Devil to the Damned (Prequel #2 )

1|1 - Zemblanity

There was something special about introducing herself to a new book. Peeling back the unopened hardcover and admiring the unique tint of the pages. The density of each printed character, the carefully planned structure of each line, the sedation of a rich story in wait, and of course, the smell. Sharp, a tad bit sweet, and lightly textured.

Those familiar elements of her favorite hobby were overshadowed by unignorable characteristics. As her fingers glided across the table of contents, she deciphered a synopsis from the numbered titles alone. The drama, the progression, the outcome; everything was almost transparent enough to dissuade interest and select something else. Even the cover was bland; a swirling fog smothering a set of headlights simply did nothing to arouse interest. The last disappointment was the bland title.

Waiting: A Mystery Anthology Series.

If she was lucky, this book might hold her attention through a couple of study halls. Literally anything else would be better than what she could already predict, but she was in desperate need of stories, and unfortunately, this is what the limited selection spat out.

With a slow, deep inhale; she clasped the book shut and added it to the stack she entered with; balancing the few books on one upturned hand. The dusty twirling rack creaked as she turned it another twenty degrees, now presenting the little index card which read NEW! in stylized red marker. She couldn't help but shake her head in disappointment. Every book on this rack has been labeled as such for the past two months.

Her hands met at her waist and supported the many thrillers and love stories alike in a tall stack, with the anthology crooked on top. This abundance of fiction she hoarded over the past few months would have racked up a small late fee, if she was anyone else.

Humming along with the pestering silence, she waddled the short distance and deposited the stack one by one into the slit beneath the desk; creating four reverberating thumps in the empty plastic bin on the other side. She expected the librarian to come running at the sound, but when the hardcover novel rested on the counter a full minute after her deposit, her eyes began to wander.

This library had been her hub for a while now; a fickle replacement for the homey, dilapidated archive she had left behind. The passage of time is truly a mysterious thing. How desperately she misses the crumbling library of her childhood, and yet, damns the very name of that labeled memory.

The décor was bland and uninspired. Sad, given the hundreds of thousands of artistic potential elements to pull from the books it housed. It's not the owner's fault though; he's told the acquisition story ten times and it never fails to pry sympathy.

Once upon a time, it served as a day-care that housed him and many other kids during working hours. The business shut down when the owners disappeared and sat on the market for years until he scavenged enough to buy it and turn it into a library and public hub. Unfortunately, much of the town aged out of such communion.

The interior still boasted baby-blue walls and white trim complete with hieroglyphics scuff marks and marker scribbles. All of which told a neglectful and undisciplined story of their own. Mysterious splotches forever darken the carpet and cobwebs are forever glued to every corner out of reach; dreamcatchers of woeful regret and reconsideration.

The single twirling fan overhead kept the open floor chilly enough to warrant a long-sleeve at all times of the year. Thankfully, the continuous current of air reduced the potency of any lingering smells; whether it was harsh cleaner or a stank without a source.

Each shelf was a different height and width, and not one could retain a complete line of books from one end to the other. To its credit, the place had a little of everything. From retired school textbooks to thousand-page fantasies and, some relatively boring young-adult fiction.