Bedtime Story (40 page)

“Really? Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. Seattle’s practically Canada anyway.”

“That’s what they say. I’m Marci.”

“Chris.”

“So what brings you to the Apple, Chris?” She shifted on her stool to face me fully.

“Meetings,” I said, before giving her a brief description of my usual June trips to New York: agent, editor, publicists. “What about you?”

She looked a little sheepish. “I’m the enemy,” she said. “I work for a software company. They needed me here for some meetings.”

“I feel like such a Luddite, with my notebook and fountain pen.”

“Don’t,” she said. “I don’t understand most of it myself. I’m more of a coordinator. I make sure the guys who write the programs get along with the guys that sell them.”

“Wow.”

She shook her head. “It’s a lot of this,” she said, tapping her glass. “A lot of hotel bars, airports, dinners with developers and clients, me not having any idea what anyone is talking about.”

“The glamorous life.”

“Something like that. Which reminds me …” She checked her watch and downed her drink. “I’ve got a dinner meeting. Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” I said.

“And you too,” she said, laying a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “With your meetings.”

I smiled, and watched her as she walked out.

The bartender swept away Marci’s glass and cash and wiped her spot at the bar.

“You’re calling early,” Jacqui said when she answered her phone, pleased in an unexpected way.

“I could call back later.” Chris’s voice was slow and thick.

“I can probably squeeze you in now.”

“I’m glad,” he said. His voice had that end-of-the-night feel to it, that comfortably drunk, completely relaxed tone.

“Are you out, or …?”

“No, I’m back at the hotel.”

“But you don’t usually turn into a pumpkin for a few hours yet.” She pulled her knees in to her chest and nestled deeper into the couch. “Did you go out for dinner?”

“I just grabbed something in the hotel lounge. They actually do a pretty good Cobb salad.”

“For the amount that they probably charge for it. Not getting together with any of your friends?”

“No. I didn’t really feel like it.”

She tipped over the line from interested to concerned. Typically, when Chris was in New York, his phone calls became increasingly rare as the days went on. She might get a disjointed, shouted call from some bar, music blaring in the background, Chris slurring and stumbling over his words.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I just didn’t feel like …”

He sounded so sad, and she wanted to ask him about Roger, about what he had started to say about his book, but she held back: now wasn’t the time.

“It just didn’t feel …” His voice trailed off. “Besides, this way I’ll be well rested for my meetings tomorrow.”

“Right.”

“How’s David?” he asked, almost talking over her. For a moment, Jacqui thought he might be trying to change the subject.

She glanced up at their son, still and silent in the bed next to where she was sitting. She had basically moved into the family room with David, sleeping on the couch, eating at the coffee table, keeping him close. He had been alone for longer in the hospital, but she couldn’t help the feeling that she had to stay close, to keep him safe.

“He’s the same,” she said, almost sighing. “Better now, a bit. We just read his story.”

“So it’s still working.”

“It still seems to soothe him, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“I didn’t read to him too much. Just until he started to calm, then I stopped.”

“Why?”

“We’re more than halfway through, Chris. Have you thought about what’s going to happen once the book is done?”

David saw the first Berok at the edge of the path, lying on his back as if he had been tipped over. He had been dreading this moment with a sick feeling in his stomach since they had broken camp an hour before.

“Sentry,” Captain Bream said, barely looking at the man as they passed.

The arrow had taken the man in the throat; later, it seemed, someone had run a sword across his midsection, spilling blood and guts into the grass.

Oh my God, David. This is
 … Matt said, his voice choked.

I know
.

The man was smaller than David had been expecting; from the stories and from his glimpses during the attack, he had assumed any Berok warrior to be a giant of a man, wearing the traditional bearskin, the bear’s head crafted into a combination of helmet and mask. This man was wearing a bearskin, but only as a vest over a plain uniform much like the one David wore. The warrior was small, almost frail-looking. He would have been no taller than David. Not Dafyd—David.

And his face …

David
, Matt said, and David could almost feel him withdrawing.

David wanted to turn away himself, but he forced himself to look.

The Berok sentry was just a boy, no older than Dafyd would have been. His hand, still clutching the shaft of the arrow, was small, the skin of his face smooth and hairless, his eyes blue and clear as they stared sightlessly into the sky.

“Dafyd,” the magus said from behind him, and David spurred his horse to catch up with the captain.

Did you see—?

Shut up
. David was trying not to cry, trying to rid his mind of the image of the dead boy.

Then they came upon the camp. The captain brought his horse to a stop and dismounted, joining the small group of soldiers waiting there for him.

David climbed off his horse and stepped forward uneasily. The smell of flesh was already rising in the air, redolent with the metallic smell of blood.

At the centre of the encampment was the ashy ruin of a fire, grey and cold. Arranged around it, their feet close for the warmth it would have provided, lay a half-dozen bedrolls, each of them soaked and caked with blood, torn and ragged from untold slashes and stabs of swords. Each bedroll held a body. A few were pierced with arrows, but most had their throats slit, the wounds like dark, bloody smiles under their chins.

David couldn’t look away, and the images burned into his eyes. No sign of struggle, no hint of a battle, just corpses on the ground.

The captain and his men were surveying the scene from the edge of the clearing, nodding appreciatively. One of them even smiled.

Don’t
, Matt warned.
Don’t say anything
.

David staggered back to where the magus waited with the horses. He stumbled up to the old man, almost falling at his feet.

“They killed them all,” he gasped, barely able to breathe. “They killed them in their sleep.”

