“I only ever killed people who needed killing,” I said.
“Good point,” said Dead Boy. “I’ll think about it. But you’d better run, John, while you can. Because once I get out from under this car, if I’ve thought about it and made up my mind that you are guilty . . . I will come after you. Because I can’t let Julien Advent’s murderer get away with it.”
“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
I walked away. Behind me I could hear the futuristic car reversing very slowly off Dead Boy, while he yelled Careful, dammit! and Don’t worry, baby; it wasn’t your fault.
I found a short cut that took me straight to the H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library, only to find it wasn’t there. It was only then that I remembered hearing that the Library had recently vanished and been replaced by a doppelganger from some alternate dimension. The Linda Lovecraft Library of Spiritual Erotica. Takes all sorts . . . A large crowd of extremely interested observers had gathered before the front doors, at what they hoped was a safe distance, watching while men in heavy-duty protective clothing checked the place out first. Because some kinds of forbidden knowledge are more dangerous than others. Everyone there was so interested in what might be going on inside that no-one even noticed my arrival.
I stood as deep in the shadows of a side alley as I could get and frowned thoughtfully. The Linda Lovecraft Library was no use to me. I had one particular book in mind, and for that I needed the original building back again. So I raised my gift, reached out with my mind in a direction I could sense but not point at, grabbed hold of the missing Library, and brought it back again. It took up its old position quite comfortably, nudging the intruder back to its own world. No explosions, no earthquakes, not even any bright lights. It helped that I was only reversing an existing transfer; someone had taken our Library and replaced it with theirs. And later on, if I was still alive, I would have to find out why.
Loud cries of shock, outrage, and deep disappointment came from the watching crowd. They’d really been looking forward to discovering exactly what kind of informative books the new Library might contain. The men in protective clothing came stumbling out of the front door, shaking their heads. One of them was heard to state, quite loudly, that he wished some people would make up their minds. The crowd began to disperse.
I couldn’t move. I was so tired I had to lean against the alley wall and wait for my strength to come back to me. I was using my gift too much, again. Not that I had any choice. But I’d been through a lot in a short time, and even werewolf blood and Alex’s pick-me-up could only do so much. They could heal my body, but abusing my gift was doing serious damage to my mind and my soul.
Someday, I’d go too far, and not come back.
After a while, the pain in my head began to subside, and I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. I stared at the long streak of blood I left there, then took out a handkerchief and wiped it away. I moved to the entrance of the alley and looked across at the front entrance to the Library. Most of the crowd was gone. The H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library was strictly for those interested and discerning minds concerned with ancient knowledge and secrets preserved in forbidden books . . . the kind of thing that could only be dug out through hard work and harder research. Strictly for only the most hardened scholars. And who had time for that, in the Nightside, when so many other more immediate pleasures were to be had, on every side? Only the most dedicated students of the strange and unnatural came to this Library, men who had no time for anything else. Each to their own . . . The scholarly boys would be heading back the moment they heard the old place had returned, so I had to get in and out quickly if I didn’t want to be noticed. Fortunately, I knew of a very secret side entrance to the Library, shown to me by the last Head Librarian but one, who owed me a favour for finding a rather important book that had gone walkabout. (Apparently it was mostly bored. The Head Librarian made arrangements for it to be read continuously, in shifts, and that took care of that.) I drifted carefully and very inconspicuously down the side of the Library and used the key that I’d taken in part payment for my work. (Not only for finding the book but for keeping quiet about what it was about.)
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.