Spinebreaker (Library Gate Series Book 2) Page 4

Dorian shook his head. “It’s impossible. Mae tried and it almost killed her. And that was when she was younger and stronger.”

  “How many black books are there?” April asked.

  “About a dozen. Most have been like that for a long time. Mae didn’t know about the ink rot at first, so she didn’t know she needed to maintain the collection.” There was a long pause.

  Finally Randall spoke. “I think that’s enough for tonight. We’ll meet again tomorrow. For now, April needs to rest.”

  Barty nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  Randall turned her slowly around and towards the door. He slipped her coat over her shoulders and grabbed her purse for her.

  “You did good,” Randall said. “You saved that boy. Let yourself rest. You’re no good to anyone without a little sleep.”

  She allowed herself to be led to the exit, her eyes lingering on the spot where they’d found Andre. So clean, like he’d never even been there.

  ~~~

  Randall drove her car to her grandmother’s house and then he and Rex walked back towards the library, reassuring her that he had a place to sleep that night. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but she didn’t have the energy to argue.

  She fell asleep as soon as she crawled under the covers, still in her work clothes. She’d barely bothered to kick off her shoes.

  She dreamed that she was back in the open field. A figure stood off in the distance where the boy had been standing. She thought it was the boy again, but it was difficult to tell because it was facing away from her towards the trees.

  “I can help you,” she called, but the air swallowed her words like she was speaking underwater. She began moving towards the figure, but barely made any progress, like she was walking on a large treadmill that carried her backwards with every step.

  Finally she reached the figure, which now stood facing the trees, though she was sure it had been turned the other way a few minutes earlier. It wasn’t the boy. It was too large, and the boy hadn’t been dressed in a white polo and black pants…

  “Let me help you,” she said again. She placed her hand on the figure’s shoulder, turning it around. It was Andre. But hadn’t it always been Andre? She had a moment to see his lifeless eyes before the ink rot covered them, and then they were only smooth hollows. Liquid black rot squirted up through his white shirt, soaking through the word security embroidered there.

  She reached out to touch the ink rot. Her heart beat hard in her chest. If she could just make it go away, everything would be fine again. But the rot was too far gone. She’d arrived too late… if she touched it, it would consume her as well.

  Still, she reached for it.

  “Don’t.”

  The word came from behind her. She turned, expecting to see Dorian or Randall. Instead, the genie stood there. He smirked, an expression she found oddly comforting.

  “I have to,” she said. “I need to save him…” she turned back to Andre, but he was gone.

  She turned back to the genie, about to ask him where Andre had gone, to insist they look for him. But the genie reached out and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

  His touch was hot, and it burned away all of her concerns, fears, and worries. She felt suddenly tired, like she could fall asleep even in her dream.

  If she dreamt more than that, she did not remember it when she woke the next morning.

  Chapter Three

  April relieved Janet from the reference desk. Janet was debriefing her on the agenda for the day when a woman and a boy walked into the Werner Room.

  The boy was no more than twelve years old, Latino, thickly built, and familiar.

  “Who is that?” she asked, though she already knew.

  Janet looked out. “Oh, crap. That’s Andre’s ex-wife. She’s been in here at least three times since last Thursday, grilling the staff about Andre.” She slid out of her chair. “And you’re the only person she hasn’t harassed yet. Lucky you.”

  At that moment the woman was only a few feet away from the desk. Janet smiled at her. “Hi, Ms. Beauchamp. It’s lovely to see you again. I was just leaving, but April will be happy to help you with whatever you need.”

  She backed away, and when Mrs. Beauchamp’s back was turned to her she mouthed sorry behind her back, then turned and practically sprinted towards the stairs.

  “Are you April Walker?” the woman asked, a hand on her hip.

  April nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I was very sorry to hear about—”

  The woman waved away April’s words. “Save it. I know my ex-husband. He skipped town, probably to get out of paying child support.” She reached back behind her and grabbed her son’s arm, pulling him forward. “Do you see this kid? His father’s son, every inch of him. And he eats like him, too. How I am supposed to pay for all of that plus clothes and school supplies and everything else? Not to mention that I had to take time off work to come look for him.”

  The boy looked down at his feet, his jaw hard. Splotches of scarlet erupted across his face. How could this woman say these things about her own son in front of him?

  “What’s your name?” April asked the boy.

  “Rico,” the boy mumbled. His voice was a softer version of his mother’s intense New England bray mixed with Andre’s Latin lilt. Once his voice changed April had no doubt it would match his father’s deep bass timbre.

  April turned back to Rico’s mom. “Andre didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d do that,” she said. One of Andre’s favorite topics was his son, and how he wished he could see him more than he did.

  “Oh, everyone thinks that Andre’s such a saint because I was the one who left him. Well I’ll tell you what, he didn’t deserve me.” She narrowed her eyes. “They said that you were here the last night that he worked. Did you notice anything strange? Maybe he said something to you, something about going on a trip? Maybe meeting a girlfriend?”

  April tried to keep her face neutral. Just stick to the facts, she thought to herself. What had Andre done that night? To be honest, she hadn’t paid much attention. It had been just a regular night until it wasn’t, and she’d been on a high from passing Barbara’s test. That all seemed so far away.

  “Nothing seemed out of the ordinary,” she said. “He made the fifteen-minute closing announcement then came up to say good night. He mentioned that he was looking forward to seeing his son that weekend.”

  Andre hadn’t said this that night, but she was sure he’d said it during the day, and she thought it was important for Rico to hear it.

  “Hmm,” Ms. Beauchamp said. “That’s pretty much what everyone else said.” She paused, then narrowed her eyes. “You were out the week following his disappearance. I kept calling in to try to talk to you.”

  April’s heart started beating. “I had food poisoning,” she said. “I didn’t even know that Andre had disappeared until the following Monday when I came back to work.”

  “You seem nervous.”

  Damn it. Was she that much of an open book? “Andre was a colleague and a friend. We’re all upset.”

  Mrs. Beauchamp continued to squint, considering April’s words. Then she nodded. “Of course. If you think of anything else, please get in touch. We’re staying in Andre’s apartment while we’re in town, so you can call his land line.”

  April nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Rico glanced back at her as they walked away. April didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as though he was waiting for something. Ms. Beauchamp grabbed her son’s wrist and pulled him towards the stairwell.

  A few minutes later Becky walked up the stairs carrying a box. She looked around, trying to avoid April’s gaze, then seemed resigned to having to talk to her.

  “I saw Andre’s ex-wife and son come up,” she said. “Are they still here?”

  “They left a few minutes ago.”

  “Dang it. I was going to give her Andre’s things.” She gazed down at the box unhappily. It contained various knickknacks, a coffee-s
tained mug, a photo of Rico, and the security jacket he sometimes wore around the building.

  “They’re staying at his apartment,” April said. “You can call them there.”

  “Oh,” Becky said. “I’ll do that.” Her voice was distant, and she didn’t hold April’s gaze. She must still be upset about what April said in the parking lot the previous afternoon.

  After Becky left, April tried to get into the groove of working the reference desk, but she kept thinking about Rico and the way he’d looked back at her before his mother had pulled him away.

  If April had let Thaddeus take the gate, then Rico would still have his father.

  But was that really fair? If April had let Thaddeus do whatever he was going to do with the gate, then all the people in the books would have died. Even if their worlds wouldn’t have been destroyed when Thaddeus decommissioned the gate, then they all would have ended up like those people she’d seen through the veil the previous night. Maybe Thaddeus was right. They weren’t real people. But they’d sure seemed like they were. Dorian was real, wasn’t he?

  But she didn’t know any of those other people. None of them except Dorian. She didn’t have to look into their children’s eyes.

