The Library of Shadows, page 19
“What was it like for you?” Este asked the phantoms, her chin in her hand. “When it happened.”
“I’m actually still a virgin,” Daveed said.
“Not that,” Este chided. “I meant when the Fades separated your body from your soul. Do you remember it?”
“Plain as day,” Luca piped up. “Or, as night, I suppose. It was late on October 25, and I was taking books back to the archives when the Fades sank their claws into me. I never saw them coming.”
“Because it was so dark in the archives?” Este asked.
Luca frowned, a distant thing. “I know how it sounds, but it was almost as if they were the dark. There was nowhere for me to run.”
Este scooted the borrowing card closer. Next to Luca’s name, her death date had been penned in blood red. She found Aoife’s name next. Someone else’s name had been scribbled out, with Aoife Godrich crammed on the line below. “Aoife, did you die on October 3?”
Aoife eyed Este like she was annoyed to have her reading interrupted. “I did. I was supposed to work that morning, but I’d traded shifts. One minute I was shelving books, and when I woke up, I was here with the others.”
“And Daveed,” Este said, “October 22?”
Daveed flipped off the couch and landed wobbly on his feet. “Yeah, I was working that night and a couple friends stopped by. One of them asked me to grab a book for her. Next thing I knew, everything went black.”
Este tried to imagine it—the suffocating snare of the Fades’ grasp, the light blotting out into nothingness, and the waking up dead. “Did you know? That you’d died?”
“Not at first. But I remember Mateo bringing me here, sitting me down by the fire.” Daveed shook out his shoulders like he could still feel the cold.
“Could he touch you?” Este asked.
But Daveed rattled his head. “I don’t remember.”
If Mateo were the Heir, and he had been immortal, he wouldn’t have been able to physically interact with any of the ghosts until . . .
“Why are you asking?” Aoife scrutinized Este with a precision that cut straight to the quick.
Este tapped the card marred with their names. “The Fades didn’t kill me. There’s no date next to my last name. But the days you died, they’re on here.”
Aoife looked at Luca who looked at Daveed who scrubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe they weren’t hungry yet?”
Somehow, Este was pretty sure loss of appetite wasn’t a huge concern for the Fades.
“But that doesn’t explain Mateo,” she thought out loud, dread welling at the base of her sternum. The date next to his name was smudged, mostly unreadable. October something, 1917. “He told me that it happened to him in the spire, but . . . that doesn’t make any sense.”
She’d never seen the Fades venture beyond the third floor, the darkest corners of the library. When she escaped them, their tendrils recoiled from the light as if singed like the edges of paper curling up into ash. They were clearly most powerful in the darkness, and there were more windows in the spire than she could count—she couldn’t imagine the Fades lasting more than a minute in the moonlit landing.
And that made Este think of Robin Radcliffe writing about his late wife by the light of the stars, which she quite frankly did not want to think about right now or ever again, because a love that persistent, that loyal, that defiant of death made her chest feel too tight for reasons she didn’t care to examine. Robin must have known something she didn’t. He’d sat in that spire, charting the stars and penning love letters to the dead. He knew the skies better than anyone.
Este touched the curled edge of the newspaper clipping. October 15, 1917: the night that the fire started in the spire, when a spark erased some of the most precious Radcliffe memories, including Robin’s letters. Any sage wisdom he might have left in those pages had cindered.
That was why her dad checked out the farmer’s almanac—not for a quick-start guide to growing his own vegetables, but to see the moon and stars in memoriam.
“Luca,” she said suddenly, “I need you to grab almanacs for each of your death dates. This year, too.”
While Luca collected those, Este traced her fingers down the pages of the 1997 almanac’s chart of historic moon phases. The new moon came and went on October 1, only to return on October 31. But someone—her dad?—had only circled the first date with the broad stroke of a blue pen. Luca splayed the rest of the almanacs out over the coffee table, and the ghosts gathered around the table, vultures hungry for answers.
