Page 1 of Night Owl Books

ONE

A Quiet Evening Disturbed

The Night Owl New and Used Bookstore sat atop a hill, a sentinel watching over the dark city slumbering below. Candle-like, a meager glow shone from the windows, serving as a night-light to neighbors.

The bookstore held strange hours. True to its name, it was for night owls, opening at eight in the evening and closing at six in the morning. Most Monterey residents wondered how it could possibly stay in business, getting only the occasional sleepless customer wandering in and looking for a book to fill those misplaced hours while the rest of the world slept.

When I, Orla, owner and proprietor of Night Owl Books, moved to Monterey nine years ago, I’d found this old beauty looking the worse for wear. In her heyday, she was a stately Victorian home, three stories high and situated at the edge of a forest. I fell in love and purchased her and all the property I could around her.

A contractor renovated it for me, turning the first and second floors into one large retail space with twenty-four-foot ceilings. The third floor is my home, my bedroom in the turret closest tothe woods. A round room might seem awkward, but I thought it perfect.

The bedroom had an almost three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, with windows all around. When I stood in the middle, I saw the ocean in one direction and the forest in the other. More important than the view, though, was the privacy.

The house was at the top of a narrow lane. I owned the property on either side of the road and well into the woods surrounding it. The nearest neighbors were at the bottom of the hill, just far enough away to let me settle.

What confused those confused Monterey residents was that I didn’t much care if anyone bought my books. They were mine and I was slowly making my way through them. If anything, I found customers anxiety-making. I didn’t enjoy dealing with strangers, but if I didn’t push myself, I’d become a complete recluse. It was what my mother had always said.Enough with the books! You’re becoming a hermit. Go make a life for yourself.

So, in deference to my mother, who was no longer here to yell at me in person, I forced myself to engage with others by making my library a bookstore. A few customers wandering in each week was about my speed.

You might wonder how I was able to afford such a large parcel of land and all the home renovations when I was only thirty. It was a good question with an unusual answer. I had plenty of money. It was neither a concern nor interest of mine. For the most part, I measured the worth of my fortune by the number of books I could purchase.

My parents were killed—it was horrible and I don’t discuss it—a few years before I settled here, leaving me all their money. They’d lived very long lives and had accumulated full coffers. I wandered for a time, unable to make sense of a life without them, a life all alone. I chose apartments near vast libraries,spending my evenings in the stacks, reading to my heart’s content. I did my best to escape a reality I wasn’t ready to face. I would have probably continued like that for hundreds of years if the libraries hadn’t kept such disappointing hours.

Bookstores often stayed open later than libraries, but then I had to deal with irritatingly upbeat music and salespeople asking if I needed assistance. The worst were the men who behaved as though my standing in a bookstore meant I wanted to be talked at about the book I was holding.

When I looked up from the page and skewered them with the golden eyes of a predator, they usually retreated quickly. The ones who didn’t were the ones I needed to watch out for as I walked home.

I didn’t fear them. Shifters are much faster than humans. Stronger too. Unless someone was hunting me—no, I said I didn’t want to discuss that. Anyway, regardless of whether they found me attractive, one look from me usually turned their bowels to liquid. I preferred it that way. The solitude felt safer and therefore more comfortable.

What kind of shifter am I? It’s right there in the name of my bookstore. I’m a Eurasian eagle-owl shifter. We’re known for our bright orange eyes and being one of the largest raptors in the world. Unfortunately, there aren’t many of us left, at least as far as I’ve found. In my thirty years on this planet, I’d yet to find another one like me—other than my parents, of course. Perhaps we’ve all but died out in the modern world.

My bookstore was a maze of tall, carved wood bookcases, overfilled with books. Did I sometimes double shelve? Absolutely. Did I keep an inventory? Yes, but I never needed to consult it. When customers asked about specific books, I always knew where they were and could take them there—unless I was planning to read that one next and didn’t want to sell it. In thatcase, I lied and told them I didn’t carry the book. It wasmybook after all.

So, as it happened on the evening this story begins, I was sitting in relative darkness on the stairs to the top floor. My favorite spot was right above the bookstore pendant lights that I kept shining at a nice, dim forty percent power and level with the windows above the bookcases. I enjoyed looking out over the sleepy town when I paused to consider a particularly beautiful turn of phrase.

Which is why I saw the woman running up the hill. Her eyes were wild, scanning right and left, looking over her shoulder. I put down my book and blew out a breath. It looked like I was about to have company. The quiet part of my evening had come to an end.

The front door flew open with a bang as I hit the bottom steps.

“Hello! Is there anyone here?” Her voice was pitched high in panic. I could hear her racing heart, even over the sound of her gasping breaths.

“Yes,” I said, rounding a bookcase and coming into view. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, thank God.” She bolted forward and stood behind me, staring out the front windows.

“Is someone chasing you?” She had the look of prey, so it seemed a reasonable guess.

She grabbed my arm. “Yes. Can you call the police? Please!”

Her eyes were huge and darting to every shadowy corner of the shop.

“Sure, but I need my arm back,” I said.

She let go and held her clutched hands over her chest, her shoulders pulled in, seemingly trying to make herself smaller. All predators know, when confronted by an aggressor, you makeyourself bigger, not smaller. Her brown eyes were huge and dilated; her long blonde hair was falling out of its ponytail.

I pulled my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and dialed 911 as I went to the front door and locked it. I didn’t see anyone, but I thought it would help her feel more safe.

The scared blonde woman was dressed casually, a hoodie and jeans. She didn’t have a bag with her, which seemed odd. My observation has been that most human women carried a bag of some sort when they left the house.

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