off his six-pack. Someone has to stop you from becoming a hermit.”

“I am not a hermit. I simply enjoy quieter activities.”

“Like hermiting.”

“Like reading,” I correct.

“Alone.”

“Not always. I have a weekly book club, thank you very much. And I have Lizzy and Jen, and we do things all the time.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Em challenges. “Tell me Lizzy isn’t crocheting at home and watching Parks and Rec again right now.”

“I don’t have enough data to confirm or deny that at the moment,” I reply with false primness, smoothing my (very cozy, practical, and cute) embroidered sweater vest for effect.

“But we do go to bars. Maybe not clubs, but definitely bars. Pubs. Super trendy cocktail lounges full of highly socially desirable humans. And no, I will not be taking you to one.” Hearing myself, I groan.

“And why am I explaining myself to you anyway? What are you, like, five?”

“And when I’m drinking age and you’re eighty, I’ll drag you out with me and maybe you’ll actually find a boyfriend in your old age. You can enjoy your golden years together.”

“Sounds like a plan then. I’ll take you clubbing when I’m eighty.”

“Okay it’s settled. But for tonight . . .”

We push through the side staff entrance, emerging into the warm evening air.

I dutifully lock the door as I always do when I work late, but this time as I slide the key out, that prickling sensation from earlier surges back with renewed intensity.

It distracts me from what Em is saying—something about a local indie band playing at a definitely-not-bar downtown that we absolutely have to go see.

This feeling. It isn’t the usual buzz of the city. It’s something different, something I’ve never felt before. A faint rhythmic resonance, thrumming at a cellular level. It tugs at something deep, an insistent pull that echoes the feeling I had about the unseen book I left behind.

A shiver comes over me, despite the warmth outside. But I need to focus. My time with Em is on my list of top life priorities, after all. I can’t allow myself to get sidetracked.

The unusual feeling follows me as we walk down the sidewalk, a disquiet that wasn’t there this morning. It pulses in time with my heartbeat, growing stronger with each step, as if something is trying to pull me back.

“You’re being weird,” Em says, peering at my face. “Like, weirder than usual. You okay?”

“Fine,” I say automatically. “Just tired.”

But I’m not fine.

Tomorrow, I tell myself, resisting the urge to look back at the grand, silent building. Tomorrow, I’ll inspect that book.

Tomorrow I’ll prove to myself there’s a rational explanation for all of this.

Tomorrow.

The word feels flimsy and unconvincing, even in my own mind.