The Librarian (Book One: Little Boy Lost) (7 page)

TAYLOR WAS SWEATING in the cool passage. She was convinced they’d taken a wrong turn. Eventually the batteries were going to run down in Wesley’s game and they’d be flying blind. They’d be trapped behind the library walls forever. Taylor was sure of it.

  
“There’s something up ahead,” Wesley said.

  
“Really?” Taylor’s voice was beginning to fray. “Where?” She craned her neck to see, and sure enough, there seemed to be two lights at the end of the shaft.

  
The kids came out of the darkness and into the dim glow the newly discovered lamps provided. The lights were hanging on either side of a door that seemed to be the backside of a large painting much like the one they’d used to access the passage.

  
“I bet this leads right back into the library,” Wesley said.

  
“Are you serious?! Please tell me we didn’t go through all this for nothing!” She batted her hair wildly. “I’ve got cobwebs all over me!”

  
“Really?” Wesley said in a mocking tone. “Did you break a nail?”

  
“Shut up!”

  
Wesley had his backpack off and was loading the game back into one of the bag’s zippered pockets. He sensed Locke was apprehensive about something just as he’d been when he spotted the boulder hanging from the ceiling before.

  
“What’s wrong?” Wesley asked.

  
“I heard someone,” Locke said. His eyes were fixed on the painting, specifically two small holes that were cut side-by-side into the canvas.

  
Wesley listened. “Me too.” He moved to a large block nearby. It was one of the dark stones used to build the library, an extra that had been cast aside. “Help me with this.” Locke hurried over, and the two boys struggled to push the stone across the ground one stubborn inch at a time.

  
“What are you doing?” Taylor asked.

  
“I just want to make sure.” He was already out of breath. “That’s all.”

  
“Make sure? Make sure
what
?” Wesley didn’t answer. He and Locke had the square stone centered in front of the painting, and he was already stepping onto the mammoth brick. “Wes?”

  
“Shhh!” Wesley demanded.

  
Locke was right. There were muffled voices coming from the other side of the painting. Muffled and angry. Wesley shielded his eyes with both hands, leaning forward to peer through the spyholes into the next room.

  
“They’re here,” Locke whispered. “You’ve got them too. I didn’t know.”

  
Taylor saw his dagger was at the ready. “Who?” she asked. “Who’s here?”

  
“Pirates.”

A LARGE, FLOOR-TO-CEILING portrait of Mark Twain was hanging on a wall in the librarian’s study. It was an impressive piece, and yet, no one was taking the time to appreciate it, and thus, no one noticed Twain’s wise eyes had been replaced with those of a young child.

  
While Wesley didn’t have a full view of the room, he could see the librarian was stationed behind a large oak desk. It was the only thing standing between him and Douglas Stanford.

  
“You look surprised to see me,” Douglas said smugly.

  
“It’s not
you
I’m surprised to see.”

  
The librarian motioned across the room. There was a lean man in a black cloak studying the old books stacked in misshapen columns against the wall. Wesley couldn’t see the man’s face and suspected he didn’t want to. There was something about him. It was more than his strange attire. More than the hood he wore over his head. Something about him was... off.

  
Wesley suddenly wondered what would happen to Locke if they couldn’t get him home. Would he end up in an orphanage? On the streets? Would he eventually find a desk in Ms. Easton’s classroom between Wesley and Taylor? No. That wouldn’t happen. It
couldn’t
happen. Locke would never be able to acclimate to the real world. Wesley knew Locke was different the moment they met. So would everyone else. He would never fit in on this side of the carving. He would always be a stranger in an unknown land. Wesley suspected the same was true of the dark figure in the librarian’s study. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but the man in the cloak had leapt from the pages of a story just as Locke had. Wesley was sure of it.

  
“Scarier than you imagined?” Douglas asked.

  
“It was always your favorite. Of course, that’s when you were still rooting for the book’s
protagonist
.”

  
The librarian’s words put Douglas in a rage.

  
“I’m not that naïve, old man. Not anymore. I grew up. The world isn’t as black-and-white as your precious books make it out to be. You forget: everyone’s the hero in their own story.”

  
The librarian managed a wry grin. “And would the people in this city think you were a hero if they knew why you were
really
pushing to tear this building down?”

  
Douglas drew in a long breath. “We don’t have to do this,” he explained. “Please, I don’t want to destroy the library any more than you do. You know I love this place and everything it represents.”

  
“You’re in love with what this place can
give you
. You don’t know a thing about what this building
represents
.”

  
Douglas stepped away from the librarian’s desk and shook his head. “Fair enough. Bones,” he said, “see if you can convince my old teacher to do the right thing and give us what we want.”

  
There was something in Douglas’s voice that reminded Wesley of the man’s son. He couldn’t help but feel he was looking into a funhouse mirror that was reflecting some distorted version of his own life.

  
The librarian stiffened as the hooded man turned away from the books and drew near. The dark figure loosened his glove one finger at a time then pulled it off to reveal a skeletal hand with skin so pale it seemed translucent. When he flexed his fingers into a fist, Wesley couldn’t understand how one of the bony extremities didn’t break through the impossibly thin skin.

  
“I don’t even want to keep it,” Douglas continued despite the fact he was now turned away from the librarian, unwilling to watch. “Just pretend I checked it out like any other book on the shelf.”

  
The librarian came to his feet. “I think I’ve had just about enough—“

  
The hooded man shoved the old man back into his chair then grabbed him, wrapping his long fingers around the librarian’s arm.

