Lauren Roy - Night Owls

“Oh. Oh, I . . .” So much for manners. “I’m sorry.” Sheepishly, she slid her knife back into her boot and stood.

Helen Clearwater took it with grace; you’d think she had students go all combat-ninja on her on a nightly basis. She patted Elly’s hand, set the teacup aright, and glided out into the hallway. “Come with me. I think Henry will like you.”

THE OTHER LIBRARY—the real one—spanned nearly half of the second floor. The books here were much more to Elly’s taste—texts on monsters, survival, rituals from hundreds of years ago. One whole bookcase was dedicated to Bibles in all different languages and editions—King James, American Standard, New International—she had a feeling Professor Clearwater had leafed through most of them over the years. The chairs up here were twins of the ones downstairs, but they looked more lived-in, the leather far more supple. Elly sank into one and breathed in the smell of pipe smoke and old books.

When Helen brought a fresh pot of tea, Professor Clearwater produced a flask and poured a healthy dollop of whiskey into Elly’s cup.

He waited until Helen had closed the door behind her and Elly had taken a scalding sip before he spoke. “My wife tells me I’ve kept you waiting. My apologies.”

“It’s all right,” Elly said. “I’m the one who showed up at two in the morning. I didn’t know where else to go.”

He patted her hand, a grandfatherly gesture unlike anything she’d ever received from Father Value. It made her feel awkward and comforted at the same time. “You came to the right place, my dear. You’ll be safe here.”

She smiled, but couldn’t keep it up. “I wish that were true, Professor.”

“Henry, please.”

Just like his wife. “Henry, then. You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t bad. The Creeps killed Father Value, and they’re coming after me. If they’re not here by morning, then they’ll come tomorrow night. Nowhere’s really safe.”

“You’re safe enough for the moment, that I promise.” He sat back in the chair, the leather creaking as he settled in. He even looked grandfatherly, his white hair neatly trimmed, his wrinkled features kindly and nonjudgmental. “Elly, why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

She took a deep breath. He wouldn’t turn her out, that much she knew. He’d have done it as soon as Helen announced who she was, if he was going to. Still, the urge to snatch up her backpack and run out of this room, out of this house, nearly overwhelmed her. Her hands gripped the smooth wooden arms of her chair as if they were all that anchored her.

The professor pulled out his flask again. It hovered over her teacup for a second before he passed it to her directly. “Go on,” he said.

Elly accepted it and took a long swig. It burned as it went down, but she kept from coughing. Father Value had let her have the occasional sip, too. She couldn’t be sure, but Elly thought the men drank the same brand. She returned the flask and went back to her tea. “A few weeks ago, Father Value found out they were looking for something. A book. He didn’t say what was in it, only that they were after it.”

She remembered those first fevered days. Father Value always tried keeping the Creeps from getting whatever they were after, but she’d never seen him seek anything out with such urgency before. He’d eaten only when she forced a plate in front of him; he’d slept on bus trips or in the backs of cabs as he dragged her from city to city. She’d been sure he’d collapse from exhaustion sooner or later, and there was no way they could afford hospital bills.

But he hadn’t collapsed. Two days ago, they’d found the book.

ELLY WASN’T BIG on churches in general, but she really wasn’t keen on being in them after dark, when the doors were locked and the lights were off. She didn’t worry about being struck by lightning or burning in hell—churches were by and large some of the safest places to be when it came to the Creeps. Her fears were more practical.

She was pretty sure breaking and entering in a church could get you arrested.

Father Value insisted it would be all right. He knew the clergy there, he said. Or he had a decade ago. Or two. Either way, they’d be in and out. The book was right under . . . right under . . .

“Right under here.” He was on his hands and knees behind the altar, prying at a slate. “Come help me with this, Elly, it’s heavy.”

She gave up her spot by the door reluctantly. If someone came in while they were yanking up the stones, there’d be no warning. But if she didn’t help, he’d give himself a stroke trying to do it on his own. She crowded in beside him and got her fingers under a loose part of the slate. Dear God, please don’t let this slip and crush my fingers. I kind of need them. Amen.

Father Value counted to three and they lifted. The scraping filled the church, echoing off the stone walls and stained glass windows. Elly half expected a clap of thunder to sound at the desecration, but none came.

She had just enough time to wedge her shoulder beneath the slab and bear its weight. Father Value let his edge go and stuck his arm into the hollow beneath the floor. He leaned over so far she was sure he’d fall in, and they could add a broken neck or dislocated shoulder to the hospital bill racking up in her mind. He rooted around, muttering to himself. Elly’s muscles began to quiver from the strain.

“Father, I can’t hold this up much longer.”

“Patience, Eleanor. It’s here.”

“What if someone else found it first? What if they already have it?”

“Hush. It’s here, I’m sure of it.”

Elly gritted her teeth and held on. She counted seconds, ignoring the tremors coursing through her arms and legs. A minute passed by. Two. Father Value was halfway in the hole now, the scrabbling sound of his questing hands sending odd echoes around the vestibule. Elly’s knees bent further and further as the slab’s weight bore down. “Father, I—”

“I have it!” He scuttled backward, crablike, a dusty tome clutched in one gnarled hand.

Just in time, too. Elly’s strength gave out a second after the old man was clear. She stumbled forward; the slate fell back into place with a crash that rattled off the walls. If anyone had been asleep in the rectory, surely that would have woken them. “We have to get out of here. Someone’ll be coming.”

At first, she didn’t think he’d heard. He looked almost like a friar of old, standing in the darkened church in his plain black robes, clutching the book to his chest. All he needed to complete the outfit was a belt made of rope. Of course, the running shoes peeking out from beneath the hem killed the illusion. Beneath the monkish garb, Father Value wore jeans and a sweater.

“Father?” She’d drag him out if she had to. Even if the priests in residence hadn’t called the cops, the Creeps might be on their way.

Father Value opened his eyes. They glinted with triumph, but there was an urgency there, too. “The side door, Elly. We’ll want to be as far from here as we can get.” He’d left his knapsack on a pew on the way in. Now he tucked the book inside it and headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, head tilted. He leaned his ear against the wood. After a moment, he looked back at her, his mouth set in a grim line. “We’ll have to look at it together in the morning. Tonight, I think we’ll be rather busy.”

“THAT WAS FRIDAY night. Well, Saturday morning, I suppose. They were outside, waiting. We ran. I don’t know how we got away, but we did. He spent Saturday making preparations, making sure the place we were holed up was defensible.” Elly’s tea had gone cold while she talked. “He never got to look at the book. They came that night, and we had to run again. They broke through his wards inside of an hour.”