Library Gate 3, page 8
“Nemo’s pizza.”
“Hi—can I speak to Barty, please?”
“I think he just came back from a delivery…”
There was some shuffling, and then Barty’s voice came on over the receiver. “Bartholomew speaking,” he said.
“Hey, Barty.”
“Oh, April. Hey. I don’t suppose you’re calling to order a pizza.”
“I wish.” she said. “I just wanted to apologize for putting you in a difficult situation last night.”
“I understand why you did it, but…” he trailed off. “How’s your grandma doing? Is she safe?”
“She’s fine.” Gram hadn’t left the house the previous day. She’d said she didn’t feel like going to yoga, which was strange, but April was okay with it if it meant that she would be at home, safe. “Your spells have been a lifesaver, Barty. Really. If it weren’t for the warning spell you put on the house…”
“Happy to help.” He paused. “The only thing I wouldn’t do over again is pretend to be your boyfriend.”
She laughed. “That’s understandable.”
There was a moment of silence. She was the one to break it. “Will you come to the library tonight? Thaddeus won’t be here. I have a plan. I can’t talk about it now, but we may have found a way to power the protection spell for the house.”
“Really? That’s great news! I—" Barty stopped suddenly. When he spoke again, his voice was tense. “Are you sure Thaddeus won’t be there?”
“Not tonight. I’ll make sure there’s a lot of notice before he comes again.”
“Well, if you’re sure…” The voice of the person who originally answered the phone spoke angrily. His voice was too garbled for April to make out.
“Okay, okay,” Barty said. “I gotta go. My manager wants the line open for customer calls.”
“Okay,” April said. “So, I’ll see you tonight?”
Barty breathed out shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
~~~
“You’re sure this is the right year?” Dorian asked.
April nodded. “Thaddeus said July 1946, so we need to go before that date. The census was conducted every ten years. The most recent census before that date was in 1940.” She turned to Barty. “You got the right page?”
Barty nodded. She’d explained the theory about using the threshold as a power source. He’d said it was possible, but he’d need to do some tests to be sure. He’d been awfully quiet since. Was he still upset about Thaddeus?
“Are you okay, Barty?”
He nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just… I spent years searching for other wielders. And now you guys are going to meet one, and I’m not.”
“Oh,” April said. “Do you want to come? Maybe Randall could stay here.”
Barty shook his head. “Randall will be more useful to you over there.”
April nodded. “Thanks, Barty. I promise we’ll help you find someone.”
“Sure.” He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes.
“Everyone ready?” She, Dorian, and Randall stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the stained-glass window. Rex waited expectantly in front of them.
Barty opened the book, and the crack in the window appeared. As the jagged cuts of glass receded, a bustling urban sidewalk came into view. Behind the pedestrians, shiny cars with elongated front ends and rounded headlights motored down the streets.
“I’ll be damned,” Dorian said. “It worked.”
They stepped out onto the sidewalk. April looked back; the gate had opened in the covered entrance of a barber shop.
She took a moment to examine her reflection and appreciate the slight wave to her hair and her smart pantsuit before turning to Dorian and Randall.
“Okay,” she said. “Now we just have to find a phone booth.”
Dorian shook his head. “I can’t believe this plan hinges on whether or not this wizard—who, let’s not forget has every reason to stay hidden—is listed in the phone book.”
“Hey,” April said. “If it doesn’t work, then we’ll try something else. It’s worth a shot.”
He looked at her and nodded. “There’s one on that corner.”
They followed the direction he’d pointed in. Sure enough, a small phone booth stood there. It was thinner than the phone booths April was accustomed to seeing, and was constructed with wood rather than glass and metal. They walked over and opened the accordion door. Dorian flipped through the pages of the phone book until he got to the Cs.
“There are…”—Dorian mouthed to himself as he counted—“fourteen Michael Collins listed here! What do we do now—go knock on every door?”
“Hold on,” April said. She looked down at the names. She pointed to the tenth one on the list. “It’s this one.”
Randall looked at her then looked down at the name, then back at her. “Why that one?” he asked.
April shrugged. “I just… know,” she said.
Dorian looked at her, concerned. “It’s the gate, isn’t it? It’s affecting you more.”
“It’s a good thing,” she said. She desperately wanted him to tell her that it was, because if he didn’t all there was left was her own dread that the gate was changing her. Where did her thoughts, feelings, and intuitions begin and the gate’s end?
Dorian didn’t respond.
After a moment, April responded, “Let’s discuss it later. Right now, let’s go pay Michael Collins number ten a visit.”
They got their bearings by checking cross streets and asking passersby for directions, then set out.
As they neared the address, they noticed flyers for “Collins Distillery & Spirits” plastered on walls and fences. There was even a large advertisement painted on the side of a building that read, “Distillery three blocks ahead!” with a large arrow pointing the way.
“You don’t think…?” April said.
“It looks like it,” Dorian said.
