Simon Green - The Bride Wore Black Leather

Inside, the Library was still and quiet. I moved quickly through the deserted stacks, in pursuit of the one book I was increasingly sure I needed to take a good look at. No-one else had got in yet, not even the very dedicated and more than a little unhinged scholars of the weird and appalling who normally have to be beaten off with big sticks or hosed down with Ritalin and thrown out bodily, when they got too attached to a particular volume and wouldn’t give it up to anyone else. Hell, some of them would sleep in the stacks if they were allowed. But the Library’s security would keep the scholars at bay until they’d had a chance to do a full sweep of the building and make sure everything was where it should be. And that the stacks hadn’t picked up any dangerous hitch-hikers from where it had recently been. I kept a careful eye out but didn’t see anything unusual. Or at least, no more unusual than usual.

I finally found my way to the Really Restricted Section, where they keep the kind of books most scholars aren’t even supposed to know exist. I knocked on the closed door, said the proper passwords, and the door opened before me. I walked in, and the ghost of the Head Librarian, a thin, dusty presence, with dark eyes and a disapproving look, appeared before me, blocking my way. (He had been eaten by a book, then brought back by the other books, apparently because they approved of him. Because even though he didn’t have much time for people, he loved books.) I was forced to acknowledge his presence or walk right through him.

“John Taylor,” said the Ghost Librarian, in a voice of spiritual accusation. “I might have known.”

“Don’t get snotty,” I said. “I brought this place back from wherever it’s been. Where did you go, anyway?”

“I don’t like to think about it,” said the Ghost Librarian, sounding distinctly embarrassed. “Some alternate worlds are more alternate than others. A very . . . uninhibited culture, indeed. Thank you for bringing us back. Would it have killed you to wait a few days? Anyway, what are you doing here? You don’t have access to the Really Restricted Section.”

I pulled a card out of thin air and showed it to him. “Oh yes I do. See? I have special clearance. Courtesy of Ebeneezer Scrivener, the last Head Librarian but one. And, no, you don’t get to ask why. But I have full clearance, for everything, cannot be refused or revoked.”

The Ghost Librarian sniffed dustily. “They’ll let anyone in these days. Oh, very well. If you must. But treat the books properly; if I find one dog-eared page after you’ve gone, I’ll have you indexed. And make sure you put everything back where you found it.”

I left him muttering to himself in a spectral way and pressed on into the gloomy depths of the Really Restricted Section. The Library could provide perfectly good lighting, like everywhere else, if it wanted; I think they do it here for atmosphere. All the reading desks have their own lights, complete with a large red panic button. This particular section holds more ancient tomes of forbidden lore, and spiritually dangerous books, than the human mind can comfortably cope with. Not even my special-access card could keep me safe from all the threats and dangers in this Section. Some books were padlocked inside cold iron cases, to keep their extreme energies from leaking out and contaminating the area. Or rewriting the other books. Some were chained to the shelves, not to keep them from being stolen but to keep them from attacking people. And some had their very own illuminated warning signs because in the H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library, some books read people.

There are books bound in dragon skin, black goatskin, and human skin; and I could hear them muttering and stirring on the shelves as I walked by. A few actually silently vanished away, rather than have me read them, which I felt was a bit harsh. But then, books can be terrible snobs.

I was also hoping the Library’s many layers of protective spells and privacy enforcements (built up over the centuries, to protect the books and keep them under control, and prevent anyone from getting in without paying the proper fee), would be enough to conceal my presence from all those looking for me. But I still couldn’t afford to waste any time. I wasn’t just on the run; I had a target nailed to my back. By the Sun King. I had to wonder where he was, right now, and what he was doing; but I couldn’t let myself get distracted. I hurried through the stacks, while some books whispered seductively Read me! and others snorted Don’t even touch my binding, unworthy one! One book bound in very pale elf skin glowed unhealthily in the gloom, poisoning the air with its aetheric radiations. I gave it plenty of room. Elves have always been big on revenge, even when they’re dead. Especially when they’re dead.

It took me a while to find the particular book I wanted. I couldn’t use my gift, not in a place like this. I had to do it the old-fashioned way, checking the index and working my way up and down the shelves. The book was exactly where it was supposed to be, for which I gave quiet thanks to the Ghost Librarian. He might be fond of books, but he didn’t take any shit from any volume on his watch.

You’re welcome.

I pretended I hadn’t heard that and eased the book carefully off the shelf. The books on either side immediately shuffled closer together to take up the intervening space. The shelf was very tightly packed. I took the book over to the nearest reading desk, and the green-shielded light turned itself on. I thought I heard a faint sigh of relief from the other books, that I wasn’t interested in them; but that could have been my imagination.

The book I’d wanted was a lengthy and exhaustive history of the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, in life and in death, so to speak. Written by Julien Advent, in 1977. I paused for a moment as I looked at his name on the title page and let my fingertips drift over the printed letters. I had my own signed copy at home. He gave it to me years ago. Hadn’t looked at it in ages. So much to do . . . But this was the full, unexpurgated version. I leafed quickly through the pages, looking for . . . something. Something to jog my memory. Because something about the Hawk Wind’s sudden disappearance was bugging me. I’d missed something, forgotten something, but I was damned if I could think what. But I knew it was something significant. I flicked quickly through the chapters, letting words and phrases flow past my eyes, but nothing jumped out at me. I already knew all this . . . And then I looked up sharply. Footsteps were heading my way. Two sets, heavy but unhurried, apparently completely unconcerned that I might hear them. I closed the book, tucked it carefully into the large shoplifting pocket inside my trench coat, got up, and turned around, to meet whoever it was who’d been clever and fast enough to find me here. I could probably have got away, given that I knew the layout of this Library better than anyone who didn’t actually work here, but I was curious to know who it might be. And to take care of them here and now, so they wouldn’t follow me any further.

They came walking through the stacks towards me, and very dangerous books shuddered back on their shelves to get away from them. From Tommy and Larry, the Oblivion brothers. They both caught sight of me waiting for them at the same moment, and they came to a sudden halt, side by side. We stared at each other for a long moment.

“Of course,” I said. “The existential private eye and the Dead Detective. I should have known. It always takes one PI to find another.”

“Or in this case two PIs,” Tommy said brightly.

“Shut up, Tommy,” said Larry. “This is business. Serious business. It’s always trouble when one of us goes bad.”