Tales of the Unquiet Gods (12 page)

Vincent heaved himself to his feet. His exhausted muscles complained of their unaccustomed exertion, and he thought once again about how he should spend more time in a gym. Or outside. Or even just do some push-ups at home. Sourly, he thought he might even have the time now that he wouldn't be spending so much of his hours making music.

At a loss, Vincent cast about him. He stood in a space just large enough to stretch out in, bound on one side by the polished, wooden counter. Opposite that stood a glass case with a dozen books in various states of disrepair. Not a one was printed in English, and as Vincent looked closer, it looked like none of them had actually been printed at all.

The door to the outside world stood out. For one, it was just wood and glass. No bars and no visible lock, though Vincent had been moving too quickly on the way in to see whether there was a rolling gate. A large pane of frosted glass dominated, preventing him from seeing the people passing back and forth in front of it. For that matter, he couldn't see anything of city.

Set into the the frosted window - backwards, from Vincent's perspective - were letters made of translucent stained glass in a myriad of brilliant colors. The letters cast light on the floor, and spelled out Mr. Judy's Rare Books.

Vincent swallowed and realized his throat was still parched from his run. He shuffled uncertainly over to the counter and picked up one of the paper cups in a stack next to the tea carafe. When he reached for the carafe with his other hand, he saw that it still clenched into a tight fist. He turned it over and frowned down at it. The tendons stood out, and he had to consciously force his fingers open. One more horrible thing in a horrible day, when his body started to refuse to cooperate.

His fingers open, he saw again the little gold coin he'd found in his pocket the day after his life ended. He had a flash of memory from that night, seeing the thing lying in the grass. It had glowed with bright light in the dim, nightmare place, and his hand had practically fallen on top of it when the floor shook. He must have picked it up then.

Vincent glared at it, all the fury he hadn't let out making a horrible din in his head. He'd come to hate the small disc as a symbol of whatever it was that had stolen his music. If anger had power, his fulminating gaze would have turned the worn, smiling face into slag. Light flashed off the surface of the little thing and right into his eyes. Vincent winced and stuffed the hated thing back in his pocket.

He poured a cup of the tea Mr. Judy had offered - it hadn't sounded like an offer, exactly - and sipped. The bookkeeper said licorice, but the tea tasted like no licorice he'd ever eaten. Herbal notes flowed together, and there was a lingering sweetness across his tongue that pair well with the mint.

The ache in his hand suggest he must have been clutching that damned coin since he'd left the house. He sipped again at the tea, letting the just-warm liquid sooth his raw throat.

A peculiar lassitude draped itself over Vincent's consciousness. It dawned on him that he hadn't had another visitation from whatever it was stalking him. Not since he'd fallen into the little shop. It was significant somehow, but he filed the thought away. It just didn't feel that immediate. Except for that moment of incandescent rage, even his anger and pain felt distant. Still there, just set apart for a bit.

He found himself wandering the narrow, book-choked aisles of the store. Shelves stood no more than a couple of feet apart, and went all the way to the ceiling. On those shelves seemed to be all the books of the world. Vincent noted titles as he passed. Many were books he'd read, or at least seen in stores and online. Most, however, were definitely not. Many titles he simply couldn't read, though he recognized Cyrillic lettering here, Chinese characters there, and something he thought might be Hindi.

Some he was certain were jokes. One was nothing but little triangles, some pointing up, some down and some pointing all over the place. Another seemed composed entirely of dimly seen shapes layered in clear plastic pages. Shapes that were deeper, somehow than the thin pages. Shapes that shifted depending on how he held the book in the odd, sourceless light of the very peculiar bookshop.

Vincent wasn't aware how long he wandered the shelves, but there always seemed to be another aisle with more books. After the hell his life had become, the sense of great age and wisdom from that much collected knowledge eased his heart in a way he couldn't have predicted. Constant mental agony had worn grooves in his thinking, but the influence of the quiet shop was pulled him out.

