“I don’t see why . . . ,” Ben Malacki began.
“Because they’ll kill you, and Miss Vicki and the rest of us will spend a lot of time cleaning up the mess,” Conan rumbled. “And they’ll be very unhappy with the rest of you humans if bits of bloody meat end up on their nice books.”
No bloody bits of dead human on the nice books. Good to know Julian’s customers had priorities.
Breathe, Vicki. Breathe.
“Eat some food,” I suggested. “Watch TV.” Before there were complaints about the lack of good shows on at that hour, I slipped out of the room.
I wasn’t sure if dusk was a particular time for these preferred customers or was just some time between the sun going down and Julian closing the store. Turned out, I didn’t need to be sure, because when I walked into the library to check the displays one last time, I found five . . . beings . . . looking around the room and at the books on the tables. And then they looked at me.
They were shorter than me and had the leanness of a girl before puberty gave her breasts and hips. Because of that, it would be easy to mistake them for children if the light was dim and you couldn’t really see their faces. But they weren’t children, and they weren’t young, and I’m sure they would terrify the entire village of Sproing if seen in daylight—and I would bet that any one of them was strong enough to use Conan in his Bear form as a dust mop. My hind brain—the bit that used to tell humans to hide in caves and hope not to be found—recognized that.
“Reader,” one said.
No mistaking that voice. Monkey man.
Julian wouldn’t put me in harm’s way. I had to believe that. “Good evening. I set out the books Julian sent over from the store. Hopefully you’ll find some you like.”
A beat of silence before another one asked, “Do you like these books, Reader?” Moooonkey man.
“Some of them. I haven’t read all of them. I like Alan Wolfgard’s stories, even when I’m yelling at the humans in the stories for doing something stupid.”
Another beat of silence. Then the first one said, “But the humans in the stories cannot hear you.”
“I know. I yell at them anyway. Does me as much good as yelling at real humans.”
To avoid a discussion of why the anger of a short, plump woman would be ignored, I asked them about the books they liked to read. They showed me the ones they’d brought back to exchange.
I picked up one of their books that I hadn’t read. “Is this one scary?” I asked, forgetting who I was talking to. “I like scary if it’s not too scary.”
“There are bad humans,” the second one said.
“That can be the worst kind of scary.”
“Yes.”
The third one pointed to the new-books display. “These are different.”
“Those are hardcovers. Humans usually buy them when they intend to keep them. Paperbacks don’t cost as much, so people are more willing to trade them for other books.”
If they didn’t know about the new books, had I just gotten Julian in serious trouble?
“We trade these but can buy those to keep?”
I wasn’t sure which one of them asked the question, so I said, “Sure.” And I was going to accept whatever currency they wanted to use, be it acorns or pebbles or pieces of string.
They exchanged five paperbacks for five paperbacks. Then each of them selected a hardcover—including Michael Stern’s new book.
I wrote down the titles, explaining that Julian needed to keep track of the new books that were sold. When I looked up, I saw one of them remove paper money from a pocket in her slacks. I did not want to know what had made the reddish brown stains on those bills.
They must have seen something in my face, because that one put the money away and another one placed two gold coins on the table. She said, “Is that enough?”
“That is plenty for five books.” I didn’t know that for sure, but I didn’t care since I was fairly sure those coins were real gold.
I picked up five of the Lettuce Reed bags that Julian had supplied and that I’d placed under the table. “The bags have handles, so it will be easier to carry the books home.” Wherever home was.
“We do not need so many this time.”
They watched me divide the books into two bags. “Here you—”
All five of them turned away from the table and stared at the windows. I’d drawn the curtains, so there was nothing to see, but . . .
“Do you hear a rattle?” My heart pounded in my ears, which made it hard for me to hear anything else. “Maybe I should drive you home—or someplace closer to your home. Or you can wait for Julian and he can take you. There’s . . .” I was scared, but I held on to common sense enough to realize I didn’t want to insult someone whom they might consider a colleague of sorts. “Crowbones might be out there,” I finished in a whisper.
They looked at me. I couldn’t tell if they were puzzled or amused.
“No,” the first one said. “The Hunter is elsewhere tonight.”
Well, something was out there.
They headed for the library door.
“Wait!” I rushed to reach the door before they did. “Let me make sure none of my guests are acting like stupid humans in a story.”
I slipped out of the library and looked around. No one in the reception area. The door to the TV room was still closed—and even through the closed door I could hear Wilma Cornley complaining about something.
I looked toward the library and waved a hand. “The coast is clear.” I didn’t have time to wonder if they knew what that meant. They sort of flowed out of the room and across the reception area’s floor. Four of them were unencumbered as they opened the front door and went out. The fifth one carried both bags of books.
She paused at the door and said, “You should tell the humans to pay attention and be grateful that you yell at them when they are doing something stupid.”
There was a message in those words that I didn’t want to translate.
Then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness among the trees.
As I stood in the doorway, letting in the chilly night air and wondering if they had far to walk, I saw a flash . . . a flash . . . a flash . . . and knew what they had sensed.
Someone was out there in the dark with a camera, trying to take pictures of them.
Gods, no.
I froze for a moment, imagining which of the three men I knew would draw the short straw of taking my call for help.