“Time to put you down for good.”
Gripping the arrow with all her strength, she drove it deeper into the Boar’s hefty body, aiming for where she guessed its heart should be. An anguished squeal rewarded her effort as the ancient wooden arrow pierced something soft and vulnerable deep inside the creature. A tremor shook the Boar from head to tail, almost unseating Baird, before the previously solid monster dissolved into a puff of thick gray smoke that smelled vaguely of pork chops. Baird tumbled onto the broken pavement as the beast vanished out from under her.
“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Remind me to do that over grass next time!”
The Librarians rushed to her side. “You did it!” Cassandra blurted. “You bested the Boar … just like Atalanta!”
“No, we did it.” Baird let go of the arrow, which clattered onto the ground. “It was a team effort all around, just like always.”
Stone helped her to her feet. “Is that it? Are we done?”
“Pretty much.” She dusted herself off before wading into the fountain to retrieve the idol. “Now we just need to get this back to the Library so Jenkins can undesecrate it somehow.”
“Er, I think the word for that is consecrate,” Cassandra said. “Or maybe reconsecrate?”
“Whatever,” Baird said. “Just so long as it defuses this puppy.”
“Hang on.” Ezekiel turned toward the noise coming from the party on the hill. Fireworks exploded in the air above the raucous celebration. Explosions briefly drowned out the dance music until somebody turned the volume up to eleven. “What’s the rush? Sounds like quite the blast.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Which means we’re talking drunk college boys who aren’t paying close attention to their valuables.”
A master thief as well as a Librarian, Ezekiel often had his own, somewhat questionable priorities.
“Forget it,” Baird said firmly, laying down the law. Her soggy toga dripped onto the shattered pavement. “I’ve had all the Greek-a-palooza I can handle tonight.”
Cassandra retrieved the arrow. “I’m with Baird. It’s been a long day … night … whatever.” She fought back a yawn. “I’m getting jet lag from hopping from America to Greece and back again.”
Ezekiel started to protest again. “But—”
“No buts.” Baird held up her hand to forestall any further debate. “Home it is.” She took a closer look at Cassandra. “So what’s with the antlers, Red?”
Blushing, the smaller woman removed the bony tines crowning her head, as though she had forgotten about them.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“Can’t wait to hear it.” Baird herded the Librarians toward the waiting doorway. Beyond the entrance to the college library, another Library awaited.
The Library.
2
Not long before
Ohio
Mary Simon hummed to herself as she rinsed off some dirty dishes in the sink before putting them in the washer. Sunlight shone through the kitchen windows, which offered a pleasant view of the fields and barn outside. Country crafts and floral wallpaper decorated the tidy kitchen of the farmhouse she shared with her husband, Dale. A plump older woman, wearing an apron over a blue gingham dress, Mary marveled at the amount of dirty dishes piled up in the sink. It was hard to imagine that two people could go through so many cups and plates and silverware in just a day or two.
You’d think we were running a bed-and-breakfast, she thought.
Squeaks and scratches, coming from right behind her, startled her. Spinning around, she was shocked to discover three large, ugly rodents occupying the solid pine kitchen island across from the sink, rooting greedily through her fruit bowl. The mice or rats or gophers or whatsits were the size of tabby cats, with greasy gray fur, twitching noses and whiskers, nasty yellow teeth, tufted ears … and no eyes to speak of.
Just flesh and fur where their beady eyes should have been.
She gasped in fright. A china saucer slipped from her fingers, crashing down onto the floor, where it shattered loudly, but neither the crash nor Mary’s audible reaction scared the monstrous creatures away. Instead they turned their blind faces toward her, grunting and squeaking aggressively. Mary backed up against the kitchen counter, alarmed; she was no shrinking violet when it came to mice and bats and such, but for all she knew these grotesque creatures were diseased. There was no telling what they might do.
“Shoo!” she yelled at them. “Scoot, you filthy vermin!”
The rodents sprang at her instead. Vicious little teeth and claws flew at her.
Ye Gods!
Quick reflexes saved her from being scratched or bitten. She ducked out of the way just in time, so that the frenzied mice landed in the sink and on the kitchen counter, knocking over plates, dishes, Mason jars, and a coffeepot. The clatter added to the chaos, which would have surely attracted Dale had he not been out doing errands. Mary was on her own against the sightless invaders.
But not without resources.
She plucked a large steak knife from the knife rack on the counter and slashed at the nearest rodent as it scrambled out of the sink. Swinging wildly, she missed its head, but managed to slice off the tip of its tail. The creature squealed in protest, then fled in panic.
“That’s right! You’d better run!” She waved the knife at the other two rodents and charged at them, shouting. “What about you? You want a piece of me, too?”
Faced with a knife-wielding Mary, who meant business, the two remaining creatures chose the better part of valor. They leaped from the counter, joining their compatriot on the floor, and all three hightailed it toward a latched screen door leading out to the backyard. The fleeing rodents tore through the wire mesh as though it wasn’t there, shredding the screen, before disappearing down the back steps.
Good-bye and good riddance!
