Vellum and Green Vitriol
Copyright © 2007, S. Y. Affolee
The First Conjuration
Seal III
For a book, purgatory would be the perpetual state of being shelved between two enormous indices for sports statistics and left moldering like some neglected antique at a country estate that no one has ever heard of. A part of hell, I suppose, is being squashed by an entire bookshelf of such indices.
When I first came to, I was immediately aware of the pressing weight as if I had unaccountable tangled myself up in blankets while asleep. But then I slowly began to realize that no, I was not underneath a bunch of suffocating blankets. I was still in the clothes that I had put on that morning. Clothes that no longer fit me because I was no longer in the form of a person.
Some books, you know, don't particularly find much edification in being a book once they've found the advantages of being something else.
And thirdly, I became aware of a voice in my head. Not my own voice—my internal dialogue. No, it was someone else entirely—a masculine tone, very angry and hurt considering the amount of cursing peppering his speech.
Will you shut up? I mentally shouted at the voice.
Blessedly, he went silent for a moment. And then he started up again.
I can do whatever I like, he told me. You, the subconscious, are merely along for the ride, even if you don't sound like how I imagined you to be.
I am no one's subconscious. You're intruding on my own thoughts so go away.
There is no possible way for me to go away. I'm trapped under a mountain of almanacs.
Indices, I corrected him. Then dig your way out.
I can't. The last spell the sorcerer used on me completely sapped my strength. I'm going to have to remain a book for a while. Not that that hasn't happened to me before.
I paused before I blurted out my next comment—something about being reckless which I was sure he would not appreciate. Then I said, You're the Key, aren't you?
One of them.
One of them? There were more than one? The only Key in existence that I knew of was some old moldy volume literally kept under lock and key at the Institute least someone unscrupulous actually got their hands on it. I had visited it once—the poor sod had absolutely no ability to walk about on its own.
How many are you?
That would be telling, wouldn't it?
You're answering a question with a question.
Does it matter?
A loud clomping noise from outside the book pile disturbed my internal dialogue with my supposed unconscious. I strained my senses and distinguished two sets of footsteps, one heavier than the other.
"The report of the noise disturbance was quite adamant, sir. The witnesses said that it sounded like someone was getting murdered in here."
"Lots of people get overwrought whenever they hear something, Lieutenant. It was raining and there was wind. Anything could happen."
"But the proprietor of this bookstore is dead, sir."
"He was old. Maybe it was stress. From the looks of it, I'd imagine he died from his heart finally giving out."
"Sir, why don't we go through the Parrish's belongings. Perhaps we could find out a clue that may relate to his death."
"Don't bother. Old men who living alone die of medical complications, not of some romantic reason like getting involved with criminal conspiracies."
"No heirs as possible suspects?"
"Unfortunately none as far as we know. You know these kinds of fellows are reclusive and paranoid."
The Lieutenant gave a disappointed sigh. He sounded like he wanted a mystery to solve. "I suppose we'll just have to wait for the coroner's report."
"Exactly. And I can tell you right now that the report will not contain anything of much interest. Come on, there's nothing here but a mess. We'll just leave the state and the creditors to clean this place up."
When the authorities finally left, I said, What exactly happened? I how the sorcerer attacked you, but why am I affected?
I would guess it was because of the fact that you were holding onto me. You and I are connected. His tone turned almost salacious.
I was a book. I wasn't human. I wasn't supposed to care about whether or not I had turned back into a book. But I did. Ever since I was liberated from the backlash of a spell my last owner had inadvertently bungled, I had freedom. And I treasured it.
My irritation had me reaching out—had my covering and pages expand until torso filled suit and arms filled sleeves. I gasped under the pile of bibliography and then sneezed from all of the disturbed dust. I tried to worm my way out of a collapsed shelf that had fallen from its wall mooring during the fight between the sorcerer and the Key.
Darling, are you going to leave me here moldering in all of this rubble?
I ignored the endearment. I had observed during my many years up in the human world that protestations would only drive the offender to use it more often to hound their target to distraction.
"Maybe I should. I'm not connected to you. I've Turned. I can walk away from you."
You didn't take the brunt of the sorcerer's attack. That's why you can feel free to walk on two legs. Face it, you owe me.
I ignored his further whining and looked around at the bookshop.
There were papers scattered all around the room and a few other shelves had toppled over. That made me wonder why the authorities weren't even more suspicious—the entire place looked like it had been ransacked by extremely messy thieves. Over the counter, where the bookseller had been stationed, I saw the account book that Parrish had been writing in, the last line smudged with ink. The desk lamp had burned out, but the overhead lights were still on providing a little light. My hat and my umbrella was nowhere to be found on top of the mess, which irritated me. I was forced to dig back through the pile that I had crawled out of.
I tossed a few shelves out of the way and lobbed some reference books aside. That was when I saw the rumpled tweed coat and pants, the scuffed shoes.
I'm in here.
"How long, exactly, are you going to be in that form anyway?"
About a day, usually. I don't really want to be here when the creditors arrive.