  ~~~

  April, Barty, Randall, and Dorian sat around the coffee table in the sitting area. Barty pulled a small box out of his pocket. The top was stained in splotches of pizza grease. He handed it to her. “It’s the amulet,” he said.

  She opened the box. Inside, wrapped in a paper towel was a rock on a piece of string. It looked like a necklace that a five year old might make for their mother.

  “The stone will glow if the collectors are around you and mean you harm,” Barty said. He sounded proud.

  “Oh,” April said. “That’s good. Do I have to wear it, or can I keep it in my pocket?”

  “It has to be worn around your neck,” Barty said. “I know it’s not the prettiest thing. I didn’t exactly have time to craft a Tiffany’s-worthy piece of jewelry. But it will keep you safe.”

  “Sorry. Thank you.” She slipped it over her head. She’d be sure to wear clothes that covered it, anyway.

  “Excellent,” Dorian said. “Now, there’s one more order of business: the ink rot.”

  April breathed out. “Right. Let’s start.”

  “Start?”

  “You said the ink rot has gotten bad since Mae got sick. We need to work on turning that around before it gets worse.”

  Dorian nodded. “Quite right. I think we should start with the books where it hasn’t gotten too bad yet, so you can practice—”

  April shook her head. “No. We should start with the worst cases so that they don’t become too much to handle.”

  Dorian shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re still exhausted from last night. You’ll get used to it, of course, but you need time to recover. The boy was too much. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “What would you have done?” April asked. “Just let the rot consume him? Let him turn into one of those… things?” Everyone stared at her. “Being the Pagewalker means being around death and suffering. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I have to get used to it.”

  The others all exchanged glances. Finally, Dorian said, “Well, it would help keep more of the books becoming black—”

  April crossed her arms. “If I work hard enough, I can get good enough at this to fix the blackened books, right? You said it’s like building muscle.”

  Dorian cleared his throat. “You should not expect that of yourself. I’ve seen it nearly kill Mae.”

  “I can do it,” April said.

  Dorian rose to his feet. “Don’t think that Mae wasn’t dedicated,” he said. “She did everything in her power to save those books. It’s suicidal to assume you can do better.”

  “I have to,” she said. “I have to make Andre’s death worth it.”

  Everyone fell so silent that they could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock. April looked back at it. Nine forty-five. They’d been talking for nearly an hour.

