Page 1 of Booked for Theft (Vigilante Magical Librarians #3)

ONE

The seeds Dr. Castor had planted grew.

Upon returning to work on a rather dreary Monday morning, I dealt with a flood of donation requests from a myriad of senators, representatives, and other politicians determined to improve their reputation with the public. The New York Public Library benefited from my fame, but I worried about the consequences my growing popularity among the people would create.

I had no political aspirations. Everyone understood my heart danced between the library, my fluffy goddess, and the man I would one day marry. From newspaper reports to broadcasts speculating about me, I’d been painted as a selfless servitor of the people.

Somehow, I’d become the personification of ‘for the people, by the people,’ and I didn’t appreciate it.

It would only be a matter of time before somebody came up with the idea that I might better represent ‘We the People,’ which would do more than just put me in the line of fire again.

Heaven forbid if anyone dared suggest I might ever utter ‘My Fellow Americans’ in any context.

That way led to madness and probable death. Worse, I couldn’t tell who would die. I likely topped the list, and anyone who had ever associated with me would follow in my wake.

But the seeds Dr. Castor had planted grew.

Senator Thaddens of Michigan had submitted an email requesting that I pay him a visit in his Maryland home to discuss a donation to the library with him. To make it clear he was serious, he’d given me his entire schedule for the next nine months, indicating where he would be, why he was scheduled to go there, and when he could make time for a meeting.

Among the last records included the confirmation of the next President of the United States and the inauguration.

He had given me a gold mine of information, all done under an innocent enough guise. Every meeting with President Castillo had a note indicating he, regretfully, would be unavailable. Other highlights indicated meetings with Senator Westonhaus and a few politicians I hadn’t heard of but would make a point of learning about.

One meeting, also highlighted, mentioned a date with his fellow altruists at a summit taking place in Boston in a month and a half. According to the internet, the summit brought in world leaders and other politicians to expand trade and discuss policy.

President Castillo would be in attendance, along with Senator Westonhaus and many others known to be in the pocket of our corrupted government. Several other highlights worried me. After the summit, there would be votes on key issues.

Where there should have been highlights for the campaign trail, I stared upon a void of nothingness.

Senator Westonhaus appeared in highlighted notations.

Instead of campaigning and convincing the people he should be the one addressing the nation with ‘My Fellow Americans,’ he was instead voting against them.

That much Senator Thaddens managed to convey through the use of public records.

Every meeting, every vote, and every summit matched some public announcement subtly betraying the people.

I marveled over the politician’s ability to tell me a story without drawing unwanted attention from the murderous government he served, likely against his will. I’d learned that much from Senator Westonhaus: once in, there was no way out, not without the government’s leave.

The people didn’t decide.

The government did.

As my boss had given me free rein to schedule myself as needed, I considered the senator’s email and typed out a careful reply, one that played the same game he did, hoping we might learn just a little more about why the government wanted to demolish everything the United States had once stood for. I indicated when I could be available, carefully slotting myself into the spaces he was free.

If he bit on the bait, tomorrow would be a difficult day. I would need to blitz to Maryland to meet him at his home, swift enough the government might not be able to move without drawing suspicion to themselves. With the media fixated on my return, my engagement with Bradley, and work with the library, I would be safe, at least for a while.

The government would not be able to stop the storm of reporting should I join those disappearing under mysterious circumstances. Too many focused on my heroics, the lives I had saved, and the bullet I had become acquainted with during the attack few knew the true purpose behind.

Senator Westonhaus still lived, and as far as any of us could tell, the government believed Senator Maybelle’s murderers had been behind my kidnapping.

The true killers had not done anything to change the government’s belief. Then there was the issue of the odd news reports flitting in and out of public awareness, speculating the murderers had kidnapped me, erased my memories, and tortured me. According to the media, the killers had twisted ethics, ethics that barred them from doing harm to anyone other than political hopefuls. The media had run wild with those stories in the week after my return to society.

I hadn’t corrected them.

However, some strange truths had also surfaced.

Everyone injured had benefited in some fashion from an anonymous benefactor.

Medical bills had disappeared. Untraceable envelopes containing small cash payments with printed notes of apology kept appearing. Care packages appeared on doorsteps with no evidence of who had sent them.

When tragedy had come calling for one of the families, somebody had covered all medical costs and funeral expenses, and nobody had been able to find out anything about the anonymous donor.

