The Hidden Library (6 page)

The Librarian says nothing, but I’ve known her long enough to see she’s impressed by Alice’s quick summation.

I am, too. Damn, Alice is hot when she gets all
know-it-all.

“Did the suspects finally talk?” Professor Otto Lidenbrock asks from his place down the table. Lindenbrock is one of our best agents in the field despite his age, but he gets off on more adventures than paperwork.

Alice smiles coolly. “Rosemary did.”

Surprised, pleased murmuring fills the room.

Victor asks, “Do all the codings have letters like these to the right?”

“No.” The Librarian turns back toward the screen. “And many have various other letters assigned to the front. Of the twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, less than half are represented in some form or another.” One of the pictures zooms in when she points to it. “Note how some are capitalized, and others are lower case. Some are upside down. There is no clear consistency. That said, our researchers have been focusing on the order of the most recent deletions, beginning with that of 1889TWA-CY.” The pictures on the screen shift, dissolve, and reform to showcase a torn page illustrating a knight astride a winged alligator (although I suspect it might meant to have been a dragon), waving a banner that reads, “This horrible sky-towering monster.”

It’s
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
by Mark Twain.

The night we found out about the tragedy, Victor railed at me about the significance of Todd destroying 1889TWA-CY’s catalyst. It was a message, he insisted. A clear memo Todd was sending to both me and the Society. He knows who we are, he knows who the authors associated with our Timelines are, and he has no qualms about taking us out, one by one.

My brother had a point. The only comfort is that most Society agents’ Timelines are protected. Our catalysts all reside within the Museum below the Institute. And that’s a shitty comfort to hold on to, when countless lives were destroyed all in the name of making a point.

“Beneath this page was the following inscription: /10SpRn. There was no letter at the beginning, just a slash.” She flicks the red dot so it draws a quick line, finishing the X we all began in our minds. “There were two other Timelines which had slashes at the beginning of their designations.” The pictures shift again, bringing into focus a mangled DVD cover insert and a dust jacket ripped in half. “Both have identical codings: /8SpP.”

Wuthering Heights
and
The Jungle Book.

“If Sp indicates Todd, who is P?” one of our agents, named Mr. Holgrave, says.

The Librarian meaningfully looks to Alice, a hint of a smile touching her lips. When my partner says nothing, the Librarian adds, “Who, indeed?”

A distinct yet discreet grunt of exasperation escapes Alice’s lips.

“Interestingly enough, neither of these Timelines’ catalysts have been collected yet by the Society,” the Librarian continues. “Furthermore, it has been strongly suggested to us by those researching these riddles that both 1847BRO-WH and 1894/95KP-JB are at immediate risk. Therefore, Brom and I have discussed the matter thoroughly and have decided that, despite the current quest to locate Todd, we must quickly send agents into both Timelines to collect these catalysts. While we already have several teams in the field on previously scheduled assignments, we cannot wait until they come back.”

Translation: Alice and I, as well as Victor and Mary, are the lucky ones.

“Please be
Wuthering Heights,
please be
Wuthering Heights,
” my brother mutters under his breath.

“Victor and I will take 1894/95KP-JB,” Mary says brightly. “I haven’t been to India in ages.”

Victor sighs heavily as he slumps down in his chair.

“To be fair,” I point out, “you could just as easily end up in the Artic. Some of the stories take place there.”

He proves his maturity by flipping me off in front of everyone. Mary indulgently pats his cheek.

The Librarian pays us no mind. “We cannot know for sure that Todd has yet to acquire these catalysts, but it is believed he has not.”

As always, the question,
“Believed by who?”
rests on the tip of my tongue. But I learned long ago that asking the mercurial woman any such questions is pointless. She’ll only tell you what she wants you to know exactly when she wants you to know it, and not a moment sooner.

Dossiers and copies of the books are passed out to the four of us. For the rest of the table, new files detailing the crazy coding unearthed beneath the items found in Todd’s attic are sent to their work tablets. Within minutes, the only people left in the room are those of us who are scheduled to leave at the crack of dawn.

Victor’s lips twist into a sour grimace as he stares down at the file he’s been given. “You would think by now the infamous Sherlock Holmes would have cracked this case. He’s had nearly two weeks with all the information. Some kind of bloody legend he is.”

Brom had been the one to select whom to send photographs of everything found on the attic wall. Our father and Holmes may be on good terms (well, as good as one can be with an narcissistic egomaniac like the famed detective), but Victor is right. The best we’ve gotten from Holmes is that a slash might indicate a possible deletion? Hell, it took Alice all of ten seconds to figure out what the letters meant. Clearly Brom and the Librarian are relying more on celebrity than present effectiveness.

“Get up, lazybones.” Mary drapes herself across my brother’s shoulders. “We’ve got studying to do.”

He twists his face away from her attempts to pinch his cheek. “You had to go and pick bloody India, didn’t you?”

“India’s good for the soul.” She tugs him out of the chair. “See you two when you get back.”

I have a feeling those two are going to do little studying tonight.

H
OURS LATER, AFTER SKIMMING the texts associated with 1847BRO-WH and overseeing the details with the catalyst location, Alice and I are on our way up to our apartments. Except, the moment the elevator doors slide shut, I have a change of heart about our destination. The last few days—hell, weeks—have been so intense and crazy that I’m selfish enough to want to spend some time with just her. No catalysts, no interrogations, no meetings, no battles, no anything but
her and me.

I press the button for the top floor of the Institute and then tug her toward me. My hand cups the back of her head, my mouth meets hers. Her arms fold me close, and I’m no longer thinking about the Janeites or Todd or mysterious codes and bosses, because when Alice Liddell Reeve puts her mind to it, she can make you think of nothing at all and live, instead, in mere sensations. I’m kissing her, she’s kissing me, and everything in me turns hot and fills with aching need.