"I guess not. I wouldn't want to be tossed into a half-pence bin."
That's harsh.
Carefully, I took up the clothes and wrapped them into an easily carried bundle I could fit under my arm. But as I had pulled a shirt up to be included in the bundle, a volume tumbled out onto the pile below.
Watch what you're doing.
"Sorry."
I picked up the volume. The cover was bound in a light brown leather, soft and supple to the touch. I frowned. It wasn't precisely leather—something else perhaps. I turned the book over to look on its spine. There was no title, but there was an uneven finger-thick line running down the spine, dark red-brown. Dried blood.
I tucked the book under my arm as well. I would ponder the puzzle of the Key later when I finally got out of this place. Under a few more books, was my umbrella and crumpled hat. I tried to smooth my hat down as much as possible before I put it back on, but it probably still resembled a wadded piece of paper on top of my head.
There was a small space between the counter and the wall and I managed to squeeze through to the other side. There was no body, but then I remembered that the medics had probably taken Parrish away to be examined by the coroner. The space connecting the back of the room to the front of the store was only large enough for one person. It might have been easier to haul a body over the counter rather than carrying it past that space.
Aside from the lamp and the accounting book on top of the counter, there were a pile of histories shoved to the side and a receipt from the previous week. Under the counter were more histories and a scratched wooden stool. I looked past the arching threshold to the back room that I had assumed was either a kitchen or storage room.
The exit is the other way, you know.
"I know that. I just want to take a look around."
You're looking for the Liber Tutelarum, aren't you? I'd hate to tell you this, but Blackthorne probably filtched it after he incapacitated us.
"Blackthorne?" I stepped into the gloom. There was a small window at the very back set into a door. The bit of light that managed to filter in illuminated a small porcelain sink with a shelf over it that held two bottles, a mug, and a shaving razor. Opposite of that was a desk with a high-backed chair. Papers and books were stacked haphazardly.
The sorcerer, the Key clarified. Reginald Blackthorne. Or at least that was the alias he was using when I first met him. I had information that he had business with this bookseller. I didn't know exactly what book he was going to obtain, but I was sure he was going to obtain a powerful book.
"How do you know that the Liber Tutelarum isn't really just a translated volume of Greek poetry I was looking for?" The papers on top of the desk were all receipts from recent transactions. Hm.
You're a grimoire of some sort. Like me. An animate encyclopedia would have never had the ability to feed me energy to help deflect Blackthorne's spells. And what are the chances of a grimoire looking for an ordinary book of poetry?
"Have you met any animate encyclopedias? How do you know that they don't know how to weave spells? And what's wrong with poetry? Maybe I just like to collect books."
No, I haven't met any animate encyclopedias, but who on earth would want to animate one anyway?
"I have no idea. But I suppose they'd be boring company anyway. They would probably think that they know it all." I flipped one of the receipts over and found something that was dated for the previous day. "Aha!"
What is it now?
"Information." But before I could read it out loud to him, I heard some commotion at the front of the store. Voices were drifting in past the front door.
"He said there was a book he was looking for," came a muffled voice. "He said he accidentally ‘forgot' it the last time he was here."
"In his haste to get away, you mean?" There was a bit of laughter. "Blackthorne is a coward."
"Don't say that to his face. They say he has terrible temper tantrums."
"I can imagine." There was a pregnant pause that made me inadvertently shiver. "They say those who had witnessed his tantrums personally mysteriously disappear. I wonder what has him so frightened to come back here?"
"I don't think he's frightened. More likely, he's just lazy. It's easier to send us grunts to do the work, you know?"
The front door clanged open.
You know, now would be a good time to get out of here.
I tucked the receipt in my coat pocket and tested the handle to the back door. It twisted under my fingers and creaked open. I froze.
I suppose Parrish never bothered to oil his doors, huh?
Do you always state the obvious? I thought to him testily.
"What was that?" whispered one of the henchmen. There was a slap and then an, "Ow!"
"There's no one here, you idiot. We've been watching the place the entire morning. The only people in here were the police and some medics. We saw all of them come out of here. You probably stepped on some creaky floorboard."
Loud rummaging was heard in the front room as Blackthorne's thugs tossed aside books. Mentally, I cringed at the rough manhandling. I would definitely not want to be flung across the room if I weren't a volume that someone was looking for. While all the racket was going on, though, I slowly slipped past the door and entered a damp back alleyway. Dark clouds still crowded above, but I had the feeling that most of the rain had already been dumped onto the city for the past day. I wore modest shoes, but the heels still made clacking sounds on the pavement—a bit too loud for my peace of mind.
The alleyway soon wound back to the main street. Few people or vehicles were about—but that did not mean a thing. It could be in the middle of the day as far as I knew. Purposefully, I took an even pace north. I'd imagine it would look rather suspicious if I had taken a faster pace. And I wanted no one to take a closer look at me, or the unusual bundle under my arm.
I hope we're not going to the city refuse center, the Key drawled in my mind. I don't fancy recovering amidst a pile of rubbish.
I found the edge of my mouth quirking upward. "Well, what if I am?"
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