By the day, things became stranger, confusion took over, and nobody knew what to believe anymore.

I suspected I still lived, safe from the government’s long reach, solely because of the efforts of those in the shadows, who muddied the waters a little more every day. My natural inclinations, to stay out of politics, go to work, and only handle cell activities as needed or directed by the FBI, likely helped my cause. In reality, I poked my nose where it didn’t belong and would continue to do so.

The watchful eyes of the government wouldn’t know that, not if I had my way. To them, I would be a pawn in their game, one determined to be a safe enough risk. As long as the people kept watching, the government might not be able to act, not without playing their cards early.

If I judged from the calendar Senator Thaddens had sent me, we had limited time to act.

Judgment Day came for the United States, and the lack of an election trail, the lack of the people having a voice, all pointed at the same conclusion.

The people no longer had a choice.

Sometime when we hadn’t been looking—or had been too busy looking the other way—someone had silenced us. Nobody had been even given a chance to squeak, let alone scream. Our freedom to decide hadn’t perished with even a whisper, but in the still quiet of the grave.

Unlike those who’d perished, the American people clawed at their coffins, determined to break themselves free and rise again into a new life, one free from the stranglehold of their own government. Deep within the hallowed vaults of the library, history provided a roadmap to how the people might reclaim the sacred words the founding fathers had declared upon securing independence.

‘We the People’ would return, shed off the burial soil the government had tossed over our battered bodies, and reclaim our heritage. Those brave enough to learn from the past understood what would happen.

The wise braced for the worst, knowing what would come when the government took its final misstep and roused the sleeping beast.

Only one question remained: how many would die before the people once again enjoyed freedom from prosecution and tyranny?

I feared the question because I knew the answer: too many.

At four in the morning, I woke Bradley, gave him a kiss, promised I would be careful, and got behind the wheel of his precious red car, determined to reclaim the final pieces of my broken life. Despite frequent trips to the mechanic, after making the four hour drive to Senator Thaddens’s home, I understood the vehicle’s fate.

She would become a garage princess, only driven long enough to move her fluids sufficiently, likely no more than ten miles a week, until the time came to drain her of life, flush the lines, and retire her in a showcase room, her engine forever silenced. The car’s sorry state matched well with my country’s predicament. The people were much like her engine, worn and tired, barely able to keep moving forward.

By the inauguration, I wondered if the engine would be able to start at all. Would the country’s lifeblood be drained dry? Could everything truly fall completely apart in less than a year?

Dark and dreary thoughts haunted me right up until I parked in front of the senator’s estate, a planation style manor dating back to the Civil War. I wondered if it would survive the second Civil War. I wouldn’t be waiting for long to discover the truth of that, not if everything continued on the same path.

I picked up my purse, slung it over my shoulder, and took care with locking Bradley’s baby. I even gave the roof a fond caress, something those who monitored me would expect.

Being able to drive the vehicle had crystalized a few truths for me.

I had healed.

I would continue to heal, although my foot would pain me on stormy nights and cold days. I would have reminders, in the form of discomfort, all pointing to the moment when I had put the love of my life over my survival. Every now and then, I dreamed of the crash, and the memories fortified me for the days to come.

With my chin lifted, I headed for the senator’s front door. As the government had spies everywhere, especially among those forced to serve, I behaved as expected. I hesitated for a brief moment before pressing the doorbell. They would read into that pause.

They would assume I maintained a certain amount of discomfort around those of higher station despite the rarity of my abilities and my encroaching entry into the Hampton family. My existence would continue to bother them, as I walked a path they hadn’t anticipated.

I’d only been the first exsanguinator to pursue the healing arts. I would not be the last. Day by day, the media showcased some new soul, likewise cursed with magic like mine, doing good in their community. Even those with low aptitude for the art drew attention.

Some served as doctors.

Some served as nurses.

Some served as field medics.

All beat the national averages for survivability of their patients. All helped hold death’s chilling hand at bay.

The government could no longer tout exsanguinators as beings to be feared.

I expected to one day die for that.

The government did not like when the peons forced to live beneath them broke free of their fear tactics and defied their conditioning. It made their job harder.

It offered hope things might change.

Senator Thaddens didn’t leave me waiting long, and the man, middle aged with hair beginning to gray and well suited for playing an elf in some fantasy movie, offered a smile and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Janette. Please come in.”

