room . . . glowed. As if everything in it gave off some Otherworldly shine that provided a natural light. This is it. The Sacred Archives. As soon as I crossed the threshold, the atmosphere completely changed. The air felt different, heavier in a way, but cleaner, too, as if the room wasn’t really part of our world. The air smelled as I imagined sunshine would smell. The whole space felt special.
Silvery shelves lined the walls, edge to edge, floor to ceiling, with exactly the right number of books to fill the entire space with no overspill and no open slots. Every book had a pearly white leather binding that gave off a soft glow, contributing to the room’s light. I stepped to the closest wall, intending to make my way around the room until I found the book I sought. As soon as I eyed the top shelf, however, my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. I surveyed the rest of the shelves and found the same thing: none of the books had titles imprinted on their spines. How would I ever find the book I wanted among these hundreds of others?
With a tiny bit of hope, I randomly selected a book and pulled it off the shelf. The front cover remained untitled, too, so I opened it, and my heart sank all the way to my feet. No words scrolled across the pages. Only unfamiliar symbols. I flipped through the book, and every page was full of these strange graphics, kind of a combination of Oriental and Middle East writing, but less defined. I’d never seen anything exactly like them, although the closest might really be tattoo art. If this was what Rina received in her messages, no wonder she had a hard time interpreting them. I returned that book to its place and selected another from a different shelf, hoping to find something more familiar, but, again, only symbols. Crap. I just want the Book of Prophecies & Curses. I need to see for myself . . .
A faint noise sounded behind me, and I spun around. Completely on its own accord, a book had slid off a shelf and now floated toward me. My breath caught in my throat. The book stopped inches in front of me and simply hung there, in midair, all shiny and beautiful like a ginormous mother-of-pearl. I stared at it for a long moment, waiting for my eyes and brain to make sense of it or for the book to fall to the floor or . . . for something to happen. But nothing did. I glanced around and peered into the hallway behind me, expecting to see a mage playing a trick on me, but no one was there. Still no mind signatures anywhere on this level.
I made a slow circle around the book as it hung in the air, keeping my distance, afraid to touch it. Finally, with shaking hands, I reached out and grabbed it. The heavy book fell open in my hands, and at first I was relieved to see it didn’t contain those strange hieroglyphics. I recognized both Greek letters and the Latin alphabet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t read any of it.
From research for my own books, I knew enough about the Greek alphabet and how Greek words formed the basis of many English words, so I was able to figure out the title on the cover page: The Book of Prophecies & Curses. The exact book I wanted. How did the room know? Who was behind it? I only had to think the title, and it came to me as if sensing my desire. Who cares? Find what you need and get out of here.
I flipped through the pages, hunting for at least something in English. Numbers—the universal language—headed each entry. They were dates, going back to Ancient Greece, and increasing chronologically, with the last one dated many years ago. Prophecies and curses weren’t very common. Under each date, Greek letters lined the page, followed by lines of Latin letters in a foreign language, probably Latin itself. I skimmed the last pages, hoping to find something I could make out, perhaps a familiar name. Two lines seemed to jump out at me as if somehow bolder than the others, but not, and I started sounding out the letters, hoping to understand—
The snick of a door closing sounded down the hall, followed by barely audible footsteps. Panicking, I slammed the book shut. What if I