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.”
Tommy nodded and gave me his best disappointed look. Larry looked at me as though this was what he’d always expected of me.
“How did you find me so quickly?” I said.
“We are detectives,” said Larry.
“Good song,” said Tommy.
“Shut up, Tommy!”
“Is Hadleigh with you?” I said.
“The Detective Inspectre is apparently busy,” said Larry, trying to keep the distaste out of his voice, and not even coming close.
“Oh good,” I said. “I thought I might be in trouble, for a moment.”
“Now you’re just being nasty,” said Tommy.
Larry stared coldly at me. “Put up a fight, Taylor. Go on. Give me an excuse to stamp your arrogant murderous face into the floor.”
“I always wondered how a good man like Julien Advent could survive in a place like this,” said Tommy. “But I never thought you’d be the one to finish him off, John.”
“I can explain,” I said, but they were already shaking their heads.
“Don’t,” said Tommy. “Please, John. Don’t lower yourself.”
“You’d say anything,” said Larry. “And we don’t care enough to listen. This is for the Great Victorian Adventurer; you bastard.”
He brought up his hand, and suddenly there was an elven wand pointing right at me. Larry Oblivion stabbed the wand at me, then frowned, when nothing happened. He stabbed the wand at me again, a little less confidently, and slowly lowered the wand as I smiled at him.
“I took precautions to protect myself against that thing the moment I discovered you had it,” I said. “I always knew you’d find a reason to turn on me, someday. And I always knew a lot more about elves than you ever did.”
Larry said something quietly obscene and made the wand disappear again. Tommy seized the moment and stepped forward. He smiled engagingly at me.
“Come, let us reason together . . .”
“Let’s not,” I said, very firmly. “Because you are the existential private eye, who can persuade anyone of anything. Who could talk the hind leg off a donkey, then use it to club the poor beast’s head in. I have extensive mental training, from when I was a young man learning my craft with old Carnacki; but even so, I don’t feel I want to test that training against your unnatural gift. So don’t try it on with me, Tommy Oblivion, or I will punch you right in the throat.”
And all the time I was speaking my mind, and the Oblivion brothers were listening to me, I was edging closer to the nearest bookshelf. I couldn’t hide my movements from them, but as long as I was still talking and not running, they stayed where they were. Confident that they were blocking the way to the exit. But I wasn’t thinking about running. Not yet. I grabbed the nearest book, feeling it squirm in my hand, and threw it at Larry. He flinched away as the book swooped angrily about his head, flapping its leather covers like stiff wings. Tommy cried out piteously and put both hands up to protect his head. He’d always had a thing about anything getting in his hair.
Larry grabbed the book out of mid air, holding it firmly with both hands. The book fought him, struggling fiercely, strange energies sparking and spitting on the air around it; but Larry was dead, and the book couldn’t hurt him. He forced the book closed with his dead strength and pushed it firmly back into its proper gap on the shelf. He then backed quickly away, while all the books on that shelf vied to make the loudest and most obscene noises of defiance. Larry smiled briefly.
“I may be dead, but I still have my reflexes. Tommy, will you please put your hands down! The danger, what there was of it, has quite definitely passed.”
And while they were both distracted by all of that, I slipped behind the bookshelf, put my shoulder to the wooden frame, and threw all my strength and weight against it. The bookshelf resisted, but I insisted, and with a lurch and a groan the whole bookshelf tilted to one side, then fell onto Tommy and Larry Oblivion. They both looked round to see it coming, but not in time to do anything about it. The heavy weight of the packed bookshelves slammed down onto both of them, throwing them to the floor and pinning them there. Tommy cried out piteously again. Larry didn’t. He had his pride. And besides, unlike Tommy, he was dead and therefore felt no pain.