Our ascent thankfully has no stops or interlopers. I’m still kissing her when the doors slide open, still kissing as I lead her out into the wide, open space. The top of the Institute is a ballroom: a gorgeous, oft-ignored area that has gleaming parquet floors, elaborate antique chandeliers, a painted ceiling, and gilded crown molding. The last party held in here, one celebrating my parents’ anniversary just months before my mother’s death, was magical. The NYC skyline glittered beyond the massive stained-glass-topped windows lining the room on all sides, and when the champagne flowed, it felt like you were floating above the city. There was so much love in this room that night. So much happiness. I remember standing there, my glass raised like everyone else’s as we toasted Brom and Katrina, thinking:
There’s no way that kind of love is real.
It was like something out of a damn book, which was saying something, considering.

Now, the furniture within the ballroom is pressed up against the walls, covered with white sheets. There’s a morose kind of quiet within this space, like it’s desperate for happiness to return. There have been no more parties—not because they’ve been banned or anything, but because life just kept moving on.

This room, once upon a time, was all about love. It needs to be again.

I fumble for the switch to illuminate the chandeliers. Original to the building, they’re old and beautiful, the kind that splatter refracted, soft light in enchanting ways a disco ball can only ever dream about. I take Alice’s face in my hands and whisper against her mouth. “I know we should be resting before we leave, but . . . maybe we can have that first date tonight. Here.”

Her hands come to rest over mine. We’re standing so close to one another that I can feel her heart racing against mine. She’s trembling—just a little, but enough to make me think my parents were on to something after all.

She must hear me and all my crazy, jumbled thoughts, understand what I mean, because she murmurs, our lips still just a hair’s breadth away, “I don’t need courting, Finn. I just want you.”

I kiss her again, long and slow until we’re both panting. I pull away and it’s then she sees the room for the first time.

Eyes wide, her lips curve upward in delighted surprise. Maintaining a hold on one hand, she pulls me to the middle of the room and then to the windows. Like the night of my parents’ anniversary, NYC has brought its A-game with its city lights.

I dig into my pocket and tug out my phone. As she stares out at the vista, I quickly scroll through my song playlists until I find the right one. One I haven’t heard in years, one I haven’t been able to delete because I couldn’t say goodbye.

Strains of music fill the air. The look of absolute delight on Alice’s face is worth the ruthless reality of going on an assignment on little to no sleep. “You know how to waltz?”

I leave my phone on the window ledge, the speakers facing outward. “Katrina loved to dance. She would bring me and Victor up here, and then Brom would come, and we’d be laughing by the end, but damn, it was wonderful to see her so happy.”

Her hands curve back around my face and she stares at me. My heart thumps painfully within my chest, because I swear she’s not just looking at me, she’s unraveling me. Her lips touch mine, and it somehow feels different from any of the others we’ve ever shared. It’s almost as if she’s trying to memorize this moment, like she’s scared it will disappear or be taken away from her. Like I’ll be taken away from her.

It’s something I will never let happen.

“You told me once you liked to dance.”

“You are mistaken. I love to dance.” She pulls away from me and holds her arms out. Her eyes, those gorgeous blue eyes of hers, shine in the chandelier light, and it’s then I know this room really is magical. Because how else can I explain what’s happening between us? This pull, this understanding. It’s the best kind of magic. It’s the kind that makes me want to believe in fairy tales—the good kind. The kind where the endings have hope.

A hand curves around her waist. The other meets hers, and although she’s not in a ball gown and I’m wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, I spin her across the parquet floors. It feels like I’m falling into that fairy tale, it’s so right here between us.

She smiles at me as we dance. There are no words, but her smile tells me everything I need to know. There are a thousand words in that smile, and three that matter more than any of the rest. Because of that smile and what I feel toward this woman, my heart feels like it’s going to beat straight out of my damn chest.

Dancing transitions to kissing. Kissing transitions to want and need. My shirt comes off. Her dress. My pants, her bra. My underwear, and then her panties. We’re naked and on the floor, and the strains of waltzes drift softly throughout the room, and I’m worshipping her body, it’s so fucking gorgeous. Her breasts, the curve of her hips. The slope of her neck, the way her clavicle forms an imperfectly perfect line. The tiny outie of a belly button, the small constellation of freckles that ring it. I trace it all with my hands and my mouth until she’s writhing beneath me, hot and wet and hungry. My hand is between her leg, and I’m circling and rubbing her clit, one, then two fingers in, and wanting to see her come more than anything else right now, because it’s the most fantastic sight in the entire universe. She arches her back, her hands going from my hair to my shoulders to my chest, and I’m sucking and licking as she moans and, damn, I’m so hard it’s not even funny. I want nothing more than to bury myself in her, but there’s this need to see her, hear her come. It’s like a drug, I think. A high I can’t resist. Finally, she explodes in my hands, her scream of pleasure ringing out across the empty floors and over the strains of Mozart, but before she’s fully down from her high, she’s already got me in her hand.

My breath is stolen. My eyes roll back, and it’s my turn to groan, because
holy hell.
I have to fight back the urge to give into the orgasm already clamoring for release—I’m not ready for this to end. I’m kissing her again, kissing and sucking her breasts and neck and she’s writhing once more, arching once more, this time even more frantically.

She says my name, says, “I need you in me. Now.”

I slide in, but as soon as I’ve pushed all the way to the hilt, I have to stop. I’m on my elbows, above her, staring down at her sweaty, flushed face, and my heart contracts and expands so quickly that it’s a miracle I’m even still alive.