I shook hands with him, relieved when he opted against testing my strength. “I’m pleased to meet you. Thank you for being willing to see me.”

“Thank you for being able to come on such short notice. I’m sure you’ve been positively inundated with donation inquiries as of late. Libraries are fundamentally important, and while the circumstances bringing awareness of them are saddening, I’m glad to see your fine institution is benefiting.”

Ugh. Politics. Why did every word need to be a careful dance? Oh, right.

The United States government would kill us both if it suspected we worked against them.

“Hopefully, this won’t take up much of your time.”

The senator chuckled and gestured for me to come inside. “I have today put aside for you, so please don’t fret. It’s a nice change of pace. Discussing the needs of the New York Public Library is an excellent use of my time. How goes the renovations at your branch?”

I wouldn’t mention the bloodstains and the cleaning required to restore the stone to its former glory. I’d cringed upon realizing that someone still worked at getting everything out of the nooks and crannies on the exterior. The interior had fared better, having had all evidence erased within a week following Senator Godrin’s murder. “It’s going well. All floors are being worked on, but we’re focusing on the unused floors first. That will let us move in some new collections. We’ve been able to acquire some excellent vintage collections from a few sellers.”

As part of my ongoing work to trace the government’s betrayal of its people, I’d turned to yellowed pages ripe with age, struggling to isolate when it had begun the process of rewriting history. Thus far, I’d determined the serious rewriting to have begun well before I’d been born, starting with the censorship of books and knowledge.

The World Wars had been the first to be erased. The Civil War had followed soon after. According to modern American schoolbooks, World War I had been a European dispute with a central focus on economic warfare with minor skirmishes.

World War II had been predominantly a war between Germany and England over immigration issues.

There was no mention of the Holocaust, no mention of the millions of lives lost in concentration camps, no mention of the American men and women who’d fought on the side of the Allies. There hadn’t been any mention of the Axis, defusing any hope of children learning about the brutal realities of genocide.

Within a decade, Vietnam had likewise been erased; Americans had not rendered sufficient glory, I supposed.

History had, at the government’s hand, been rewritten so it could pursue its own causes.

The Civil War erasures made the most sense to me.

Once upon a time, half of Americans had risen up to free the African slaves imported into the country.

Like the Civil War, the history of racism in the United States had likewise been erased. The government’s efforts had done nothing to curb hatred between people of differing skin colors.

That came as no surprise to me.

A nation divided was a nation easily controlled and manipulated. When a frightening message was repeated with consequences, even if it was not the truth, people capitulated—and believed—the repetition to protect themselves. I understood that, and I worried I might be conditioned in such a way if I failed to maintain diligence.

Senator Thaddens made thoughtful sounds while leading me through his home to a spacious office. In some ways, the room seemed fit for a future president, featuring dark wood furniture with intricate carvings depicting ancient forests. At his inviting gesture to one of the leather seats in front of his desk, I leaned over for a closer look.

Phoenixes rising from their ashes among the trees and taking flight served as the primary theme.

What an interesting statement.

“Your office is beautiful.” I admired the floor to ceiling shelving loaded with books, and unable to resist, I began examining his collection.

“Thank you. Before I became a senator, I had put thought into becoming a librarian. Unfortunately for me, I failed a few key tests for becoming one.”

“You love books.” Finding people who wanted to serve the people more than read the books proved to be a difficult challenge. “If every librarian was an uncontrolled book reader with voracious ways, no work would ever be done.”

Senator Thaddens sat down, and he placed his hand on his desk, which drew my attention to a pair of pens nearby, both of which pointed at his phone.

What a clever, clever man.

Then, with deliberate care, he selected one of the pens, bumping the other so that it pointed not far from where I looked. “Do you accept checks, wires, or credit for donations?”

With the concept of a check possibly being written, if anyone used video recording, there would be nothing suspicious in the eyes of those monitoring the senator. I chuckled and replied, “We accept cash, check, and wires. If you wish to do a credit card donation, those can be done on the NYPL website. There is an additional fee for credit transactions, so I don’t recommend them.” I explored the bookshelf in the general direction the pen pointed, which had an eclectic collection of books, many of them dating to long before the United States had become a country. I sucked in a breath, my gaze falling to some I’d only seen in pictures. “These are ancient.”

Numerous of them had a theme, involving history books associated with the city of Bath in England.

