Page 8 of Monsters
It’s always personal.
I find a book on medieval lore that looks interesting. I also add a book about torture tactics used during the Reformation. Both things could pass as research. I write down the code and bring the scrap of paper to the librarian. It’s the same man from yesterday afternoon. He looks at the paper as I slide it toward him, his lips forming a small frown as he types something into his computer.
After he disappears into the back, I look around, suddenly cold. A man in all black walks across my peripheral, and I snap my gaze to him as he peruses a bookshelf nearby. Goosebumps—the excited kind—erupt along my skin. The same feeling I got last night in the pub when I smiled at that woman.
He’s wearing a black ring.
They like to lurk in the shadows.
I take a step forward, and the movement catches his eye. He’s plain—average height, brown hair, neutral face.
I am tugged forward somehow—like I’m looking at a car wreck, but I don’t know how to stop myself.
Three years of living in constant fear taught me a lot about my intuition and how to listen to that internal nudge, that tingling beneath the skin. It’s your mind telling you something. I’m grateful I can recognize it, that I can use it to my advantage, despite what I had to go through in order to cultivate it.
He turns to leave, and as he does, I walk a few paces to the book he was looking at. Glancing around, I place it in my book bag without looking. I want to investigate it somewhere a bit more private. When I look up, he’s watching me from across the room, and I nod once before walking over to the librarian’s desk.
I promise to obey all rules of the Library.
Whoops.
I was never good at following the rules.
“Here you go,” the librarian says a few seconds later, rounding the corner and handing me the two books I requested.
“Thanks.”
I turn and leave, taking the large staircase to the second story, where there is a bit more seclusion. I plop down on a buttery, black leather couch, pulling my laptop from my bag. I have a few hours to kill before my afternoon class, so I decide to be useful and actually do some research for the paper due in three days. I tap my foot against the carpet, glancing into my computer bag every few seconds.
What the hell.
I bend over, reaching into my purse to pull out the book. It’s a modern paperback that was in the readily available modern section that almost everyone ignores in lieu of older texts. The front cover is plain, and the full wrap is black.The Ceremonies,by B. Natalie is splashed across the front in white, simple text, and underneath it, a weird, V-shaped symbol. I open it, searching for the copyright page. Published by B. Natalie. No address, year, or website. I flip through the pages quickly, wondering how a seemingly self-published book made its way to one of the most renowned libraries in the world.
I’m so busy trying to figure out what I’m reading that I don’t notice the person who joins me on the old couch. I yelp with surprise as they sit down.
“What the hell!” I jump up and glare into the familiar, icy blue eyes, and reddish scruff. I take another step back and put my hand on my throat. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” Salem mutters, standing. He puts his hands in his pants pockets, and his eyes rove over my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure you took a week off my life, though.”
He steps forward and pulls me into a tight hug. “I said your name three times,” he mutters into my hair. “You didn’t hear me.”
Another lovely side effect of my trauma—selective hearing. It happens sometimes when I’m completely engrossed in something.
We hug for a few more seconds, and I relax instantly. The two of us have a strange connection that I can’t quite explain. Both of us were influenced by Auguste, the man who kidnapped and abused me. Both of us spent years under him, in different ways. Maybe the reason we feel so kindred is because the monster left a small part of himself in each of us, in different ways.
Pulling away, I smile. “Where’s Lily?”
“She’s napping with Delilah. We were up at five to catch the train.” He sits on the couch next to me.
I slide in on the other side and bring my knees to my chest. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
He shrugs. “I had a feeling.” As if he isn’t the reason I have my guest pass. He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. His eyes watch me the same way they always do—concerned, observing, like he’s waiting for a bomb to detonate. “What are you looking for?”
I look at my shoes and pull my lower lip between my teeth. “Closure? I’m not sure. I want an answer. I thought…” I look around and gesture to the books all around us. “I thought I could figure out what motivated Auguste to do what he did. As a man of God. How…” My throat tightens. “Why was he so evil? How can he sleep at night?”
Salem frowns, his thick eyebrows coming together. He’s in a plain, black, long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans. I know he doesn’t wear his clerical attire outside of the church anymore, so people are always surprised to find out he’s a priest when they meet him.