  
“Ahh!” The librarian screamed in pain. Wesley winced, watching as the skin of the hooded man’s hand began to glow. There was a flash of flame as the librarian’s shirt sleeve caught fire. “Call him off! Douglas!”

  
“What’s going on?” Taylor said loudly. “What was that?!”

  
Wesley fired her a sharp look. “Quiet, Tay!”

  
“Don’t tell me to be—“

  
“Shut up!”

  
Wesley turned back to the painting, shielding his eyes once more to see—

  
The cloaked stranger! He was staring back at Wesley, his eyes orange flame dancing beneath the darkness of his hood!

  
Wesley backed away from the painting. The color drained from his face. He fell from the stone, landing on his backside but never taking his eyes from the painting.
 

  
“What?” Taylor asked, not bothering to whisper this time. “What?!”

  
“R... ru...” A gloved fist tore through the painting from the other side. The hooded man ripped the canvas down the middle, exposing the children in the passage. “RUUUN!!”

  
Douglas pointed, barking an order: “Stop them!”

  
The cloaked figure tore what was left of the portrait from the wall, tossing the heavy pieces aside and striding toward the passage after the children.

  
But the librarian sprang into action.

  
Using the distraction to his advantage, the librarian pushed Douglas aside and shoved his bony shoulder into his office bookcase. The bookcase toppled, catching the cloaked man by surprise and knocking him to the ground.

  
The old man darted into the corridor as the kids began to scramble, finally shaking from their daze.

  
“Come,” the old man said as he began to usher them down the passage. “You’ve put yourself in incredible danger.”

  
Wesley looked down at the libarian’s arm. There was a hole in the sleeve of his silk shirt. It was singed at the edges and revealed pink skin beneath where his arm had been burned so badly it was already starting to blister.

  
“Are you okay?!”

  
“There isn’t time! We have to move. Now!”

  
In a show of impossible strength the hooded man launched the heavy bookcase across the room with a single hand. He stepped into the passage. Douglas was right behind him. The librarian looked over his shoulder just as he and the kids crossed into the darkness of the corridor.

  
His attackers were coming, chasing after him – after him and the three children who had earned their displeasure as well.

“WE’RE DEAD!” TAYLOR screeched. “Oh, man! We’re dead! We’re dead! We’re
so
dead!!” She was in the lead, scurrying down the passage with arms stretched out in front of her, one hand feeling along the brick wall as they went. Things had gone worse than she’d imagined. At first she thought they would just get lost and starve to death. Now they were being chased, probably by a monster that would eat them to cure an appetite of his own.

  
“What’s that sound?! What’s that sound?!” The ring of keys on Locke’s belt offered a steady jingle with every step. “It’s them, Wes! It’s them!”

  
“Keep going straight,” Wesley said. “We’re almost there!”

  
He was lying, though. The truth was Wesley thought they should have come across the lantern by now. The trip to the librarian’s study had been relatively short. They were running now, and Wesley was sure it had taken twice as long to get where they were.

  
“There it is,” Taylor squeaked. “I see it! I see it!”

  
Thank god
, Wesley thought.

  
The kids took a sharp right into the next passage. They knew their way from this point, but Wesley slowed his pace when he saw the librarian had stopped near the old lantern hanging from the hook.

  
“Go!” The old man ordered. “Find your teacher! Get back to school!” He looked at Locke. “Go home!”

  
“But we can’t! He—“

  
“GO!” The old man boomed in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him, a place hidden an ancient. “GO NOW!!”

  
Wesley looked down the corridor. A pair of orange eyes were bouncing around in the darkness as the hooded man approached. He took off after his friends.

  
The librarian waited for Wesley to round the corner then turned his attention back down the passage and rested his hand on the hanging lantern.

  
Those flaming eyes were closing in. Dancing in the dark. Closer. And closer. Until eventually the two men were stepping into the lantern’s light.

  
Douglas stopped and cast a satisfied glare at the librarian. He looked like a boy about to dive into an ice cream sundae he’d stolen from a little girl. He was ecstatic this was where their confrontation had led. He could kill the old man if he wanted. He didn’t need him anymore. Not really. He’d been battling the librarian for years, but it was all about to end. He was about to lick the bowl clean.

  
The hooded man stepped forward, and the librarian pulled the lantern from the wall.

  
Douglas heard the rattle of chains and moving gears from inside the passage walls. “Wait!” He looked up just in time to see the boulder begin its descent. Both men leapt aside to avoid the boulder, but the falling stone was never meant for them. It was merely the catalyst needed to activate the trap. Instead, a thick set of cobwebs pulled free from the stone floor and quickly scooped the two men up, pulling them to the ceiling.

  
The librarian watched the netting sway back-and-forth, his attackers trapped some twelve feet over his head. Even from his new position Douglas was still trying to win. He reached through the sticky netting for the librarian. The librarian moved toward the ladder that led into the caverns beneath the library. “Go ahead and run, you old fool! It’s better that way!” Douglas gritted his teeth. “Winning will taste so much better that way!”

THE OIL PAINTING swung open, and the three children came tumbling out, landing in a pile of arms and legs just outside the secret passage. Locke was quick to his feet while Wesley and Taylor struggled to recover.

  
“What’s going on?!” Taylor asked. “What was that thing?!”

  
“I don’t know,” Wesley said. “But you heard him. We have to get out of here! Now!”

  
“What about Locke?!”

  
“Oh!
Now
you believe him?!” Wesley whipped around, his eyes meeting Locke’s. “What happens if you don’t make it back in time?”

  
“I told you! I’ll be written out of the story!”

  
“But what does that mean?!”