Page 1 of The Watcher's Bride

Chapter 1

Nora

The library is heavy with silence, punctuated by the groaning of floorboards as I carefully stack shelves, caressing the spines as I neatly slot them in place. I enjoy working the late shift. There’s rarely another soul here and I can spend my time perusing the shelves to find a new treasure, escaping into another world once all my tasks for the night are complete. Books offer me the chance to become someone else, to pretend that I’m in a world where true love exists and that good triumphs over evil in the end.

As I reach the top of the ladder, stretching to return the final book to its home, a noise startles me and I wobble, almost losing my balance. My heart races from the sudden adrenaline spike and I steady myself for a second before climbing down as quickly as I can, my ears pricked, listening for another sound.

The library remains silent but somehow feels fuller, as if the air has shifted, sensing a presence.

“Hello? Is someone there? We’re closing soon,” I call out, trying to keep my voice from quivering.

No response. I can only hear my heart beating like a hummingbird in my chest and my shallow breathing. I try to brush it off, telling myself it was just the wind or the shelves settling, but the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I have the distinct feeling of being watched.

I whip around, as if moving quickly I might capture this specter before it vanishes into the ether. The books stare back at me blankly, unwilling to reveal their secrets. Perhaps I’m losing my mind and imagining things. But this has been happening a lot lately, and I have more reasons than most to be on edge. It’s only a matter of time before they find me.

I shake my head and wheel the trolley back to the front desk. The wonky wheel screams in protest, the shrill sound like an ominous foretelling.

The clock above the grand oak doors at the entrance tells me it’s almost ten, time to lock up. To ease my overactive imagination, I do a quick sweep of the place and, once I’m satisfied it’s empty I lock myself in. I feel more comfortable here than at home in my cold apartment, and I frequently like to sit and read in the cozy chairs for an hour or two after closing. Though it means I have to walk home later when the streets are filled with late-night drunks and those with nefarious intentions, but the library is my safe space, and I’d rather be here than anywhere else.

I grab the latest book I’ve been reading and head over to a spot in a hidden corner. Up until recently, I liked to sit in the window seats where I could see the inky black sky and the well-manicured library gardens illuminated under the glow of streetlamps. I’ve never liked feeling enclosed. Trapped.

Just over a week ago was the first time I saw him. A tall, broad figure obscured by darkness stood outside the library. Initially, I dismissed his presence. The orange glow of a cigarette made me assume he was simply pausing to smoke for a moment. By the time I eventually glanced up again, he was gone.

But then I saw him the next night, and the next. Every night for five nights, the same figure stood in the dark, unmoving, watching me. Unnerved, I decided to sit away from the windows. While I haven’t seen my watcher since, or noticed anything strange on my walk home, I have the distinct feeling that he’s still around, hiding in the shadows somewhere.

My initial fear at his presence, the icy dread that, finally,theyhad found me, eased off after the first week when nothing had happened. Whoever my watcher is, I don’t think he’s anything to do with my father. Strangely, there’s a part of me that finds his presence almost comforting, a spirit watching over me.

I’m messed up, I know.

I open my book and find my page, inhaling deeply with satisfaction as I lose myself in the words.

The familiar throbbing ache in my knee tells me it’s time to go. I wince as I stretch it, marking my page and closing my book, thrusting it deep into my bag as I slowly pull myself up.

Instead of walking to the back exit, I have the inexplicable urge to walk back toward the bookshelves in front of me. I’ve only taken a few steps when I realize I’m not alone. I gasp, noticing the pair of eyes silently watching me over the books. Abruptly, the person pulls back out of sight.

“I know you’re there,” I say more bravely than I feel. “You can come out now.” My heart races and my tongue feels dry. If I had any sense then I’d be running out the back exit, but I’m sick of being scared, of always looking over my shoulder, so I stand my ground.

I can hear his breathing, deep and calm. Then, very slowly, he walks out from behind the bookshelves.

He’s even bigger than I imagined, his bulk obscured by dark clothing. But that isn’t what makes my blood run cold. His face is hidden behind a ski mask, and he wears dark gloves on his hands. The only visible parts of him are his frosty blue eyes that watch me with curiosity.

He doesn’t move or speak. He seems in no rush to do anything, content to just watch me as before. There’s a menacing aura to him that has all of my senses on high alert. Something primal and deep within me is telling me there’s danger, yet I can’t seem to run or feel as terrified as I should.

“Well? Are we going to stand here all night or are you going to tell me what the hell you want?” I snap frustratedly, jutting my chin up to meet his penetrating gaze.

“Ty,” he replies, his voice low and rumbling.

Ty?What on earth does that mean?

My complete bafflement pulls me from the surrealness of the moment until I realize he’s speaking a different language.

He starts to move closer, and finally, my legs become unstuck. I scramble backward, frantically grabbing onto the first thing I find. I grip the handles of the book cart, placing it in front of me as a barrier.

“Stay back, I’m warning you!”

He chuckles and his cold eyes sparkle with mirth. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he knows I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. Maybe that’s what he wants, to torment me beforehe finally kills me or kidnaps me. After a week of his visits I’d assumed he was harmless, but now I’m not so sure that my father hasn’t sent him.

“You sick fuck! Tell him that if he wants me, he can come get me himself!” I hiss, thrusting the trolley at him.

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