Turning to Senator Thaddens, I gestured to one such book that happened to have a much older tome beside it. “Could I have a closer look at this?”

“I will get the gloves. I do insist that anyone handling books of that age wash their hands first. I’ll show you to my bathroom while I get everything we need to take one of those beauties from the shelf.” He got up, smiled at me, and motioned for me to follow. “I thought you would appreciate seeing some of my collection. I have always loved studying Rome and her influence on the world, so as codices from the empire came for sale, I acquired them. While many of these are from the 1400s, I have a few codices from both the early and late Roman Empire. I also have a few scrolls and papyrus sheets that we can admire. The oldest codex I have is a religious gospel of some sort. I believe it might be a prayer book. Many of the surviving scrolls and codices are religious in nature. My favorite are two accounts of Emperor Hadrian and his architectural exploits, written during his reign. I don’t know who wrote it. If there was a page regarding its author, it has long since been lost to time. But it’s a fascinating work, from his rebuild of the Pantheon to his wall in Britannica. Would you like to see those?”

“Would I ever.” I didn’t have to feign excitement over the possibility of holding books penned sometime during Emperor Hadrian’s lifetime. “That is such a priceless treasure.”

“The pair cost me two million, so not as priceless as one might think. I was astonished to receive them for such a bargain. The religious texts were far pricier, auctioned off as part of charity activities. I acquired the codices from a private seller; he had lost interest in the Roman Empire, and he wanted the money to pursue Asian scrolls and other works. It will take me a few minutes to make preparations to handle the books. Use the soap in the darker dispenser, please. The other one is a scented lotion.”

“I’ll avoid the lotion,” I promised.

“Thank you. Please, come with me.”

Aware that the entirety of the senator’s home might be bugged, I made use of the bathroom with care, keeping to my regular habits, including playing on my phone while making use of the toilet. As someone had left a single sheet on the roll of toilet paper, I went through the process of swapping them to discover something inside. To cover my activities, I dropped my cell and the roll, cussing up a storm while checking within the toilet paper, uncovering a USB stick, which I swiped. My phone and the stick went into my purse, and I made a point of flinging a few extra curses at my wretched cell before finishing the process of swapping the rolls, handling my business, thoroughly washing my hands, and checking for anything else of interest.

If the space held any other secrets, I failed to find them.

As the bathroom wasn’t far from Senator Thaddens’s study, I returned, smiling at the man, who also wore gloves and handled his precious tomes with care. He displayed a priceless collection of antiques on his desk, all of them holding some form of secret.

Unless the future changed, I expected the past would be buried and forgotten, destroyed for the sake of the government’s power.

‘We the People’ died in horrific silence, and I doubted the supporters of the government understood the vile histories they recreated.

Plenty liked to claim that absolute power corrupted absolutely, but the longer I became exposed, the less I wanted to do with power.

I desired peace.

It didn’t take much thinking for me to understand how passive peace cultivated corruption—and once planted, those seeds were worse than any weed.

Senator Thaddens gestured to a pair of white gloves on the edge of his desk. “Some of these actually need to be handled. The oils on our hands help preserve them. I use a mix of mundane oils to handle the job, caring for the covers once a month. Has anyone showed you how?”

“No, I can’t say they have. The truly ancient books in the New York Public Library are at the main branch, and only certified librarians tend to those. I’ve seen them, but none of the tomes at my branch are nearly so old.”

“There is no better time than the present to learn. Come, and I’ll introduce you to the tools of my trade and teach you how you can preserve volumes such as these.”

I did as he asked, sliding on the gloves and joining him, marveling at the assortment of cloths, brushes, and other tools needed to keep the books in good condition. He made use of a small vial of oil to dampen the corner of one of his cloths, lightly dabbing at the fragile cover. “That’s not human skin, is it?”

“It is not, but it is leather, and if not properly oiled, leather will become brittle, crack, and flake away to nothing. This specific oil is designed for books, and it contains a preservative that will keep the leather supple and in good condition for decades to come.” After demonstrating how to do it, he handed over the cloth and gave me the opportunity to care for the volume. “This is the first part of the record of Hadrian’s architectural accomplishments. Initially, it wasn’t believed the Romans had used parchments, vellum, or papyrus for writing during his time; prior to the discovery of these works, only wooden tablets discovered at Vindolanda indicated the Romans of Hadrian’s time used ink at all, at least for writing. The inked wood at Vindolanda was quite the archaeological discovery. The location of several ancient private collections and the determination of historians uncovered these. The Vindolanda tablets predate these, or so we think, but not by long. Judging from the content, these were written closer to the time of Hadrian’s death rather than at the height of his rule. The Vindolanda tablets were important records, but the wood oxidized rapidly after discovery. With technology, archaeologists were able to reveal the script, but they have not fared well. While they still exist, they are in dire shape. But they were able to preserve the text for future generations to study, and that is a huge accomplishment.”