Her ire up, she was briefly tempted to chase after them, but the impulse faded before she took more than a step in that direction. Panting, she leaned back against the counter to catch her breath and steady her nerves. The rush of adrenaline subsided, leaving her shaking and still clutching the knife, just in case the nasty little creatures wanted a rematch. Broken china crunched beneath the soles of her sensible shoes, reminding her of the wrecked crockery on the floor. All that was left of the invasion was the mess, the gashed screen door—and a bloody tip of tail resting on the counter. Mary shook her head in bewilderment.
Her husband was not going to believe this.
Northumberland, United Kingdom
The weekly farmers’ market was just getting under way, but Percy McQueen was optimistic about the day’s prospects. Shoppers were already flocking to his vegetable stand, drawn not just by his generous selection of fresh produce but by the prize pumpkin on display in front of the stand. Weighing in at nearly seven hundred kilograms, the mammoth orange pumpkin was eye-catching to say the least. Percy figured it was worth its weight in free advertising.
And then it started shaking.
Out of the blue, and for no obvious reason, the pumpkin began rocking back and forth like a Mexican jumping bean. A little boy, who had been admiring the huge gourd up close, jumped backward in alarm, while nearby passersby and browsing shoppers reacted in surprise as well. Percy shared their confusion.
“What the blooming hell?” he blurted.
Percy glanced around the market to see if perhaps he’d somehow overlooked a sudden earthquake or underground explosion, but, no, nothing else seemed to be shaking and none of the other fruits and vegetables were acting up.
Just his pumpkin, which appeared to be having a fit of some sort.
Percy scurried out from behind his stand to investigate, even as the pumpkin’s antics drew a crowd of puzzled spectators, who looked to him for an explanation, very much in vain, and peppered him with questions he couldn’t begin to answer.
“Make way!” He shoved his way through the crowd to get closer to the bucking pumpkin. “Let me through!”
Muffled shouting reached his ears and he realized in shock that the cries seemed to be coming from inside the pumpkin. Straining his ears, he thought he could almost make out the words:
“Help! Help me, please!”
“Oh my Lord,” a shopper exclaimed. “There’s someone inside!”
“No,” Percy whispered. “That’s not possible.”
By all appearances, the bumpy orange shell of the pumpkin was still intact. There was no way in or out. He had to be hearing things, along with everyone else. Or maybe there was a puckish ventriloquist at work?
A fist, covered in goop, punched its way out of the pumpkin. Frantic fingers clawed at the outside of the shell, trying to tear it open. A woman’s voice clearly escaped the punctured gourd.
“Help me, someone! Get me out of here!”
Galvanized by her cries, the crowd came to her rescue. Volunteers rushed forward and started tearing apart the shell with their bare hands, tossing great chunks of the shell and pulp aside in their haste to liberate whoever was impossibly trapped inside the giant pumpkin. Percy looked on in amazement as, within a matter of minutes, his prize pumpkin was torn asunder by the crowd and a distressed young woman was pulled from its pulpy innards, almost as though the gourd had given birth to her.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” she said. “I was kicking and screaming, but I didn’t know if anyone could hear me.…”
Gooey pumpkin guts coated the woman, obscuring her identity. Pumpkin seeds clung to her hair and skin and clothing. An oversized university T-shirt, now slimed with mashed pumpkin, protected her modesty, while a North Country accent marked her as a local, not that Percy immediately recognized her under all the gunk. Gasping for air, she looked around in confusion.
“Where am I? How did I get here?”
She stared down at the trashed remains of her former prison.
“A pumpkin? I was inside a pumpkin?”
She sounded every bit as flabbergasted as everyone else, if not more so.
“So you were, miss,” Percy volunteered. “I don’t suppose you have any notion as to how you came to be in such … an unusual predicament?”
She shook her head.
“Not a bloody clue!”
Florida
The cherry picker was parked alongside the busy highway. Up in the bucket, high above the shoulder of the road, George Cole diligently pruned a row of palm trees insulating a suburban neighborhood from the noise and activity of the roadway. A youngish black man in his mid-twenties, he wore a hard hat and work clothes. Old-school rap came over his headphones as he bobbed his head to the beat while sawing away at a dead branch that posed a potential traffic hazard. State law required that palm trees be pruned at least twice a year. Cole appreciated the job security that provided.
Thank you, Ma Nature, he thought.
To be sure, tree trimming was just his day job, to pay his bills until his true vocation brought in serious green, which he figured was any day now. In the meantime, however, he couldn’t really complain about his current gig, especially on a beautiful day like today. Sunshine, fresh air, nice weather …
Knock on wood.
He rapped on the nearest branch, but the precaution came too late. Without warning, and in defiance of this morning’s forecast, the weather suddenly went sour. Heavy gray clouds blew in from nowhere, darkening the sky. Violent winds whipped up, rattling the bucket.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Where did this come from?”
The crane was built to withstand a little wind, but the elevated bucket was already shaking like a carnival ride, making Cole grateful for the safety straps holding him securely within the bucket. Putting down his pruning saw, for safety’s sake, he took off his headphones. Run-D.M.C. went away, replaced by howling winds that sounded like a hyped-up crowd roaring in a packed stadium. To his alarm, the bucket began to sway back and forth at the end of the crane’s extendable metal arm.
