Lost Library: An Urban Fantasy Romance
Read Lost Library: An Urban Fantasy Romance Online
Authors: Kate Baray
Lost Library
An Urban Fantasy
Romance Series
Kate
Baray
Copyright © 2014 by Catherine G. Cobb
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to people, places,
persons, or characters are all intended as fictional references
and
are the work of the author.
Contents
Lizzie Smith had been Lizzie since before she could re
member. When she moved back to Texas a few years ago—new job, new friends, new city—she tried to make the change to the grown-up version of her name. But Elizabeth hadn’t stuck. She also cut her long curly locks to what she imagined was a more mature medium-ish length. Over thirty and still answering to Lizzie seemed to scream perky—and Lizzie wouldn’t describe herself as perky.
But her name and her shorter curls stayed. S
he was still Lizzie Smith at thirty-four. A not particularly perky, not especially young, but not very old, Lizzie. She liked herself. Well, for the most part—everyone had flaws. But she didn’t think of herself as particularly unusual in any way. She wasn’t brilliant, artistic, or gorgeous. Just average.
W
hen she received a large padded envelope, addressed in handwritten capital letters to Elizabeth Smith, a name not one friend or family member used, it stood apart from the similarly addressed bills and junk mailers. Not a bill, not from a close friend…
She
picked up the padded envelope along with several bills, a fundraiser request—it was from her alma mater, so what else could it be—and the normal assortment of miscellaneous junk mail. She thrust everything under her arm and hurried into the house. Austin, Texas wasn’t cold often, but the temperatures had been abnormally low, record-breaking even.
Several minutes and two happily-
pottied dogs later, she sat at the kitchen table to investigate her unusual mail. Hand addressed packages weren’t common, and receiving one was an event. She planned to savor the moment. As she’d set the package down on the table earlier, she’d recognized the unique heft and size of a hardcover book.
Hot tea ready at her elbow, she opened the package.
Carefully slitting the package open, she discovered she’d been partially correct. When she tipped the contents out on the table, a book emerged. But not a standard, mass-produced hardcover. The cover was dark green, worn leather. The edges were battered and faded to a lighter mossy green. But, even showing its age, it was a gorgeous old book. Thumbing the edge, she discovered the pages were thick and likely hand cut. Seeing no title or author printed on the cover, she flipped it open to examine the title page.
Lizzie
’s eyesight wasn’t perfect. A few too many late nights cuddled in bed with her Kindle, or one too many paperbacks read by flashlight under the covers as a child—who knew? But she passed her driver’s eye exam every time it came up, and really, who could read the tiny white letters on street signs? That’s what GPS was for. Still, it was possible her eyesight was more impaired than she thought. Because those tiny, faded letters, swam on the page.
She closed t
he book, rubbed her eyes, then got up and flipped on an extra set of lights. Once again sitting in front of the book, she flipped the front cover open…and couldn’t believe her eyes. Bold red ink, where there had been faded blue. And there was no question—the words on the page swam…and flipped…and maybe even glowed.
Thump.
She let the book fall closed.
Confused by the book’s contents, several competing questions pushed into her mind.
“Who might have sent it?” won the contest, since that was a question she might be able to answer. Standing up, she walked over to the recycle bin and retrieved the discarded padded envelope.
Just as she’d seen on her initial inspection, there was n
o return address to mark the sender, and no postage mark. She shook the envelope sharply, cut side down. But no note appeared. She reached her hand inside and swept from side to side to ensure no message was hiding or stuck inside. Nothing.
This was the moment when average Lizzie Smith might have decided she’d been the victim of mail tampering—perhaps LSD? Average Lizzie might think she was hallucinating, maybe feverish? Average Lizzie might
have decided she needed medical attention.
But she didn’t call a friend for a ride to the hospital. She didn’t call her doctor to schedule a checkup. She didn’t even make an eye appointment with the ophthalmologist. What Lizzie did was sit down, drink her tea, tuck her feet under a napping dog…and study a book.
This was the day Lizzie Smith decided that, while she might not be perky, brilliant, artistic, or gorgeous—she might not be average, either.
Two
years later…
W
hen does magic become commonplace? Lizzie contemplated the question. Was there a tipping point? After a certain amount of exposure, was it simply no longer the fascinating stuff of wishes and dreams?
The freakishly cold winter reminded Lizzie of a similarly
cold winter two years ago, when she received what she thought was a wondrous gift. A magical book containing ever-changing, handwritten text—her first peek at what she believed to be magic. Each time Lizzie opened the book, a new entry appeared on the first page. Sometimes in red ink, sometimes black, occasionally in unusual shades of violet or green. The writing ranged from loopy, feminine cursive, to printed block letters.
