“You have to understand, Cassie, it was a crazy time. People started breaking up into factions. Friends became enemies, former enemies became allies. Everyone was fighting with someone.”
“About dark magic?” Cassie asked. “Is that what all the fighting was about?”
But her mother didn’t respond to that question, perhaps because the answer was too obvious. “Let’s just say Timothy may not be very happy to see us.”
She put her sunglasses back on and continued driving in silence.
CHAPTER 3
The library was on an unmarked road set back on a long stretch of rocky, barren land. The two-story building’s gray facade of crumbly mortar slanted slightly forward as if it were taking a bow. Cassie could barely make out the wording etched across a sign hanging over the door: THE TIMOTHY DENT LIBRARY OF THE OCCULT.
Cassie stepped out of the car first, and then her mother followed suit. They stood side by side for a few seconds taking it all in before moving forward. By the looks of the building’s exterior, Cassie thought they might have come all this way for nothing. The library seemed empty, possibly even abandoned. But her mother assured her that Timothy would be in there, quite possibly alone, but there.
They pushed open a heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
It took a few seconds for Cassie’s eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimly lit foyer lined with tall wooden bookcases. The floor was a checkerboard of stone-gray squares that led to a high brown counter. Standing behind it was a small man leaning over a massive manuscript. He didn’t look up.
Cassie’s mother led Cassie toward the counter. “That’s him,” she whispered.
As they stepped closer, the man came into focus. Cassie could see his wrinkles and the raised freckle on the side of his face. Dust streaked his black short-sleeved dress shirt, and his fingernails were yellow. Still with his eyes on the tome before him, he spoke in a gravelly voice. “Alexandra.”
Cassie’s mother remained quiet until he finally looked up. His eyes matched the gray of the floor tile.
“After all these years, you show up here like this without warning,” he said. “I can only imagine the horrors that have driven you here. Too bad I don’t care.”
The gravel of his voice shot across the foyer, ricocheting between the rickety columns lining the perimeter of the room like soldiers. Cassie realized she was holding her breath.
Her mother stepped forward in spite of Timothy’s rebuke, and Cassie had the urge to pull her back.
“You’re right, we are in trouble,” her mother said in a barely audible tone. “Please just hear me out.”
“It’s exhausting, being right about everything.” Timothy shut his book and stared at Cassie’s mother with a curious expression.
“This is my daughter Cassie,” her mother said.
Timothy squinted his eyes and turned slowly to get a better look at Cassie. The sensation was similar to being on stage, under a glaring spotlight.
“Black John’s daughter, you mean,” he said. “You poor, poor thing.” But it wasn’t sympathy he was actually offering her; it was pity. It was a condolence.
Timothy tottered around the counter. Only then did Cassie recognize how frail his body was.
“You.” He pointed a dirty fingernail at Cassie’s mother. “Come no further. I don’t trust your motives.”
He turned again to look at Cassie while continuing to address her mother. “This victim of your foolishness and that evil man’s darkness can come with me.”
He made his way toward a set of glass doors, which Cassie understood to be his office, without bothering to check if she was following him.
She made no motion to until her mother gave her a sharp nudge. “Go,” she said. “Don’t let him scare you. Listen carefully to what he has to say.”
Cassie obeyed and followed Timothy into his office. He closed the glass doors behind him and gestured for her to sit on the orange vinyl chair opposite his desk. Hesitantly, she settled into the chair.
The office was much like the rest of the library: dusty, pulpy, and a little creepy. The wall behind Timothy’s desk was a row of dark cabinets protected by chunky brass padlocks. He unlocked one of them and retrieved an oversized book, thick with plastic-covered pages.
“Have you always known what you are?” he asked, dropping the tanned leather book onto the desk in front of her.
What, not who you are.
“No,” Cassie said, looking at the book. Branded onto its cover were the letters B-L-A-K.