“Look up the moon phase for the night you were sacrificed,” Este instructed, tabbing through the pages of the current year herself.
Daveed found his first. “New moon.”
Aoife said, “Me, too.”
“Me three,” said Luca.
“That’s why the Fades couldn’t fully sacrifice me before. It can only be done during the new moon. That’s when the night is darkest, and that’s when they’re strongest.”
Este flipped through the pages until she reached the moon phases for 1917. Her dad’s blue ink circle outlined October 15. For a long, shocked moment all she could do was stare at it, heart thundering and head dizzy with shards of black. Her stomach clenched like she was on the precipice of a free fall, the tipping point between being on top of the world and bottoming out.
The night of the new moon was the same night of the fire in the spire.
Embers flickered in the fireplace, casting streaks of light and long shadows as they breathed. Este recalled the words from The Book of Fades, the way Mateo’s voice sounded as he read You cannot know darkness without first knowing light. With Mateo’s blood on the pages, a match in his hands, and a moonless sky, the Fades must have been summoned that night, drawn out of the shadows created in that blaze.
The Heir was Mateo. It had been Mateo this whole time.
And she’d fallen for his lies the whole time she’d been falling for him.
“Este, are you okay?” Luca asked as Este lurched out of her seat.
The ghosts watched her, waiting. Every drop of self-assurance left her bones at the sight of them. If she told them the truth about Mateo, what good would it do? They must have already known. He told her that he didn’t want to let them down—what bargain had they already struck?
She fanned ahead to the current month in the current year for an answer some part of her already knew. A pit opened up in her stomach so deep Este thought it might swallow her whole. The new moon this October was tomorrow night, and she was the soul du jour.
“Um, yeah,” she said, flustered. “I . . . I can’t stay.”
She shoved the catalog card into her bag, heart racing.
Apparently, she was like her dad, after all.
Following his footsteps, that was why she’d come here. She always imagined that meant drinking coffee by the carafe in between classes and losing track of time at the library. The truth was that his footprints led past the iron gates, back down the mile-long driveway, and as far across the country as he could get. The Fades could only hurt her here, and she needed to be as far from the Lilith as possible when her time came.
She needed to get out. Out of the Lilith, out of Sheridan Oaks, out of the state. She might get all the way to California and sink her knees into the desert dirt before she stopped looking for shadows over her shoulder.
Twenty-Two
October’s breeze turned bitter as Este followed the sugar maples and their bloodred leaves back to her dormitory. Vespertine Hall was a flurry of motion as evening crept in early over the horizon. Term papers scattered through the air. The coffee maker in the first-floor kitchen gurgled, a caffeine buzz in the making. A boy in a Hawaiian shirt brushed his teeth in one of the doorways, dodging an airborne pair of Doc Martens. Este ducked a few seconds later as the rubber soles hit the shiplap wall next to her.
When she finally reached her floor near the top of the building, her teeth ached from the clench of her jaw. She angled her head high, mouth drawn straight as she stomped into her dorm, slamming the door behind her.
Her bedroom door creaked open, and Mateo’s head popped around the hinges, shoulders swaddled in her duvet. “You’re back!”
She hated how his face illuminated and then how his eyes dimmed, eyebrows cinched, when she didn’t say anything back. Her footfalls were heavy, too loud as she barged into her room, purposefully leaving a generous radius between them. She scooped heaps of laundry off the floor and onto her bed. Sweaters and socks, plaid skirts and ripped jeans.
She growled, “I didn’t ask you to stay.”
That was always how it happened, wasn’t it? One moment, Mateo was a stranger, and the next, she knew all his favorite songs (then, “Somewhere a Voice is Calling” by John McCormack, and now, “Levitating” by Dua Lipa), the sound of his laugh across a crowded room (low and lingering, like thunder on the horizon that sent electricity under her skin), and the way he looked first thing in the morning (curls frayed around the edges and sticking up in odd directions). She hadn’t asked him to come in, to make a space for himself in her heart.