Screw this, he thought. We’re done here.
Leaning over the edge of the bucket, he called down to the crane operator, shouting to be heard over the sudden gale.
“Hey! Get me down from—”
Before he could finish, a sudden gust hit him with the force of a hurricane. The wind ripped him straight out of his safety harness and up into the air, dozens of feet above the pavement. A scream tore itself from his lungs, but was drowned out by the ferocious wind roaring in his ears. He grabbed frantically for a treetop, but he couldn’t hold on to it. The wind was just too strong.
Oh, crap, he thought. I’m a dead man.
The capricious wind played with him like a cat with a mouse, batting him about way up high in the air, while cruelly allowing him too much time to think about the hard landing coming up all too soon. There was no way he could survive a fall from this height. His future was … splat!
Good-bye, Miami. You don’t know who you’re losing.
He waited for his life to pass before his eyes, but instead he found himself wondering who was going to show up for his funeral and what they were going to say about him. He hoped he got a good turnout at least.
The wind kept toying with him. Instead of dropping him straight onto the highway, it carried him up and over the fringe of trees toward the residential neighborhood beyond. Tumbling through the air, at least sixty, seventy feet above the ground, he glimpsed rooftops, houses, garages, driveways, lawns, backyards, slides, and swing sets. He offered a silent apology to whatever unsuspecting family he was about to drop in on.…
The wind went away, exiting as quickly as it had arrived. No longer held aloft by the gale, he plunged toward a grassy green yard below. Closing his eyes, he braced for the impact and hoped he wouldn’t feel a thing.
What a whacked-out way to go.…
He hit a taut surface … and bounced back up in the air again.
And bounced some more.
Expecting to be splattered, it took him a few moments to process that he was still alive … unless the Sweet Hereafter was a lot more energetic than he’d expected. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find himself coming to rest on a kid’s trampoline in somebody’s backyard.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. “What are the odds?”
There was lucky, and there was lucky, and then there was this, which was off-the-charts miraculous. So much for me ever winning the lottery, he thought. I just used up a lifetime’s worth of good karma in one drop.
But where had that crazy wind come from in the first place?
A scowl crossed his face, despite escaping certain death.
Something wasn’t right here. Not one bit.
3
Oregon
“That’s more like it,” Baird said.
The triumphant Guardian looked and felt more like herself, thanks to a quick shower and change of clothes. She strode into the cozy ground-floor office of the Library’s Portland Annex, which was connected to the Library proper, as well as to the rest of the world, by various magical doorways bypassing ordinary space. Antique electric lights cast a golden glow over polished wooden bookcases sagging under the weight of countless volumes, whose esoteric subject matter defied the limits of the Dewey Decimal System. A vintage card catalog ran along one side of a sweeping staircase leading up to the mezzanine. Baird was happy to see that the rest of her team had freshened up as well.
No more togas or antlers, she noted. Works for me.
As she entered the office, Jenkins was performing some bizarre ablutions over the liberated idol, which now rested atop a cluttered oak conference table. A dapper, silver-haired older gentleman in a conservative gray suit, he chanted in what Baird assumed was ancient Greek while anointing the cleaned-up figure with olive oil. (Extra-virgin, she assumed.) A parchment scroll, held down by a paperweight, was unrolled for easy consultation. Burning incense tickled Baird’s nose. She worried briefly about the Annex’s smoke detectors and sprinkler system.
But Jenkins seemed to know what he was doing. A brilliant silver aura fla
red like moonlight around the idol before swiftly fading away. A strong wind, redolent of forests and fields, wafted through the office, rustling papers and pages. Baird tensed, bracing herself for action, but the unearthly wind departed without leaving any irate swine behind. Strange, ethereal music came out of nowhere, as though from an invisible lute or lyre, then died away.
“There.” Jenkins flicked the last of the oil from his fingertips. Drawing a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, he fastidiously wiped his hands clean. “I believe we can safely pronounce the gods appeased.”
“So case closed?” Baird asked. “No more ‘Release the Kraken’ scenarios for the time being?”
“I believe so. Rest assured, however, that I will see to it that this sacred idol of Artemis Laphria occupies a place of honor in the Library’s Greco-Roman gallery. Hell hath no fury like a goddess disrespected.” He sighed heavily. “Trust me, I speak from experience.”
Baird could believe it. Although Jenkins appeared to be in his sixties, she was well aware that his actual age could be numbered in centuries. Even with all she knew about his past, she guessed that she had still barely scratched the surface.
“Any word from Flynn?” she asked him.
“I’m afraid not, Colonel Baird.” He checked to make sure his bow tie was not askew. “But, as you well know, Mr. Carsen often charts his own course.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said, sighing.
At one time, Flynn Carsen had been the only Librarian in modern times, single-handedly guarding arcane knowledge and relics that were too dangerous not to be stored away in the Library. So when the Library had recruited four new Librarians (and a Guardian to look after them), Flynn had struggled to adjust, often preferring to fly solo and disappear on quests of his own. It was hardly out of character, Baird reminded herself, for him to drop off the radar for days or even weeks at a time.