He began to wonder, vaguely, what he would do now that the future he'd expected was closed to him. He had to find some way to make a living. Music was about all he knew. Maybe he could conduct. The thought of being that close to violinists pricked at the languor suffusing his awareness. The military always needed healthy bodies.

Vincent's feet dragged him to a stop and a portion of the drowsy veil lifted. He stood just down from a door he'd passed a few times, but hadn't actually noticed. A thick stone plaque in the middle of the heavy wooden door told him not to enter. A thought not entirely his own insinuated that this was for his own good. And the world's.

Unconsciously, he shivered and turned to look at the shelf to his left.

In marked difference from the rest of the shelves, the books on this one had been arranged to create a small cubby, no more than a foot on a side. Inside that space, on a plush platform lay a single book. The leather than bound it might once have been a creamy white, but age and use had turned the cover a deep, golden yellow. He saw no title on, on either the front or the spine, but each corner bore a heavy-looking metal decoration, with bits cut out. Any more delicate, and they’d look like lace, but they were … too substantial, almost like they weighed more than they should.

Vincent slipped the empty cup into his jacket pocket, and picked the book up without a thought. It felt curiously light in his hand for such a large book. It more than filled his hand. Curiously, the cover formed a box, completely enclosing the pages. He ran a finger down the edge and tugged. With a barely perceivable click, the cover released. He opened it and as his eye hit the first page, time stopped. He was conscious of drawing a deep breath, the taste of the tea still light on his tongue, the smell of old books, flowers and fresh earth heavy in his nostrils.

Then, it seemed as though he awoke from a deep sleep. He caught himself as his knees started to buckle. He snapped the book shut in reflex and stood trembling. His heart thudded as rapidly as it had when he'd first entered the store. It came to Vincent in a rush that he had no idea how long he'd been in Mr. Judy's shop; no idea where the bookstore even was. Moreover, as long as he was there and without phone signal, his mother had no way to contact him. And vice versa.

"I need to get home."

The voice, his own, startled him in the hushed place, and Vincent abruptly turned and walked toward where he thought the front counter should be. Should be, as he really wasn't certain he was right. It felt like everything that had happened since he'd first fallen through the door had happened in a dream, or to someone else.

Fortunately, it didn't seem to matter, as the second turn left him standing in front of Mr. Judy's counter. Behind which stood Mr. Judy, who somehow managed not to loom over Vincent's slightly bewildered form.

"You've found something then! I am surprised. Most people don't see that volume at all, let alone get so absorbed." The attenuated proprietor's rich voice filled the space around them without rising above a whisper, but the enthusiasm in his words brightened his black eyes.

Eyes that picked out the absurdly light book still in Vincent's hand. Who started, nearly dropping the precious item in the process, and stared in mixed surprise and shock at his hand. When he transferred his stunned gaze to the shopkeeper, black eyebrows just as feathery as his hair climbed high onto the shiny dome in interest.

"Or, I dare say, it's found you, hmmm?" Mr. Judy turned his head so that he was looking at Vincent through a single eye. His aquiline nose jutted out of his face, giving the old man's face an oddly inhuman cast. "Or is it perhaps that you don't want the Primer after all?"

"I, I-" Vincent knew he shouldn't buy it, especially when he and his mother wouldn't be able to afford to send him to school if his scholarship got pulled. But he found himself determinedly unwilling to put the book back where he'd found it. Or, as Mr. Judy said, it had found him. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "I want to take it with me. Please."

The lean bookseller planted his elbows on the counter and lowered his chin to rest on his folded hands. This put his head level with Vincent's, and he looked full into the younger man's eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, for at last a warm smile spread slowly across his angular face. He nodded.

"Yes, I think you shall have the book. It has been a long, long time since that was out in the world, but it seems you have need of it, and who am I to deny that need?"

