Page 17 of Sinistram
Travis knew his way around the arcane repository, filled with grimoires, spell books, and the notebooks of generations of mage-priests. Much of the information stored here was forbidden; all of it was dangerous, especially its extensive collection on demonology.
The library occupied a warren of tunnels deep beneath the Duquesne University Seminary Library. Rumor had it that the tunnels and arcane library predated the university and were the reason for its fortified position on a cliffside overlooking the river.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books, scrolls, boxes, and manuscripts. The bare electric bulbs overhead struggled against the shadows. Its perpetual chill made Travis shiver.
Learning his way around had taken time and stubbornness, but Travis had persisted despite the library Keepers’ over-protectiveness. That served him well when, like today, he had a quest that he preferred not to explain.
He easily navigated to the section on creatures. In the Sinistram’s eyes, everything that wasn’t human was a monster. Travis had gained a more nuanced perspective, based on what someone or something did, not what they were.
The organization made an exception for magic and mediumship because the talents were useful, but preferred to rely on sharply honed fighting and weapons skills to accomplish their objectives.
The Sinistram remained the secretive “left hand of the Holy Father,” a supernatural strike force that carried out dangerous missions against paranormal threats. They were the kind of guys who shriveled the nuts off the biggest badass in the room and considered themselves to be above both mortal and canonical law, although neither set of authorities fully agreed.
If the Knights Templar were the Marines of the Vatican and the Occulatum was its FBI, Sinistram was the Church’s BlackOps. Its pitiless ascetic culture and the ways in which it was willing to bend the power and morality of the church took a toll on its operatives, many of whom died young. Those who did not were fully given over to the Sinistram’s ways.
Travis found the portion of the stacks he wanted, with his Keeper in tow. He scanned down the spines of the old books for the section on mountain dwellers, but something farther down the shelf caught his attention.
An entire section had been removed, hundreds of books spanning most of a millennium, written in many languages and containing lore from dozens of cultures.
Travis had studied those books many times and knew their value both as history and research tools. Finding that they had all been removed was disturbing.
“Why are the vampire books missing?” Travis asked.
His escort shrugged. “How should I know? It’s a big library, and there are many with access. I assume someone needed them.”
Travis caught the falsehood in the man’s voice suggesting he knew more than he chose to say. He didn’t call the man on his omission, but made a mental note, wondering who had wanted those particular books and why. Nothing from the library went missing or was misplaced. Those who worked in the library tended it with fierce devotion, making it their life’s calling. They knew the location of every book, and if any were borrowed or removed for repair, it was known and recorded, tracked by administrative magic.
“I need a table and time to study.” Travis brought his own notepad, knowing that he was not permitted to remove any of the books.
“Nothing has changed since your last visit. You know where to find what you need. I will quietly keep you company,” the priest replied.
Travis moved through the familiar aisles, keeping an eye out for other groups of books that might have been removed. The werewolf section was still in place, as were categories for other groups of beings with supernatural abilities, except for the shelves for necromancy, where individual books appeared to be missing but not the entire collection. He tucked that away to consider later, when he could talk with Brent and Father Pavel, his friend and confessor.
Travis found a table and settled in, ignoring the priest who stood silently watching him, hands clasped, expression unreadable. Linen archival gloves protected the old pages from oil and sweat, but in Travis’s case, also provided a thin barrier between him and the visions the old books might spark. He combed through the antique volumes, jotting notes to extend the knowledge he had already gained about the mine monsters.
Some of the tomes had nothing new, but others provided alternatives that his original sources did not mention.
Given the age of the library and its holdings, it didn’t surprise Travis when he found a mention of the Mammoth Mine.
“Bingo,” he murmured. “It’s not a tommyknocker at the Mammoth Mine. They’ve got a bona fide evil gnome.”
Travis dug into the information, not surprised to find contradictions since the records were old and spanned many traditions.
“They consider the mountains to belong to them, and prefer to inhabit natural caves and tunnels,” he read aloud, fighting off drowsiness. “Some gnomes have made peace with sharing their mountain with miners, while others resent the intrusion and harass the miners with varying acts of sabotage.”
Travis jotted down notes to share with Brent as they planned their strategy. While the depictions of gnomes from old woodcuts weren’t as bloodthirsty as the tommyknockers, their expressions promised mayhem and danger.
Mark Wojcik had mentioned mine witches. On a sudden impulse, Travis decided to see if the Sinistram took note of such a lowly vocation. Mine witches were likely to be local healers with enough magic to do blessings and protection spells that held a modicum of power.
Maybe even the parish priest, if the padre had some magic on the side.
While the Sinistram involved itself in potentially world-ending events, the library’s remarkably broad scope contained information on all kinds of magic, preserved in the safety of the archive. Travis hoped some long-ago librarian had found the topic worthy and stashed texts on the subject.
He grinned when he found three books that looked likely, tucked away with Latin tomes on subterranean magic.
Travis scanned the pages, taking notes. The first book traced the history of witches who protected wells, mines, tunnels, and other deep places. While he found it fascinating for the perspective, the book provided few specifics on what, exactly, the witches did or how they did it.
He sighed and started into the second book. It looked more promising, since the first pages acknowledged that the writer was a parish priest who infused his blessings and wards with magic beyond what the Eucharist provided.