“Technically true, I suppose,” he hummed, still feigning a smile. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.” Another heap of clothes tugged from the hangers in her closet. All of it needed to go.
He inched forward. “Why?”
Este didn’t answer. The taste of copper seeped onto her tongue from where she bit into her cheek. She yanked her suitcase out of her closet and shoveled her clothes inside.
Another flash of confusion washed over Mateo’s features. She loathed how easy this was for him—pretending he didn’t know exactly what he was. Seriously, he deserved an Academy Award for this performance.
He asked, “Este, dear, is everything okay?”
“Don’t call me that anymore,” she snarled. “Don’t call me anything anymore.”
His lips thinned into a fine line. “What happened at your meeting?”
Este stalked to the window and twisted the blinds. The last dregs of amber sunlight splashed through her room, and Mateo was caught in the tide. He striped transparent in the angle of the blinds. “You know my dad used to talk about this place all the time,” she said with a hoarse laugh. “Called it the best time of his life. I guess he left out a few key details.”
When her dad spoke of his school days, he’d always worn a far-off look—the same kind Este later recognized glazing her mom’s eyes whenever she spoke of him. The look of something lost. Maybe sepia-toned nostalgia was its own type of haunting. The ache of missing something you could never have again.
“Will you please just tell—” Mateo started, but Este grabbed the drawstring for the blinds and pulled them wide. Beneath the harsh beam, his head vanished. Mateo’s hands found his hips. Even without seeing the frustrated slope of his mouth, she could hear it when he said, “You’re acting incredibly immature right now.”
“I’m acting immature? You’ve been lying to me. This whole time.”
He sidestepped out of the sunshine, coming back into his full form. It didn’t matter how far Vespertine was from the Lilith—somehow he always managed to look fully corporeal in her bedroom. “Este, you know me.”
“I know you’re the Heir.” A callous laugh tore up her throat. “No, it’s worse, actually. Because you told me to my face weeks ago, and I was too naive to see it. That borrowing card—the Fades can’t choose who to sacrifice, only the Heir. And you chose me, didn’t you?”
He’d set his sights on her during orientation, and she hadn’t even realized it. All she’d seen was a ghost, dreaming of a second chance and grieving for the first one he never had. Now the Fade’s touch would scar her skin for the rest of her life, and if she didn’t leave soon, she wouldn’t have much life left at all.
He held his palms upright, a subtle surrender. One Este didn’t believe for a second. “I don’t think you fully understand.”
She cocked her head back, stifling a sob she couldn’t let him see. Her side throbbed in time with her pulse. It was like her wound worsened being around him. Like her side knew he’d caused the pain and rioted in response.
“You think I don’t understand how you framed me so that I’d end up on the night shift? And my first night in the archives when things kept going missing—that was you, wasn’t it? You’ve always known I was the only sacrifice the Fades could take, so you led me right to them.” Everything was hot—her face, her hands, the burning coals of her heart. “Or that I don’t know why you always carry matches in your pocket?”
“I told you. I have those for reading—”
“You started the fire to summon the Fades.” She slipped the sliver of newsprint from her pocket. Radcliffe Legacy Goes up in Flames. “1917, the prodigal son and daughter vanish less than a year after their parents died. No bodies found. Family records destroyed. And all you remember is smoke.”
The comforter fell from Mateo’s shoulders as he stepped forward, but Este dodged right and stepped onto and over her mattress. She wouldn’t let him get close to her—not again. It was all a ruse with him. A foxhunt, and she was the prized kill.
“I’ve waited lifetimes for you, Este Logano.” His voice cracked and so did his porcelain facade, a sliver of something like sadness slipping through. “I promise that it’s not what it seems like.”
A strangled sound snagged in her windpipe. She never thought the Heir would be so spineless. “My dad knew the truth about you.”
A seam split between his eyebrows. He finally took a step away from her, and a relieved breath found Este’s lungs. “I never lied to him, just like I never lied to you. I do need you. We all need your help.”
