Page 5 of The Wind and the Wild (The Keepers of Faerie #1)

P erhaps I expected much worse—music or mocking creatures or ancient faerie traps or something discernibly other about the place—but it is only a library, after all.

Empty, abandoned, and strangely solitary, but a library nonetheless.

I do not make my way in through the front door, running my fingers across the thick briars and honeysuckle vines before deciding against a single attempt.

The second-story windows are greatly unblocked, and many possess balconies and high, tall windows of pure glass, all unbroken.

But it is a ways up, and I am not happy to fall and twist an ankle or knee on this side of Faerie.

Instead, wandering around the porch, I find a small secondary door beneath a set of windows.

Its burnished silver knob turns with only some struggle, and a gentle shove of the shoulder has it brushing open with a hush of sound in the eerie still of the wood.

Niamh, perhaps this is not worth it. There is nothing promising I will find any information about the kittens, but chances are, I might discover something they will eat.

Otherwise, I am truly a fool for stepping foot here.

I push the door fully open and find myself between two large bookshelves.

I was momentarily entertaining the idea that this was not a library at all—though what other massive building could be just on this side of the woods?

—but even our little village has something resembling a place people can read books they cannot buy.

Dry paper and dust are familiar scents, mortal and comforting, and I creep between the bookshelves into even more eternally long hallways of books upon books.

Carefully, I touch the nearest spine, surprised there are volumes still here. Why didn’t they take them?

As if in answer, a few bound spines crumble beneath my fingers, no more than dust themselves. I wince.

They could’ve been taken when they were still readable, couldn’t they? Perhaps something here will tell me what happened.

Feeling strange but knowing any living and intelligent creature dwelling here would already know I’m in its domain, I whisper, “ Hello? ”

No answer. I allow myself a slow relieved breath and leave the door cracked open as I find the nearest break in the bookshelf leading deeper within.

Walkways of books weave inward like worm tracks in bark.

They stretch too high into a dark ceiling, the tops disappearing into shadow.

It is late afternoon outside, and inside it is quite closed off and dark, at least in this section.

Picking the most straightforward line through the shelves, I wander, hoping for a wider area where I can gain my bearings.

Perhaps none of these tomes will be in my language—I have never heard a faerie speak, after all—but I’ve gone far enough there’s no use in turning back without more investigation.

It truly is dilapidated.

No fae would dwell here, would they? Perhaps something small, like a brownie or another of the harmless creatures that tend to visit our side of the border.

After a few minutes, the maze of shelves breaks into a wide circle of a room.

It is too large in here.

As broad as the building seemed on the outside, this cannot all fit into it.

It is all in your mind , I tell myself, then glance over my shoulder, finding the front door mostly intact from the inside, with a sturdy-enough bolt that I wouldn’t have made it in were vines not crawling through the cracks.

It is shaped like a wolf’s head, and I’m surprised to see something so normal, so mortal , on the decorations of a faerie door.

Perhaps the wolves here are not so benign as our own. They don’t look enough like the hunt hounds to make me shiver.

“ Hello? ” I ask again, perhaps not wisely, and watch a smattering of leaves drift from the second level railing of the main room. Creeping out farther, I find nothing of note save for more books.

And trees.

Maples have somehow invaded the interior, large and many branched, having dwelled here since long before I was born.

They drop a few spare leaves here and there in a strange breeze from nowhere.

In one spot, the roof has crumbled, giving a glimpse of a bruise-blue evening sky.

But the leaves atop do not shiver in the wind, only the bottom ones in the library itself.

What spell is upon this place? I shudder and shake away the thought. For all I know, this is a usual occurrence in Faerie. I have never been in one of their buildings, after all.

Hesitantly, I brush my fingers across the nearest spine as if touch will bring out creatures of this world.

Again, nothing stirs, and I allow myself to relax a bit more.

This book does not crumble, and I slide it from its space, letting it fall open in my hands with a well-aged crinkle.

It is straight lines upon lines of text, and I squint.

The words are familiar, and so are the letters, but they make little sense.

I start over the paragraph at the top, mumbling to myself, but still they are lost to me.

