Page 6 of The Alien in the Archive (Galactic Librarians #1)

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T here’s a book missing.

I look down at the library resource guide on my ID card, then back at the shelf. They use an entirely different numbering system here so it’s taken time to learn where things are, but I’m getting to know the stacks pretty well.

And there is definitely a book missing: The Song of Aethra , an old Merati text on Elixir currents.

Damn it.

It’s the first time it’s happened, even though Davina warned me. She said the books might give me trouble, the stacks might change…but the work has been ordinary, besides the voices in my head and that one night with the ghost.

The presence…the man?

I’m still not sure.

I look down at my ID card one more time, trying to see if the map has updated, and I see that Song of Aethra is now four shelves down, deeper into the archive. Not everything here is labeled, but most of the books have a tracker in the front cover as they do tend to move around on their own. I keep my eyes on the map as I move closer, hunting for that damn book.

The glow lamps flicker faintly as I weave between the towering shelves. The further I walk, the quieter the Archive becomes, as though the air itself is thickening, muffling every sound. My shoes scuff softly against the stone floor, and even that seems too loud.

When I turn the corner, I find it. Right there.

And it’s…singing.

That seems appropriate for a book called The Song of Aethra , yeah—but the singing isn’t noise, not really. It’s resonant, ringing…a psychic residue clinging to the binding.

I glance around nervously, half-expecting someone—or something—to appear. But the corridor is empty, save for the shadows pooling in the gaps between the shelves. My fingers itch to grab the book, but something in me hesitates. The air feels heavier now, like the library itself is holding its breath.

Someone—or something—carried this book here.

Left it for me to find, like a breadcrumb.

And now…I have its scent.

I follow the trail, every misplaced book on today’s list guiding me further into the library. There’s Magick of Myste in the wrong section, then, Mysticism in the Nyeri’i Trinity in another.

Each time, I hesitate before touching the books, almost expecting them to vanish as soon as I reach for them. But they don’t. Instead, they pulse under my touch, a faint, rhythmic vibration that sends a shiver up my arm, as though the books themselves are alive and watching.

The corridor narrows as I move deeper into the archive, the shelves closing in around me. The glow lamps are spaced further apart here, their golden light barely cutting through the darkness. The air grows cooler, and I catch the faint scent of something dark and enticing. It’s subtle, like a whispered memory, but it lingers in my nose, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

My senses pulse faintly, an echo bouncing off unseen walls.

I can’t shake the feeling something is watching me.

No.

Not something.

Someone .

There’s a bookshelf here set in an odd position. I stop dead in my tracks, looking around. I’ve gone somewhere I don’t think I’m supposed to be; there’s a thick layer of dust on everything back here, disturbed by a single set of tracks coming and going.

Toward the bookshelf.

Away.

My breath quickens. The tracks are shallow, like whoever left them was trying not to disturb the dust. I crouch, running my fingers lightly over one of the footprints. It’s too large to be mine, too well-defined to have been left long ago, and—the strangest part—bare.

And that resonance…

I lift my fingers, taking small steps forward. I should go back; this is dangerous. Davina told me that if the library misleads me, I should take it seriously.

But the pull is too strong. It’s not just curiosity, it’s instinct—a visceral need to see this through. My hand hovers over the edge of the shelf, my fingertips brushing the spine of the last book in the row. The hum is louder now, vibrating faintly against my skin.

I touch that last book, swarming with his psychic energy. I pull.

The shelf opens like a door.

I stumble back, my heart slamming against my ribs. The sound of stone grinding against stone echoes through the corridor, impossibly loud in the stillness.

For a moment, I’m frozen, staring at the opening as a faint draft wafts out. It’s colder here, and that delicious scent is stronger now, filling my lungs. I force myself to step closer, the glow lamp hovering at my side casting warm light into the space beyond.

Whatever I was expecting to happen…it sure as hell wasn’t this. This is some cloak and dagger shit, not alien technology. I peer into the darkness, finding…

A living room?

The alcove isn’t like anything I’ve seen in the Obscuary; it’s personal, lived-in. A tattered velvet armchair sits in the center, surrounded by piles of books. Tapestries hang from the stone walls, their intricate designs faded but still vibrant in the steady light from the glow lamp. A wooden desk, scarred and warped with age, is covered in open volumes and scattered notes.

I step inside, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the stone floor. The alcove feels…different. Warmer, despite the chill in the air. It’s not just a hidden space—it’s a sanctuary, carved out of the Archive’s vast emptiness.

And then I see the fox.

Or…fox thing.

A creature resembling a fennec fox is curled up near the base of the armchair, watching me with wide, intelligent amber eyes. It’s no larger than a house cat, with soft, creamy white fur and glowing antennae. It doesn’t look away from me, staring me down.

“Uh…hi,” I mutter. “Is this your place?”

It blinks slowly.

The pulse in my chest grows stronger, more insistent. My eyes dart around the space, taking in every detail. The stolen furniture, the misplaced books, the faint scent of something sharp and cold in the air.

This isn’t a fox’s den; this is where he lives.

The hungry man.

Despite that—because I am not a smart girl, and because my curiosity has a tendency to get the better of me—I step further into the room, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk. The wood is rough under my touch, its surface littered with handwritten notes in a language I don’t recognize—which is saying something, given how overloaded my translator is. The handwriting is sharp, jagged, as though every word hurt to write.

My breath catches in my throat, the weight of the pain here almost unbearable.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice comes from the shadows, low and smooth and sultry, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine. I turn sharply, my eyes scanning the darkness. At first, I see nothing.

Then, slowly…a figure steps forward. The man from the shadows, that same silhouette, with shaggy hair and a lean, muscular frame.

