Then he finally spoke. “Ms. Karr, as program director, I reviewed your application and transcripts. Read your essay explaining your interest in Exeter’s program. What impressed me most was your dedication to the written word. As a librarian—like myself—you recognize the importance of preserving that which is threatened, to protect knowledge that should never be lost.”
She nodded, her mouth gone dry.
“To that end, I must ask for your help. It may be a needless safeguard, but I would rather err on the side of caution.”
“I... I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
He shoved the wrapped book toward her, his expression pained, as if passing over his firstborn. “You must take this.”
She backed a step, her heart in her throat. “What? Why?”
“I fear it’s not safe here.” He closed on her again, still holding aloft the wrapped volume. “You must hide it. Tell no one where you put it. Not even me until I deem it safe.”
His urgency drew Sharyn’s hands up, forced her to take the book. “Why is this so important?”
“I wish I had more time to explain.” He guided her to the strongroom door, then out into the library. “But perhaps the less you know, the better.”
Sharyn hurried alongside him, struggling with this responsibility, wondering if she should refuse it. But she remembered Ms. Peele’s judgment of the professor:He is a most honorable man.
Clutching the book harder, she made her decision. “What am I to do with it?”
“Don’t attempt to open it. Just keep it safe.”
They reached the exit, and Wright unlocked the door. Before Sharyn could step outside, the professor grabbed her arm.
“If something happens to... if you don’t hear from me by the morning, call this number.” He shoved a business card into her hand and clutched it there. “I’m sorry to place this burden on you.”
He freed her hand, pushed her outside, and locked the door. She stared back through the glass, his figure now a dark specter. She suddenly sensed there was more to this matter than he had been willing to admit—which became clearer when Wright pressed his palm against the door.
Muffled words reached her.
“Trust no one.”
Then he was gone.
5
11:00 p.m.
The witching hour draws near,” Naomi warned with a spooky waggle of her fingers.
Her friend had to lean near Sharyn’s ear to be heard. The thumping music threatened to deafen the crowd packed into the Forum. Their small group had arrived an hour ago and had taken up roost on a second-floor balcony, where they could gaze down at the mass of bodies below.
The raucous bash filled the spacious hall—called “The Street”—which connected the various facilities of the university’s central hub: the student center, an alumni auditorium, and the main campus library. Still, the cavernous space failed to adequately hold in all the revelry. Partiers spilled out through the north and south exits to the open plazas beyond.
“If it’s the witching hour,” Sharyn shouted, “we’re certainly dressed for it.”
She smoothed the black dress that hugged her figure much too tightly. The rented outfit, courtesy of Naomi, came with a matching cowled cape, which Sharyn kept demurely draped.
“Aren’t we a tad on the nose with these costumes?” Sharyn tipped up the silver pentagram that hung on a chain between her breasts.
Naomi shrugged. “If the student body is convinced that we came to Exeter to cast spells and perform dark rituals, then we might as well look the part.”
“As witches?”
“Assexywitches,” Naomi corrected.
Tag leaned on his cane. “I prefersexynecromancer.”
