Blood Brothers (16 page)

Using her sleeve, Lucy wiped most of the dust away. She was able to see the cover more clearly now, but she still couldn't make it out. The title had practically disappeared, and the few engraved letters remaining were a language that was foreign to her. She touched the letters with one fingertip, delicately tracing each shape. They seemed almost regal—as if connected to some grand and glorious past.

The text, however, was different. No words had been boldly engraved here—instead, these lines and lines of writing had been done by hand, most probably with a quill. The ink was badly faded—in some spots, hopelessly invisible. Many of the pages had crumbled at their edges, or been carelessly torn, or even completely ripped out. Some bore the marks of fingerprints, or water spots, or candlewax, or burns. And here and there along the margins, a tiny sketch had been added, or an odd design, a sequence of numbers, or what might have been a spontaneous note.

Thoroughly intrigued, Lucy searched on.

There was far more than just writing here, she soon realized. She found maps of places she couldn't identify, drawings of plants she'd never seen. Long-pressed flowers and leaves, now turned to dust. And an occasional spattering of brownish drops that reminded her of blood . . .

What
is
this?

The more pages Lucy turned, the more eager she was for answers. Whose book had this been, and what had become of the owner? How had the book ended up here, and why had it been hidden away? How many years ago had it been written? What secrets did it hold? Lucy felt as though she were strangely and suddenly obsessed with it—she couldn't rest until its mysteries were solved.

She held the flashlight closer. She'd totally forgotten her fear, how frantic she'd been to get out of the bookstore. And she had no intentions of leaving now—not when she wasn't even halfway through the book. Turning another page, Lucy stared down at the sharp, slanted writing. Like swift slashes upon the page.
Male
, she thought, though she wasn't sure why. She liked his penmanship. She tried to imagine his hand moving over the paper, and she moved her hand over it, too.

Her cell phone rang, shattering the silence.

Lucy screamed and jumped, and fumbled into her pocket.

“Hello?”

“Lucy! Where are you?”

“Dakota?” Darkness engulfed her as she dropped the flashlight. She lunged for it across the floor.

“Lucy, what are you
doing
? And where
are
you? My dad just called, and said Irene just called
him
, and—”

“Wait a minute. Where are
you
?”

“Out in the middle of nowhere. Picking up my brother from my aunt and uncle's house. Because my brother and my cousin are both idiots, and they drove my brother's car onto a frozen pond. Which turned out not to be as frozen as it looked.”

“Are they okay?” The flashlight stopped rolling. It flickered once, went out, then glowed again dimly.

“For now. However, my brother's fate is subject to change the minute my dad gets ahold of him. We're on our way back to town, even as I speak.”

“What did your dad tell Irene?”

“To call me.”

“So what did
you
tell her?”

“That you were with me, but you were in the bathroom and couldn't come to the phone.”

“I owe you one. I owe you many.”

“You owe me nothing. It's my absolute pleasure to protect you from Irene.”

“Thanks,” Lucy smiled. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“Midnight!” Retrieving her flashlight, Lucy plopped back down. She couldn't find the book. It must have fallen when she'd gone after the flashlight, but now she couldn't see it anywhere.

“Lucy, how come you didn't meet me?”

“I
did
meet you. In fact, that's where I am right now. Locked in your store.”

Dakota's reply was a long, confused silence.

“I said, I'm locked in your store.” Where was the book? It had to be here somewhere—it couldn't have fallen that far.

“But I looked for you. And Dad said you hadn't come in.”

“He didn't see me. I fell asleep studying, and when I woke up, everyone was gone.”

“So where are you now?”

“In your favorite room . . . sort of in the fireplace.”

“Oh, yeah? I like that spot, too. No wonder nobody found you.” Dakota gave a tolerant sigh. “Look, it might take me a while to get there—it is supposed to start sleeting tonight.”

Lucy made an uninterested sound into the phone. She was trying to shine the flashlight, hold on to the phone, and feel around the floor at the same time.

“Look, you should probably just come home with me,” Dakota went on. “Since you don't really know how to drive on ice. But these roads are really bad out here, so if I don't think I can make it within the next hour, I'll call my dad and just have him pick you up, okay? Oh, and he always turns the shop thermostat down at night—so if you're cold, feel free to make coffee.”

“I would, but I'm locked in,” Lucy mumbled.

“So what does that have to do with making coffee?”

“No, I mean I'm locked in this room. And the lights don't work.”

Dakota paused. Lucy aimed the flashlight toward the empty fireplace.

“What do you mean?” Dakota asked. “None of those doors have locks on them.”

Lucy didn't realize that her phone had gone dead.

That her hand was trembling, that the flashlight beam was wavering off through the shadows.

Suddenly she felt the cold. She'd been so warm and comfortable before, so engrossed in the book, but now she was absolutely freezing.

She was afraid to go near the door.

Afraid to go near that door that held her prisoner . . .

But she'd tried the door, and it hadn't opened; she'd tried the knob, and it hadn't turned.
It must have been me then . . . the door must be stuck . . . I should have pushed it harder.

Swallowing a taste of fear, Lucy listened again through the silence.

She listened to the old building creak and settle around her, to the drafts seeping up through the floor.

It sounded almost like footsteps.