He’s real.

I think this is the first time I’ve actually heard his voice.

He’s tall—not as tall as the Skoll, but well over six feet. His hair is bone white and falls to his shoulders, framing a face that’s sharp and angular, like it’s been carved from ice. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

They’re…black. Not just dark, but absent , like twin voids that absorb the light around them.

I can feel their weight as they lock onto mine, pinning me in place…and then I see the vague silver irises swimming in those pools of black.

Oh my God .

He’s Borean.

My thoughts race, cataloguing everything I’ve learned about the species that invaded Earth, enslaved the Skoll for millennia, destroyed the Nyeri’i homeworld. I thought they’d died out, all killed by the Pact. Fuck…they were the whole reason the Pact was created; a species so evil that every other species in the galaxy had to band together to stop them.

I’m looking at a piece of living history—a horrific piece, but historic all the same.

He doesn’t move closer, but his presence presses against me, ancient and predatory and wrong . I’ve met every species in the Pact since I arrived on M’mir…and here he is. Entirely alien.

And yet…there’s something familiar about him.

“You,” I whisper.

He tilts his head slightly… and his lip curls. I see the flash of a sharp canine biting into his lower lip.

“Me,” he says.

The single word echoes in my mind, not just my ears. It’s heavier than it should be, like the sound itself carries some psychic resonance, worming its way through my thoughts and settling deep in my chest.

I force myself to breathe, to stand taller than I actually am. It’s not going to do any good; I’ve never been able to make myself look bigger. “You’ve been in my head.”

He huffs out a dark laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve been aware of you, yes. You’re loud.”

“Loud?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Psychically,” he clarifies. “Your thoughts echo like a bell in the darkness. You’ve been stumbling around the Archives, poking at things you don’t understand. I couldn’t ignore you even if I wanted to.”

I flinch at the accusation in his tone. He makes it sound like I’ve been barging through someone’s home uninvited, breaking things along the way. “I’m not poking at anything, I’m researching. It’s what I do?—”

“Researching,” he echoes, taking a slow step forward. His movements are smooth, deliberate, like a predator circling prey. “And what exactly are you hoping to find?”

“Answers.”

“To questions you don’t know how to ask,” he replies.

Something about him makes me uneasy, but I’m also…I don’t want to name it, don’t want to say it out loud. It’s the way he looks at me, like he’s peeling back my layers, seeing everything I am and everything I’m not.

His brow furrows, and I know I didn’t have to say anything.

He heard it anyway.

The realization sends a jolt of heat rushing to my face. He’s in my head again, sifting through my thoughts like they’re books on a shelf. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I push the embarrassment aside. If he’s going to dig through my mind, he won’t find me cowering.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” I go on, because he’s in my head, he must already know. “I saw you a few weeks ago, didn’t I? And I keep hearing you…even when I’m not in the library. You’re the presence I’ve felt since I got here, aren’t you?”

For a second, he doesn’t reply. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can feel the weight of his attention pressing against my mind, testing me, searching for something. The pressure builds, faint at first, but growing stronger. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of half-formed questions and scattered memories, and I have no idea what he’s looking for—or if he’s already found it.

“Perhaps,” he says. “And now that we’ve met, what do you intend to do?”

The question is disarming in its simplicity. He doesn’t sound angry or curious, just…detached, like he’s already calculated every possible answer and none of them matter. Riley went through a major depressive episode a few years ago, and it reminds me of that—like all paths were already decided for him, the future empty of all life.

I size him up, knowing he could catch me if I tried to run. And I know he knows I’m thinking that…because he can read minds.

He’s the first person I’ve met who has the same power I do.

So, I meet his dark, empty shark eyes and I smile.

“Research,” I say.

His lip twitches, and once again I see the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Of course,” he says, almost to himself. There’s a note of amusement in his voice, but it’s buried under something deeper, darker. He tilts his head, studying me. “And what is it, exactly, that you think you’re researching?”

“Why are you asking when you could just read my mind?”

“Because it’s rude,” he shrugs. “If you haven’t said it out loud, I assume I’m not privy to your innermost thoughts. Unless…”

I feel him all of a sudden, crawling into my skull. I collapse into those black eyes for a moment, taking a shuddering, sharp breath. It’s not unpleasant…it’s the most intimate sensation I’ve ever experienced—more than an embrace, more than sex. I find myself wrapping my thoughts around his, and then…

He’s gone.

I exhale in a breathy moan that verges on obscene.

We’re still standing in the exact same positions—physically separated, but something has changed. He looks different than he did when he first showed his face, a little more life in those dead eyes.

“I have a proposition for you,” he says .

Does it involve doing that again? Because I’m down. “I’m listening.”

“A trade,” he says. “You tell no one I’m here…and I help you with your research. Help you understand your powers.”

No…this is too good to be true, right? He’s playing me. Or…it’s too bad to be true, because this guy is maybe one of the most feared creatures in the galaxy.

“What are you getting out of this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You keep my secret. And…well, I supposed you entertain me. It gets boring here in the darkest corners of the Obscuary.”

I start spinning out with conclusions once again, my mind racing to figure out the implications of all this. A Borean magister hiding in the archive, living here for God knows how long; he wants me to keep him a secret, has been stalking me for weeks, this is definitely a bad idea?—

“Okay,” I nod. “That works. Sounds good.”

The language strikes me as silly; this feels more like a handshake than a deal with the devil. But then the Borean extends his hand, letting me come to him.

I step closer like a dog on a leash.

Reach out and find his skin cold as the grave.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Page,” he says—because of course he already knows my name, he probably knows everything about me. “I’m Thorne.”

Then it’s done.

Deal struck.

I hope I won’t regret it.