Mikkel Birkegaard - The Library of Shadows

The young man came into the room and took up position behind Katherina's chair with his hands on his hips. 'Guest?'

'It's okay,' said Iversen soothingly. 'This is Jon. Luca's son.'

'I know that. I saw him at the funeral,' replied Pau. 'The guy wants to sell Libri di Luca. You said as much yourself, Svend.'

Iversen cast an embarrassed glance at Jon, who seemed unaffected by the scene.

'I said there was a risk of that. We don't know for sure, Pau,' said Iversen. 'That's why we're here.'

'So what's going to happen?'

'We were just about to explain everything to Jon when you arrived,' replied Iversen.

'How much?'

'Everything.'

Pau stared first at Iversen and then at Jon. His jaw muscles tightened and his eyes narrowed.

'Could I talk to you for a moment, Svend?' asked Pau, motioning with his head towards the door. 'You too, Kat.'

Jon noticed that Katherina briefly rolled her eyes before she cast an enquiring glance at Iversen. The old man nodded.

'As you wish, Pau. Go upstairs, and I'll be there in a minute.'

The young man marched out of the door, and Katherina slowly followed.

'You'll have to bear with him,' said Iversen when the other two had left the room. 'We literally picked Pau up off the street, where he was making a living by using his powers as a Lector. Luca found him on Strшget reading poems to passers-by, and very successfully too. A lot of people stopped to listen, and most of them tossed coins into the cigar box he had at his feet. Luca recognized him for what he was. Experienced transmitters can sense when other transmitters charge a text, and Pau made no effort to hide what he was doing.' Iversen leaned forward in his chair. 'As you may have guessed, Jon, we have plenty of reasons for concealing our abilities. We can't risk having a young fellow like Pau compromising us, just because he doesn't understand what he's dealing with.' He paused. 'Luca took him under his wing, and for the past six months Pau has been part of the bookshop. We've developed quite a fondness for the lad, and vice versa, even though he may not admit it. And, as you can see, he has a real passion for the place.'

'And he thinks that I'm going to take it away from him?' asked Jon.

'A great deal has already been taken away from him,' said Iversen. 'Often enough that I suppose he has come to expect it.'

Jon nodded pensively.

'Well, I'd better…' Iversen pointed towards the door, then got up and left the room. Jon could hear his footsteps move along the hallway and up the creaking stairs. Then everything was quiet.

Left alone, he stood up and studied the books lining the shelves. There weren't many titles he recognized, and besides, the truly old volumes were in Latin or Greek, which he couldn't read. Of course there were also numerous works in Italian, and even though Jon hadn't used his Italian in years, he was able to read some of the words.

In many cases the titles on the spines were artfully executed, in Gothic script or with little illustrations, and at times he struggled to decipher what it said. A few books had no spine at all; rather, they were a collection of yellowed pages held together with cords made of leather or bast. Others had metal fittings on the spine and on the corners of the cover; still others had covers made of veneer on which the title and ornamentation had been burned into the wood.

After a while the letters began flickering before Jon's eyes, and he sat down in one of the soft leather chairs to survey the room. It wasn't hard to imagine that it had taken generations to compile this collection – a task that had started in Italy and had accompanied the Campelli family through Europe to Denmark. For a moment he pictured the scene in his mind: a little family pushing a cart loaded down with books and a great secret. Jon leaned his head back and covered his face with both hands.

He'd been very stressed lately. The Remer case was taking all his waking hours, and the number of files he was lugging back and forth between his flat and the firm was getting greater and greater. His home had become an extension of his office, and he had no time to sit on his roof terrace or prepare proper meals in his brand-new kitchen. Most often he picked up food from one of the nearby fast-food restaurants or else he ate pre-packaged meals that he cooked in the microwave.

Jon moved his hands to the sides of his face, pressing his index and middle fingers against his temples, massaging his skull in circular motions. He inhaled slowly, taking in deep breaths, noticing how his pulse slowed and his body felt heavy.

Luca's death couldn't have happened at a worse time.

He removed his hands from his face and lowered his arms to the armrests of the chair. With his eyes still closed, he continued to breathe calmly. His chest rose and fell in time with his breath, and he could hear the air leaving his lungs and then being drawn in once again.

But there was something else.

When he listened closely, he could hear a faint, rushing sound. A quiet whispering, almost inaudible, seemed to have seeped into the room, and very slowly the sound grew in strength, as if it were coming closer or simply getting louder. Jon concentrated hard but couldn't make out what was being said or whether they were male or female voices, because there was definitely more than one. Like a low murmur from an entire crowd. The sound seemed so faint and weak that he had to hold his breath to pinpoint where it was coming from, but as soon as he sensed that the sound was coming from a particular direction, it would move. His heart began pounding harder and he gasped for air, only to hold his breath once again to listen.

In an attempt to increase his concentration, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes even tighter.

All of a sudden pictures exploded before his eyes, abstract forms and colours mixed with landscapes and scenes of fighting armies of knights, pirates and American Indians. Underwater pictures of sea monsters, divers and submarines were succeeded by desolate moonscapes and deserts, followed in turn by ice-covered plains, rolling ships' decks – all of it flickering past at breakneck speed, like a turbo-charged slide show. Rain-soaked streets paved with cobblestones were replaced by sun-baked arenas with sweating gladiators, followed in turn by buildings from which huge flames stretched up towards a brilliantly yellow full moon. The full moon then became the eye of an enormous dragon, whose trembling eyelid closed and became a school of tiny fish, which was at once swallowed by a killer whale, which was promptly harpooned by a weather-beaten sailor wearing yellow overalls.

All these impressions, along with hundreds of others that moved too fast to take in, bombarded Jon in the space of time it took for him to open his eyes wide. He jumped up, gasping for air. Unsteady on his feet, he tottered forward until he came in contact with the back of a chair. A violent nausea surged up inside him, and he was hyperventilating, his fingers tingling. Overwhelmed by dizziness, he sank to his knees and leaned forward until he was down on all fours with his eyes focused on the carpet.

After a couple of minutes of gasping for breath and even trying not to blink, Jon slowly straightened up. His face was covered with sweat; he wiped it off with the back of his hand before he cautiously got to his feet. His legs trembled slightly beneath him as he took the first steps towards the nearest bookshelf. From there he worked his way over to the door, the whole time keeping a firm grip on the shelves. The hall from the door to the stairs seemed much longer than before, and it seemed he was walking for an eternity before he reached the bottom step. He practically hauled himself up the spiral staircase, hand over hand along the banister, the steps responding with an ominous creaking under his weight.