They arrived at the address, and sure enough, the words “Collins Distillery & Spirits” were embossed in the arched stone above the entranceway. The building itself was unremarkable when compared to its neighbors. It was a square two-story red brick building. They entered through the door into a tasting room. Tables and booths were scattered across the room, but the centerpiece was the large polished wood bar with a mirror hanging on the wall behind it. Bottles filled with liquids of varying shades of brown lined a shelf below the mirror.
A man in his late twenties stood behind the bar. He held a rag in his hands, as though he’d been polishing glassware. “Welcome, welcome. How are you today, gentlemen? Ma’am?” he reached out and shook their hands in turn. “We don’t normally have visitors at this time of day! What can we help you find? A good gin? Perhaps a nice whiskey? Are you looking for wholesale?”
“Actually,” April said, “We’re looking for Michael Collins. Do you know where we can find him?”
“I do indeed.” the young man smiled. “I’m Michael Collins.”
“Oh,” April said. She glanced at Dorian and Randall. This man was too young to be the Michael Collins they were looking for. Thaddeus had described him as an old man when the gate fell, and that was just a few years away.
“I’m sorry to disappoint ma’am,” the young man said, reading her expression.
April tried to smile. It wasn’t his fault. “It’s only that the Michael Collins we’re looking for is older. It seems we’ve made a mistake.”
“Maybe not. You must be looking for my father. Michael Collins Senior.”
“Senior? There are two of you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most people call me Junior. It’s easier that way.”
“Is it possible for us to meet him?” April asked.
Junior paused. “My father doesn’t really deal with the public side of the distillery. He’s more of a behind-the-scenes kind of man.”
April thought fast. “This isn’t a business meeting,” she said. “We have a mutual friend with your father and promised to drop in and see him.”
Junior’s brow furrowed for a moment, but then he smiled. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a connection between friends. He’s downstairs in the cellar checking on the barrels. I’ll escort you.”
He led them down a flight of stone stairs. The air grew frigid as they descended. April rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms and thought longingly of her coat hanging on the peg in her office.
The stairwell opened into a cavernous cellar. The roof was curved in a half-barrel shape. Dozens of barrels were stacked near the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, and the sound echoed around them.
“Follow me,” Junior said. “He’s right through here…” He led them towards a small alcove. They could see movement inside.
Then they were surrounded with a cloud of foul-smelling dust with a pink tinge to it. April coughed as the dust entered her lungs. She had only moments to register that Dorian, Randall, and Rex were in similar straights before the edges of her vision began to go black. Just before the blackness closed in completely, a weathered face entered her field of vision. She took in a silvery gray beard and caterpillar-like bushy eyebrows before she passed out.
~~~
April was wakened by the sound of a dog whimpering. Rex?
“Hush,” Junior’s voice said, annoyed by Rex’s growling. “The dog came out of that pretty fast.”
“Dogs are less susceptible to sleep sand. It was alchemized to affect humans, not animals.” The second voice was an older, gruffer version of Junior’s. It must have been the voice of Michael Senior.
April stifled a groan. Her pulse pounded feverishly behind her eyes, her head throbbing with every beat. She felt like she was having a bad Nyquil hangover, and was glad for the cool darkness around her. The headache was so strong that it almost masked the dull ache in her shoulders. She tried to pull her arms forward to a more comfortable position and found that her wrists were tied together behind her back.
She woke up quickly after realizing this fact. She looked around, careful to move only her eyes, lest she alert the men and they knock her out again.
Dorian and Randall leaned against the wall next to her. They were tied up, too. Judging by their slumped posture they were still unconscious. Whimpering drew her attention to a wooden crate across from them—Rex must be inside. Where were they?
She forced herself to push away the panic roiling in her gut. She held her breath, focusing on her surroundings. The air was cool and damp, and she could hear the rhythmic dripping of water—they were still in the barrel cellar.
What happened? It was mere seconds from the time that she and the others were led downstairs before the powder was thrown in their face. They’d obviously found the wrong Michael Collins—two of them—but why had they attacked them? It didn’t make sense…
“How did they find us?” Junior said. “I thought you warded the building from the collectors!”
Collectors? If they knew about the collectors, it meant they were in the right place. So why had they tied them up?
“I did,” the gruffer voice said. “They broke through them somehow.”
Randall groaned next to her, the sound loud enough for the Collins to hear.
“They’re waking up.”
Footsteps approached, and then the two men’s faces were inches from her own.
“The girl’s awake, too.”
Cool hands hauled her into a standing position—Randall and Dorian, too, though Dorian was still unconscious and Randall hadn’t come to enough to be able to support his own weight yet.
The old man pointed a tapered stick in Randall’s face. “How did you find us?” he demanded.
April realized that they were focusing on Randall because she was a woman. She fought the swell of indignation rising within her and remained quiet. Perhaps it was best to pay attention to them when they weren’t paying attention to her.
Randall still hadn’t fully woken up. He moaned. “Where’s Rex?”
Junior shook him. “How did you find us?”
“We looked in the phone book,” Randall said. April couldn’t tell if he was being cheeky on purpose or if the sleep sand hadn’t fully worn off yet. Their captors took it as the former, though.