  “We’re wasting time,” she said. “Do you have a record of which books have the worst ink rot?”

  Dorian’s voice was resigned when he responded. “I keep track of when the ink rot first appears on the books.” He reached into his blazer and pulled out a small notebook.

  “I didn’t know you did that.”

  “What do you think I do after you go home each night?” He walked over to the shelf and pulled off one of the books. He showed her the cover. The Scarlet Letter. She vaguely remembered it being assigned in her high school literature class. She hadn’t read the whole thing, but she sort of remembered what it was about. Puritanical New England or something.

  “Is this the worst book?” She asked.

  “It is the worst one I’m letting you near,” Dorian said. “If you feel that’s not sufficient, you can choose the book yourself.” He tucked the small notebook safely back into his coat.

  There wasn’t time to argue. “Fine. We’ll start there.” She pulled the book out of his hand and glanced at the other two.

  “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  No one said anything. She walked towards the east wall, and as she did, she heard Dorian whisper to the others, “Don’t worry—she’ll be so exhausted that she won’t be able to do another…”

  She pretended not to hear him and laid the book open on its spine. Dorian and Randall walked over and flanked her.

  “What do you guys think you’re doing?”

  “We’re your backup,” Randall said.

  Dorian nodded in agreement.

  “Just don’t slow me down.”

  Dorian’s expression became sour. “I’ve been doing this since before you were born! Don’t slow me down…” the last part was muttered in a mockery of her voice.

  She looked back at Barty. “Make sure the book stays open.”

  Randall’s skin developed a greenish tinge after they stepped through the gate. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

  Rex sniffed at him to make sure he was alright, and Randall patted his head reassuringly.

  “You will.” April said. She didn’t feel sick at all. She hadn’t felt sick the previous night, either. Weird. Maybe she was adapting.

  The gate had opened onto a dirt road directly across from a small church. If it weren’t for the simple wooden cross on the top, April wouldn’t have recognized it as a house of worship. Two women in bonnets chatted as they carried baskets of vegetables up the road. They stared at them as they passed.

  “I thought the gate makes us blend in,” April said.

  “It does,” Dorian said. “But there’s a couple hundred people living in this area, if that. We stand out as strangers here. If anyone asks, we can tell them we’re from a nearby town and are here visiting relatives.”

  Randall rubbed his chin. “What do you mean, ‘it makes us blend in?’”

  “Take a look,” April said, pointing to a trough of water.

  They went and stood next to it. April’s reflection was plain and lined, though she didn’t think she was much older. She wore a faded black dress and a white bonnet covered her hair.

  Randall touched his face. “I’m white,” he said. “Not sure how to feel about that.”

  “The gate’s trying to protect you,” Dorian said. “Boston was the first city in the Americas to participate in the slave trade.”

  Randall nodded at this. “What’s the plan? Where will we find this rot?”

  Dorian gestured around him. “The rot was on these pages, but there might be smaller concentrations of it elsewhere. I think we should split up and check for more. Then we meet up and make a game plan. I’ll take everything to the left, Randall, you take everything to the right. April, you check the church.”

  “What if the rot has spread further than that?” Randall asked.

  Dorian shook his head. “In the early stages it gen
erally won’t go beyond sight distance of the gate and won’t move farther than described in the narrative. For a book like this where all the action takes place in one small area, that makes our job a lot easier.”

  “Good to know. Let’s get started,” April said.

  Dorian nodded up at the church. “You’ll probably find the most rot here. Go ahead and take care of it if it’s not too advanced. If it’s as bad as or worse than yesterday, wait for us.”

  Randall nodded. “Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

  Randall and Dorian walked off in their respective directions, and April stood in front of the church. It didn’t look like much, just a small gray stone building with a steepled roof. She tried the door. It was open; in fact, there didn’t seem to be a lock on it at all.

  April’s family hadn’t been very religious, so she’d only been to church once or twice on Christmas and a few times when she’d spent the night at a friend’s house. She’d never considered those churches lavish, but there had at least been an altar and a cross up at the front, and maybe a decorative tapestry or two on the walls. This room was even plainer. Backless benches lined the floor facing a rough-hewn table. The room was lit by candles. She didn’t see any ink rot.

  A door was behind the table, and a muffled voice came from it, almost chant-like. She couldn’t make out the words. A rhythmic slap slap slap sound accompanied the chanting, and each slap was punctuated by a hiss of pain. Sometimes, when the slap was especially loud the hiss became a muffled cry.

  “Hello?” she called towards the room. “Are you okay?”

  The chanting and slapping sounds stopped abruptly. A moment of silence was followed by the scraping of wood, and the bang of something being slammed shut.

  “Just a minute,” a male voice trembled. A few seconds later the door opened and a man stepped out. He adjusted the collar of his off-white shirt, as though he’d just buttoned it. He pulled on a black coat, but not before she saw a hint of red on the shirt. Blood?

  “I must beg thy forgiveness,” he said. His voice was fluttery and weak, reminiscent of butterflies. “I do not usually have visitors this late and thou have caught me at an… inopportune moment. I was preparing to bed.”