Each entry was different, of that Lizzie was certain.
Her logs recorded the date she opened the book, the color of the ink, and descriptions of the writing. She spread the records out on the table in front of her. Looking at them, she assured herself that, indeed, the entries were never the same. Beautiful script—and that was one constant, the writing varied but it was always beautiful—colorful messages, magically changing. How could Lizzie not be in awe? The words turned on themselves, swam and flipped on the page. So Lizzie concentrated harder and looked more closely at the page. But, two years later, the words still swam. She was no closer to reading its contents than when it had arrived.
Lizzie—never one to
give up on the first, tenth, or even fiftieth try—experimented with a variety of techniques to still the moving words. During various attempts, a mirror, a feather, a candle, steam, ice cubes, and spit were employed. The last involved a late night, a few stout homemade margaritas, and an especially high level of frustration. So to say that the wondrous magical-ness of the unreadable book had become somewhat less wondrous over the intervening two years, was not incorrect.
After
an especially disappointing late night of book gazing—she could hardly call it reading—Lizzie decided she needed reinforcements. For some unknown reason, she felt a strong push this week to solve the old mystery. Who did a thirty-six year old, relatively sane—she thought—woman call, when she needed to consult on the interpretation of her magical book? Not anyone who would immediately recommend institutionalizing her. That only left her best friend of twenty years.
If she couldn’t rely on twenty
years of sane, shared history to prevent an immediate call to emergency services, then she decided the book itself would provide evidence of her story. So after a good night’s sleep, she called Kenna McIntire, her best friend. Then she packed up the book and headed to Kenna’s house. The result was one newly invigorated woman, a magical book, a long-time friend, and some excellent coffee, all converging early on a Saturday morning.
“
Two years ago, you received an anonymous package with a mojo book inside? And you’ve kept this from your very best friend for two years?
Two years?
” Kenna responded to Lizzie’s tale of wonder, magic, and mystery with a tiny bit of surprise...and annoyance.
Lizzie
knew she should have left out the dates.
“I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t think any rational person would belie
ve the flying, changing words, part of the story. It’s a stretch for me to believe, and I’ve seen the book.” Lizzie’s words held a distinctly defensive tone.
Kenna
clarified. “Oh, don’t be confused. I think you’ve gone around the bend. I just can’t believe you kept such a huge secret from me for so long.
For two years.
Even if there is no such thing as magic—and I’m not saying there is or isn’t—
you
believe there is. And if a friend has a life-changing experience, like, oh—say,
getting a magic book
, she should share that life-changing experience with her best friend. Immediately,” Kenna concluded.
A little concern peppered with
humor, that was Kenna. But her flippant attitude about magic—maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t—was very unlike her. Kenna, with her sleek blond bob, trim figure, and attention to detail, was no nonsense…except in her persistent efforts to set Lizzie up on the perfect date. She was
all
nonsense when it came to Lizzie and men, or so Lizzie thought. And, apparently, in her belief that magic might exist. That was news to Lizzie. If she’d known her friend secretly watched Supernatural,
and believed it
, she’d have considered fessing up much faster.
“
You haven’t mentioned medicating me yet. That’s a good sign, right?” Lizzie decided that clarifying whether or not Kenna intended to call 911 should be a priority in this conversation.
Kenna looked at her steadily and refrained from comment.
Uh-oh.
Time for the evidence.
She
pulled out the Book—when she’d started thinking of it as Book with a capital B, she wasn’t entirely sure—and flipped it open to the first page.
After turning the Book around and presenting the first page to
Kenna, she said, “Other than the dancing words, there is also the changing text. Every time I open it, there’s a different entry.”
She
closed and reopened the Book, then she showed Kenna the first page a second time. Lizzie’s eye caught on the bold, black, slanted writing on the page as she turned it toward her friend. She looked up and, for the first time during the conversation, she saw real concern on Kenna’s face.
“Honey, there’s nothing on the page. It’s blank.”
Kenna reached a hand out to her and pressed Lizzie’s fingers reassuringly.
T
he Book fell to Lizzie’s lap. She glanced between Kenna and the Book.
“
No. That’s insane! How can you not see it?” Lizzie was slowly shaking her head over and over. “I don’t
feel
like I’m crazy. Delusional for two years and no one notices?
You
didn’t notice?”
Her
voice had slowly escalated in speed and volume as she spoke. Realizing this, Lizzie stopped and took a slow, deep breath. “The Book has always seemed real to me – weird, but real.”