The place seems so barren, so sad and still without the ability to throw people (nicely) into the story of their choice.
My heart hurts like a giant hand’s squeezing it. I take in the hundreds of books lining the shelves, knowing that right now, no one can jump into any of them.
I approach the far wall and lightly trace my fingers over the leather bindings.
From behind me, it sounds like papers are shuffling.
“Hello?”
Maybe there’s someone in the office, but when I peer around a freestanding case, there isn’t a light on in the back.
The shuffling sounds again, and this time it’s easy to pinpoint. It’s just a couple of bookcases over. Maybe there’s a draft and it’s blowing open a book.
Well, that’s easy enough to fix.
I march past the shelf and turn to walk down the aisle but stop. Sitting on the floor, open, with the pages jagged like teeth, is a book.
And it’s growling.
Ohcrap. A guard book! A book that’s been magicked to attack any trespassers in the shop. Like a junkyard dog, butworse if you can imagine that, because there’s no bone you can throw a guard book to make friends with it.
They’re savage beasts.
Which I forgot about. That isn’t surprising since I haven’t visited the store in forever. It’s just too painful to enter this place.
Maybe I can sweet-talk the book into calming down.
“That’s a good guard book,” I tell it. “I’ll just be going now. You don’t have to get upset.”
The book continues growling as I slowly backtrack. I move for the door, turning toward it.
But blocking my path sits another book. It’s bigger than the first one, and it’s growl is much more savage.
I swallow down a knot in my throat. I haven’t brought my phone. No one knows I’m here, and these books, even though they’re made of paper, could slice me up badly.
“That’s a good book,” I say soothingly. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Addie. Clara’s daughter. I’m not going to bother anything.”
The book snarls and a slice of paper drips from its jagged teeth. It’s not moving.
But there’s still the back door.
I slowly turn to make my way to it.
But another book blocks my path.
That’s when, out from the edges of the shop, several books join that one. It feels like I’m inWest Side Storyand a gang’s coming together to give me a beatdown.
“Nice books,” I say like I’m talking to a dog. “Be good, now.”
My only chance is to run.
I flip around and dash to the front door, but all the books beat me to it. There are at least six, maybe seven. They’re hovering in the air, open, snarling, their flaps snapping open and closed in a threatening manner.
They rear back and I grab the closest weapon I can—a book that’s on a lectern—as the guards attack.
I bat at them, but these suckers are organized. One takes my right sleeve. Another takes my left. Two others grab my legs, and I’m sent falling to my butt. A throbbing ache races up my spine when I hit the hard carpeted floor.
“Let me go!”