“Then, tell me you’re not the Heir of Fades.”
“Este—”
“Tell me.”
His shoulders sank, wilting flowers at the end of their season. His time was up. Nothing could stay hidden forever. Mateo’s eyes dipped toward her waist, the damage already done. Este wondered if he could tell the scabs kept chipping off, leaving the skin angry and vulnerable. Not unlike herself. She thought it would’ve healed by now, but the cuts carved into her side were gorges growing deeper every day.
“You aren’t safe here,” he said instead.
She made herself look at him—at the heavy set of his brows, the dimple on his chin, the divot in his sternum beneath a row of buttons where she used to wish she could rest her head. The place where his heart had once beaten.
He grabbed handfuls of his hair in both palms, leaving his curls sticking in mismatched directions. Frustration rippled off him in storm tides, powerful enough to knock Este off balance. She half expected the Fades to appear out of the shadows at his command.
Hollow, she said, “Well, that’s fine because I’m leaving.”
Mateo shoved both hands into his trouser pockets. He stood too rigid. “Good. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”
“As if you ever cared about that,” she spat.
“You think I care more about this? Take it with you and never come back,” he said as he dragged The Book of Fades off the side table. He dropped the familiar tome with its painted edges on top of her dresser next to a stack of textbooks. “Without you, Este, none of this matters.”
His image faded, retreating into his sanctuary of nothingness, but the door opened as if moved by the wind and closed behind him. Este waited until her dorm had gone completely silent to let herself cry, let the floodwaters wash her away.
It was dark when her tears ran dry and darker when Este tucked her arms into the sleeves of her heaviest coat to trek across campus. The Lilith was a beacon through the night fog. Este clutched The Book of Fades with tight fingers, shaking hands. She’d tucked the bloodstained borrowing card back into its pocket, the book back as close to one piece as she could get it.
The head librarian’s office door was closed when she approached on leaden legs and knocked.
“Este. Nice to see you early for a change,” Ives said as her door swung open. She’d braided her black hair over one shoulder. Her mouth slipped open when she spotted the tome in Este’s hands, eyes dragged to the book’s magnetic pull. “You found it.”
“I wanted to make sure it was returned,” Este said, throat raw. “That it was kept safe.”
Away from Mateo and locked in the spire beneath the ivy’s roots where none of the ghosts could reach it, like it had been for the last thirty years. No more names on the catalog card. No more sacrifices. No more bloodshed.
Ives snatched the book away from her, the rough texture grating against her skin. Her nails rapped against the backing, the tap, tap, tap like rain against shingles. Her blue eyes squinted as she scrutinized Este’s features. Could she still see the paths carved by tears against her cheeks?
“Consider me impressed,” Ives said with a breezy smile. “I look forward to your future here at Radcliffe.”
Este forced a grin that didn’t last. This was everything she’d thought she wanted.
And it was everything she would have to leave behind.
Twenty-Three
Applewood bacon and a short stack of pancakes could absolutely wake the dead. Este didn’t remember falling asleep. All she knew was one moment she was bleary-eyed, trying to make sense of an escape plan after returning from the Lilith, and the next moment the sun was up and the whole dorm smelled like a twenty-four-hour diner.
She hauled herself out of bed, rubbing a palm against her crusted eyelids, but paused in the doorway. “I guess you guys should change your name to the breakfast club.”
The whole PI club crowded around the cramped kitchen—Bryony leaned over her plate of sticky pancakes at the island, Arthur perched on the counter with his swinging feet tapping against the cabinets, Shepherd shoveled food into his mouth at superhuman speeds, and Posy stood next to him, stealing bites off his plate.
“She lives,” Bryony cooed around a syrupy bite.
Posy peeked around Shepherd’s shoulder. There was no hint of a smile, no excited recognition of Este’s continued existence, the straight face of someone with enough siblings to perfect the silent treatment. Bryony turned back to her plate, Shepherd focused on his flapjacks, and Arthur offered her a flat smile but nothing else.