Footsteps out in the hallway. Footsteps coming closer.

Lucy's grip tightened around the flashlight. She shut it off and sat there trembling in the dark.

She told herself that the footsteps weren't real, that the bookstore was safe, that nobody was in here except her. She told herself to quit being so ridiculous, to get up, to move. Go downstairs. Wait for Dakota.

But she
couldn't
move. She couldn't stop shaking.

And something was breathing now . . .

Short puffs of air, on the other side of that door.

A snuffling sound moving back and forth along the door, a gutteral sound creeping low across the floor.

She could hear it pause to sniff the air . . .

She could hear it trying to get in.

She squeezed herself tight into the corner. She hugged her knees to her chest and pressed her head back against the wall.

The doorknob rattled softly.

There was a sharp clicking sound along the floorboards . . . a long scraping sound across the door . . .

Then something thumped hard against it.

Something strong enough to shake it in its frame and cause the room to shiver all around her.

The door began to open. Inch by torturous inch.

Teasing her . . . taking its time.

She would use the flashlight, she told herself. Use it as a weapon—strike first, think later. She had the advantage of darkness on her side—she was well hidden—she could use the element of surprise.

But now she realized the thing was coming toward her.

Step by muffled step, up and down the narrow aisles, between the crooked shelves, it was coming
toward
her, directly and stealthily toward the exact spot where she hid.

It knows I'm here,
she realized.

Reason deserted her. In that instant, self-preservation kicked in with such force that Lucy was on her feet before she even realized. She let out a shout of fear and rage. And she threw herself so hard, so fast, against the closest bookshelf that she didn't have time to feel the pain.

The bookshelf went over.

With a deafening crash, the rickety bookshelf toppled forward, spilling its entire contents and crashing down to the floor.

Then . . . silence.

Silence and blessed emptiness.

Because whatever had come for her was gone now.

And Lucy knew it would not come back tonight.

She should still be terrified.

Lucy sat on the overstuffed couch by the front window of the bookshop. Sleet scratched against the glass and whirled through the courtyard in a silvery frenzy.

Of
course
she should still be terrified, she kept telling herself. After what had just happened upstairs . . .

Shocked, yes. Bewildered, yes. Badly shaken, yes.

She curled up on the cushions and watched the weather. A few of the wind chimes—those not yet frozen—were bouncing on the clothesline, clanging merrily away. Lucy felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

She could still hear the crash of the bookshelf hitting the floor.

She could still hear the explosion of books going in all directions.

And whatever had been skulking there in the dark had probably been caught right in the middle of everything.

But now it was gone.

Lucy still wasn't sure how she knew this. How she could tell from the very feel of the air around her that she was alone now, and safe. That there was no longer a threat in the shadows, or a reason to panic and hide.

She just
knew
.

And right now she didn't want to think beyond that or understand it or try to figure it out.

Right now, just the knowing was enough.

Pleasing, somehow. And liberating.

The realization surprised her a little, but she found it comforting, too. And curiously intriguing, just like the book she held in her arms.

Lucy turned her attention from the courtyard. Dakota had warned her it would take a while to get here, but Lucy didn't mind anymore. She didn't even mind that the electricity seemed to be off in the whole shop. Winter shone in through the windowpane, bathing her in a pale glow. She didn't bother with the flashlight now—somehow the reading seemed better without it.

Cradling the book against her chest, she rested her chin against it. It was maddening not being able to decipher these words, these maps, these cryptic symbols she felt herself so totally drawn to. She couldn't shake the feeling that there were great and wondrous secrets hidden between the pages, and a world of revelations beyond any imagining.

Like an enchanted fairy tale
, she concluded.

The idea amused her. She put the book in her lap, opened the cover, and resumed her search.

Page after page of the unknown language. Page after page of the sketches and notes. Maybe there was someone who could actually translate it, Lucy thought. Maybe someone at the university. Maybe she could ask Irene. Or maybe Matt or Father Paul would know.

But I won't tell them much. I won't give anything away. This is
my
book.

Frowning, Lucy paused. Of course, it wasn't her book—she'd found it upstairs, it belonged to Mr. Montana.

Didn't it?

But after all,
she
was the one who'd discovered it. If it hadn't been for her, who knew how many more years or centuries would pass before anyone ever found it? In fact, the book had probably been here long before Mr. Montana even owned the shop. And to be even more precise, it had been hidden in the fireplace mantel—who knew
where
that mantel had originally come from?

Lucy hadn't considered this before, but it opened up a whole new range of possibilities. Scarcely able to contain her excitement, she tried to get back to her reading.

She wasn't sure exactly when it happened—or when she fully became aware of it. Her fingertip gliding beneath each sentence on the page . . . her lips reading the foreign words aloud . . . her mind seeing them in English.

It was almost like the slow lifting of a curtain, the gradual letting in of light, the shadows melting away. For suddenly, Lucy realized that the words in front of her were making sense, and that she could understand what some of them meant.

Her eyes began to widen. Her finger moved from word to word, pointing, going faster—sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph, page after page. As in her visions, there was no complete, unbroken narrative—but rather bits and pieces, a comment here, a phrase there, and through it all, the slow emergence of a dark, disturbing theme . . .