“Do you think this is funny, collector?” Junior said. “We have you and your friends tied up—”
“We’re not collectors!” April exclaimed.
The younger man looked at her, his lip curled. “Don’t try to fool us. Who else would come here? Who else would know about the gate?”
“I’m the Pagewalker,” April said.
“Pagewalker?” they looked at each other.
Of course, they wouldn’t know what a Pagewalker was—such a thing hadn’t existed in 1940.
“I’m a…” what was the word?... “gatekeeper,” she said. “Like you.”
“Nice try,” the senior Michael said. He’d taken the stick—which she now realized was an honest-to-goodness magic wand—and pointed it at her instead of Randall. “All the gates have fallen. There are no other gatekeepers left, except myself.”
“I… I know,” April said. “I’m from the future.”
“The future? That’s ridiculous!”
“If you untied me and my friends and stopped waving that thing in my face, I might be inclined to explain,” April said indignantly.
The two men looked at each other. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?” Junior asked.
“I… I don’t know. They certainly aren’t acting like collectors. Have you ever seen them travel without weapons? Or with a dog?”
“There are two amulets around my neck,” April said, grasping for any proof that they were who they said they were. “Collectors hate magic. Would one of them wear one of these?”
Carefully, the younger man pulled at the chain and string around her neck, revealing Barty’s ugly stone and the teardrop opal.
With a suspicious eye in her direction, the older wizard trained his wand on the necklaces for a split second. “Basic warning charms,” he said, “and weak ones at that. I don’t know about collectors hating magic, but they sure wouldn’t deign to wear something so weak or unattractive. No offense. Then again, neither would any self-respecting gatekeeper.”
April thought quickly. “Things are… different in the future.”
The old man looked her straight in the eye. “Miss, I’d love to believe your story, because it would mean that the gates have been restored. But it’s not possible.” He turned to his son. “Lock them up. We’ll get the information out of them.”
“Wait,” April said. “I haven’t been the Pagewalker—gatekeeper—for very long, but the gate changes you, doesn’t it? It becomes part of you. Would a collector know that?”
The old man turned to look at her. He stared her in the eyes for several seconds.
“What is your gate telling you?” she asked.
The man held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. Then he lowered his wand. “Bring them upstairs, son. Make them comfortable, but don’t untie them.”
Junior’s brow furrowed. “You believe them?”
Michael’s eyes never left April’s face. “I don’t know yet.”
~~~
Upstairs they were deposited in a small sitting area. They lived above the distillery, April realized. Randall kept looking at the stairwell anxiously. The Collins’ had refused to free Rex. April couldn’t blame them after the way he’d been growling and snapping from inside the crate.
April’s hands were tied, so she leaned over and nudged him with her shoulder. “We’ll get him back. Don’t worry.”
Randall tried to smile, but the skin around his eyes didn’t crinkle. He wouldn’t be the same again until Rex was back at his side.
“So, tell us your story.”
Dorian had woken up grumpy, his face puffy and lopsided where his cheek had rested on his shoulder. She tried hard not to notice how it barely diminished his good looks. If anything, it made him appear more rugged.
April told them about the library gate, the story of how she became the Pagewalker, and about Mae and Oswald Werner.
The Collins listened to her with rapt attention. When she finished the story, Michael spoke.
“This is… great news,” he said.
“It is?” April asked.
“Of course, it is! Every day we fight a losing battle to protect this gate, fearing I am the last gatekeeper, not knowing if my son will get the chance to take up the mantle in my stead… and here you are, proof that at least one other gate will reopen in the future.”
April’s brow furrowed. She hadn’t mentioned that her gate and theirs were the same, only separated by over sixty years of time. “But—”
Michael waved his hand. “I understand that the gate isn’t working to full capacity, but knowing that it’s possible, even in a limited way… well, that gives me hope.”
She couldn’t let him go on believing that. It was like giving someone false hope. She opened her mouth to correct him, but Dorian spoke first.
“We’re glad to be bearers of good news,” Dorian said with a smile. He nudged her knee with his own, and she got the message: keep quiet. But why? What benefit could they get from keeping the truth from them?
Michael walked over to Dorian. “And you come from one of these book worlds?”
Dorian nodded. “I never met Oswald Werner, but I worked closely with Mae for many years. She knew very little of your ways, of course, but she did her best to protect the gate.”
Michael nodded and turned to Randall. “And what stake do you have in all this?”
Randall shrugged. “I’m just a homeless guy who hangs out at the library. Can I have my dog back now?”
Ten minutes later Rex was happily sitting at Randall’s feet. He recovered quickly, considering he’d woken up in a box.
While the Michaels were off fixing sandwiches, April leaned in towards Dorian and Randall. “Why can’t we tell them our gate is their gate?
“You heard what Thaddeus said—the last gatekeeper died protecting it. Do you really want them to start asking questions about what they’re doing in the future? Do you want to be the one to break that news to them?”