I took care with my work, aware I held something thousands of years old in my hands. “And I can open this?”

“Of course. Support the spine in your hand. It’s recently been worked on, so the binding is in excellent condition. The pages undergo professional preservation every three months. That costs me a hundred per book.”

“That’s it?”

“The magic required to do it isn’t difficult, and a lot of universities use antique books as a way for their graduate students to practice. I ask that the professors use these as demonstrations rather than have the students do the work due to their age, which is a request they honor. The university I use does not want to have to pay out the value of a codex of this age.”

No kidding.

Once I had the front, back, and spine properly oiled, I opened the book, holding it as he directed, to have a look inside. One day, I would need to learn how to read Roman script, and while the first few pages were text, the author dove right into the meat of the codex, presenting sketches of various buildings, some I recognized. “Hadrian is behind the Pantheon?”

“He was the architect for it, yes. He worked alongside Apollodorus of Damascus to design it, and he saw to its construction during his reign. It’s not commonly taught anymore.”

No, it wasn’t. “Is Apollodorus the author of this book?”

“We simply don’t know, but I suspect it’s possible. The history of Hadrian and Apollodorus is somewhat uncertain. Apollodorus criticized Hadrian, who was notorious about disliking criticism, but Hadrian made use of Apollodorus’s criticisms in his design. Some even claim that Hadrian had Apollodorus executed for those criticisms.” Senator Thaddens gestured to the codex I held. “There are few who can read that, especially as it makes use of the cursive form of Roman script, but I believe it’s a complete dissection of Hadrian’s designs in addition to a record of them. From the Pantheon to the Temple of Venus and Roma to Hadrian’s Wall, he has left a legacy surpassing the rest of his reign. Nobody remembers Hadrian for how he ruled. He is remembered for the folly of that doomed wall and the splendors of the Pantheon.”

I took care with turning the pages, marveling at the detail of the sketches, which revealed many of the segments of the Pantheon lost to time and ruin. “This is so precious.”

“The full layout for Villa Adriana is within the second codex, and it details all of Hadrian’s aspirations for the estate. It is that codex that makes people question if Apollodorus was involved. Surely a critic could not have such close dealings with Hadrian’s most opulent construction. Or so they say.”

Something about Senator Thaddens’s tone warned me he attempted to convey something with his words—something dealing with our traitorous government. I had my suspicions, and they all involved the carefully constructed theatrics and the lack of any actual choice Americans had for who ruled over them.

The government controlled it all, from who lived and died to every level and layer of government.

Even the public opponents were likely allies in the shadows, and I would be wise to remember that.

“What is Villa Adriana? I haven’t heard of it before,” I confessed.

“Villa Adriana is the heart of Hadrian’s architectural endeavors. It was his personal palace spread over seven square miles of land, containing evidence of Rome’s splendor and glory at her peak. It was his pride and his joy, and it showcased every one of Rome’s proudest achievements. Some say it was a city within a villa, resplendent and glorious.”

“And now?”

“It is nothing but ruins, lost to time, with but a few fragmented pieces remaining, reminding the world of the man who had created such beauty. Ah, if only we had the vision to create such a glorious thing again.”

I wondered what hidden messages lingered in his words beyond the senator’s desire to return to a better time, a time where Americans had possessed at least the illusion of freedom. “Could I take pictures of the plans for Villa Adriana? Perhaps I will visit a crafting store and see what I might build from the drawings held within these codices.”

Senator Thaddens smiled. “I will spare you the effort; I have photographs already. I will text them to your phone so that you might enjoy attempting to capture the past in your hands. It would be my honor, especially if it might mean we witness the rebirth of such a glorious thing, even if in miniature. Let’s finish tending to those precious works, and then we will get to the important business of sending my donation to your institution.”

Everything about the situation bothered me, but rather than betray my feelings on the matter, I smiled.