He was silent for a long moment. Long enough for Vincent to begin to fidget. When he couldn't stand it anymore, Vincent spoke.

"How much do I owe you, Mr. Judy?" With a desperation that surprised him, Vincent hoped he could afford the price. Of its own accord, his free hand crawled into his pocket and found the unwanted gold coin. He wanted to get rid of the thing. He pulled it out and, barely glancing at the worn visage, offered it up. "Will this do?"

Mr. Judy surprised him with a booming laugh that by all rights should have set the books dancing on their shelves. For all that, it was gentle and in genuine good humor, and Vincent felt his spirits rise. He was surprised to find himself joining in. He hadn't had much laughter recently, and it felt good.

"Ah, no. Thank you," Mr. Judy said, graciously. "That is not for me, though I greatly appreciate the offer. As to the tome, pass it on when you know to whom you should. Otherwise, bring it back here, should you have the need. Until we meet again, fare you well, young magos."

Vincent had already turned away when he heard the odd form of address. He turned back to ask the proprietor what he meant by it, but the man had disappeared. Vincent blinked, and it came to him that the blessing had also been a form of dismissal.

He looked around the strange, little shop once more, then took the time to slip the gold coin back into his pocket. He opened the door and walked out into the early evening sun.

Which immediately dimmed, as the smell of long-dead and dusty air beat upon him. The sky above became a perfect eggshell-blue bowl, the sun a far-distant hammer. Tears streamed from Vincent's instantly dry eyes.

"There you are, Vincent." Dr. Thomas stood at the end of the street, while people crossed the intersection behind him. Cars and trucks drove, unconcerned by the unfolding drama. "It was unkind of you to run from your mother and me."

The older man took a step forward, and then another. Odd clicks accompanied each footfall, putting Vincent in mind of the time he'd accompanied his mother to a bank and a seeing-eye dog led its master across the polished, marble floor.

"Truly, Vincent, I only wish to help you regain what I know you've lost."

His heart twisted in his chest at the reminder of his music. All the thoughts held at bay inside Mr. Judy's came flooding back, and Vincent gasped at the raw strength of his emotions. The wan sunlight flashed off his mentor's glasses, and the older musician smiled, his normally blocky face appearing long and stretched through Vincent's tears.

"I can replace what that cold, northern monster took from you."

Vincent stood rooted to the pavement as Dr. Thomas stalked slowly forward. He gestured with the graceful hands that had always impressed Vincent, reaching toward the younger man as though in supplication. But now, Vincent could see the unnatural length of them, the long and jagged claws that tipped each digit.

Warmth in Vincent's hands, hotter even than the punishing rays of the alien sun overhead tore a hiss form his lips. He was surprised to feel the hard disc of the little coin in his right, having no memory of putting his hand back in his pocket, but he was purely shocked by the hot energy flowing up his arm from the book in his left hand.

"Vincent, put down the tome," the not-doctor growled. On more than one level. Vincent heard the familiar, trusted voice of his mentor, and under it, speaking the same words in unison, a bestial voice filled with rage. And hunger. A voice that continued, "don't you trust me, my boy?"

Two weeks sunk in despair had hollowed Vincent. He'd been unable to eat, to sleep. He'd barely functioned, flayed by his psychic agony and depression. He'd begun to question his sanity, and he'd even thought about killing himself. But now, this thing wanted him for its own purposes, and had spent the best part of a day terrorizing him. He was done.

Something in Vincent unfolded.

Half-seen images swirled in the kiln-like air around him. Lines and layers, like sheer fabric or flows of air in thick fog coated - everything. Thick, ropy strands of dark, shadowy something entangled the thing wearing his mentor's face - and God help it if it had hurt Dr. Thomas - writhing slowly like some horrific, bestial octopus. In the same way, Vincent sensed gleaming, gilded lines extending out from his hands. Angles and curves swooped away into a fading distance, growing dimmer as they went. It seemed much the way he'd always thought music should look.