T
RUE TO FORM
, I
OVERBUDGETED
my time the next morning, arriving at the Hunter Barlow Library almost half an hour early. I walked around the neighbourhood, trying to make my coffee last as long as possible.

The Hunter Barlow was housed in a large, nineteenth-century mansion, part of a strip of similar houses that stretched for several blocks. The tarnished brass plaque on the gatepost read, simply, H
UNTER
B
ARLOW
. Someone could still have lived there.

Not that any of the houses along that ornate row were residences anymore. They were a lingering reminder of a golden age, a time when wealthy industrialists and proto-nouveau-riche separated themselves from the hustle and grime of the city by moving farther and farther uptown, distancing themselves with carriages and private parks, a world of wealth and privilege leagues away from the crowds and the banality of actually working for their money.

I found a bench outside a gated park and sat down. Taking out my notebook I flipped to the last written page, the note I had scrawled after talking to Jacqui the night before:

“What happens when the book ends?”

I had just assumed that we could keep reading to David forever. But Jacqui was right, and more than she knew: if David’s life was now inextricably linked to the book, his story wrapped up within its story, what would happen when that story ended? I had read enough of the book to know that it was headed for a happy ending, but that was the story that Lazarus Took had written. If Nora was right, David’s story could end very differently.

Not a moment to waste.

The library door was still locked; I double-checked my watch, ensuring that it was after ten, then rang the buzzer.

“Can I help you?” came the voice from the intercom, almost too quickly. Glancing up, I saw there was a video camera in the corner of the doorway.

I leaned toward the intercom. “My name is Christopher Knox. I have an appointment to—”

The lock clicked, and I pushed the door open.

A young man stood up from behind an antique reception desk and extended his hand. “Mr. Knox, I’m Ernest,” he said.

He was tall and slim, and everything about him, from his haircut to his sleek suit, subtly suggested money. It was a cool, seemingly effortless air of elegance that he didn’t so much project as inhabit. My chinos and shirt left me feeling like a slob.

“I understand that you’re here to view the Lazarus Took archive,” he said. “Might I ask why?” His voice was precise and seemingly unaccented—he could have been from anywhere.

Fortunately, I had already come up with a story. “I’m a writer myself, and I’m considering a book about Lazarus Took. I’ve got a feeling that there’s a story there just waiting to be told.”

He nodded, and seemed to be considering my words. “Oh, I would agree with that, sir. There’s quite a story in Lazarus Took.” He paused. “And it must be getting increasingly difficult to find writers who haven’t already been written about.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“If you would be so kind as to fill out the blank spaces on this form.” He passed me a clipboard from the desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of filling in most of it from the information in your e-mail.”

“What is this?”

“A waiver, sir. Limitations of liability and such. It’s mostly for insurance purposes.”

I wondered what the “mostly” left out.

I started to fill in the blanks. “So I wasn’t able to find much information about the library,” I said, trying to make the questioning sound conversational.

“No, you wouldn’t have, sir. We try to maintain as low a profile as we possibly can, owing to the nature of our collection.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Sir, we pride ourselves in being a serious collection, a resource for scholars and committed students.” He looked at me with an expression that clearly grouped me with the latter. “And because of the nature of the collection, we have to keep a low profile, in order to allow access to those with legitimate avenues of inquiry, like yours.”

“I’m sorry, ‘the nature of the collection’?”

“Yes, sir. The Hunter Barlow collection is one of the largest private collections of material pertaining to the occult and the arcane in the world. But then, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

I capped the pen and passed him the clipboard. “Actually, I didn’t know that,” I lied, hoping that he might give me more information than I had been able to find. “I found you from information that Lazarus Took had sold the library his papers.”

“Ah, well. Then I can see the source of the confusion. The Hunter Barlow Library is devoted to material having to do with the occult. The library was founded in 1915 by James Hunter and Robert Barlow, initially as a repository for their personal materials and memorabilia. You see, both men had been involved with mystical orders in England, where they grew up. In fact, Mr. Hunter apparently credited magical forces for his success in the shipping industry. Mr. Barlow was more of a collector, and the collection itself is largely his work, and his legacy. While Mr. Hunter chose to focus on his enterprises, Mr. Barlow explored more widely. Over the last century, the collection has grown immeasurably, funded by the estates of Mr. Hunter and Mr. Barlow.”

“I see.” The idea of all that material, all that information, gave me renewed hope.

“I’m sure you can understand, then, the need for our discretion. If word were to get out about the nature of our collection—” He shuddered. “I can only imagine what sort of people it might attract.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, and I should mention—one of those papers you signed was a non-disclosure agreement.”

Of course it was.

“Certainly if there are materials you’d like to use in your work, permissions can be readily granted, but any discussion of the library itself is strictly prohibited.”

“That’s fine.”

He nodded, and smiled, as if pleased by my compliance. I didn’t care about any of the legal mumbo-jumbo—I just wanted to get at the papers.

“Normally I take first-time visitors on a walk through the upstairs gallery, which houses some of the highlights of our collection. There are”—he thought for a moment—“Aleister Crowley’s handwritten notes for the
Book of the Law
. A letter from W.B. Yeats to Lady Gregory regarding the faerie tribes of Ireland. A copy of the so-called
Demonic Bible
. A letter from Vladimir Rasputin to Czar Nicholas, telling him of a dream he had in which the entire royal family was killed. A
grimoire
, allegedly bound in the skin of a witch executed at Salem.”