Carefully, I creak the spine shut and return it to its place.

Three more books on this shelf match the odd language, and I try the next one over with a huff.

Whatever magic lives in these lands, it evidently doesn’t allow mere mortals to read through even long-abandoned books.

A few shelves I try in this manner, but when I dare to pull out the ones not crumbling to dust, the words are the same.

“ Upper level, ” I whisper, rounding the closest smooth pale beam lining the interior of the space. I am here—and do not know if I will have the courage to return—so I should try as many shelves as possible.

It is still a few hours from twilight.

The second story is much like the first, and no markers of any sort line the shelves, so I pick at random, finding book after book thick with lines of unreadable text.

One, bound in heavy blue leather and smelling of it still after all these years, appears to be nothing more than charts upon charts of constellations.

In the brief minutes I allow myself to flip through, I do not recognize any of our own.

I set it on the closest dust-coated table in case I return and can inspect it further.

A platform crosses over the hallway of books below, and I touch the railings lightly, treading carefully lest the wood crack beneath my feet—or something hear my boots.

Even inside, it is warm, though slightly chiller, as if the building only holds the night’s cold and never catches the day’s warmth.

Outside, it smells of summer, heavy and damp.

In here, it is fall, still hot but edging into winter.

I file through more unreadable books. I don’t need much, just a catalogue of creatures, perhaps, or an ink sketch with information listed.

If I bring back paper and a quill, can I copy the letters one by one until they form something coherent on a piece of mortal paper?

Pleased with the idea, I search more diligently.

Books, books, and more books. All shapes and sizes, all seeming to have been written by hand, with different tilts and swoops and personalities.

All this work. Abandoned.

Shaking my head in the failing light, I step over one of the shivering maple branches reaching through the railing and into the middle of the upper shelves.

Something snaps .

I go still as a deer caught in the aim of Da’s crossbow. Glancing down, I find my boots on the solid old floorboard below, no twig I’ve stepped on. I scan the area and discover nothing I haven’t noticed before.

The tree leaves shiver.

A soft moan like an old door blowing shut has me backing away from the turn I was about to take, shoulder blades pressing to the shelves, heart thumping against the inside of my chest bone. Chills dribble down my skin, and my fingers tremble.

There can’t be a faerie here. This place is abandoned. They are vain and selfish and too beautiful for abandoned libraries.

Besides, they don’t come to the border and have not in many years.

I let out a long breath, rubbing the comforting coarse wool of my skirts between my fingertips. No other noise permeates this place save for the silent skitter of leaves across the bottom floor.

The breeze.

The breeze blew one of the old unhinged doors open.

I let my head thunk quietly against the rough wood of the bookcase, rolling my eyes up at the beamed ceiling.

“ Frightened of the wind. Very well done,” I whisper.

Besides, what did I think? That hunt hounds can open the latches on doors?

Shaking my head at myself, I lean off the bookshelf, still too nervous to return to my path. Stalling, I check the books I’m beside, ears strained for any sounds, for a predator stalking when it thinks I’m distracted.

I flip open the crispy pages and find sketches of monsters. My heart jumps in a much happier way. In my haste, I partially rip a corner of the ancient paper trying to turn it.

“ Sorry,” I whisper, as if it can hear me, and turn the leaflets with more care. Perhaps I can take this one back with me, though I’m not sure bringing faerie things besides berries into the mortal lands is wise—

“ Are you apologizing to a book?”

I gasp. The book slips from my hands, striking the floor with an uncannily loud noise in the silent library.

My heart picks back up a too-quick rhythm, spots clearing from my vision.

Turning in a circle, I can’t find the source of the voice, but the unmistakable sensation of being watched crawls across my skin.

The words sounded strangely far away, as if carried over a breeze, but it saw me with the book—

The same creak of a door crackles across the silent space, definitely on the same upper floor this time, and I run.

The stairs are close by. I edge around the railing, glancing back and catching the outline of a shadow in the dark aisles.

It is darker suddenly than it should be, not nearing night but too dark for the afternoon, and there is nothing but a sleek shadow of a tall figure among the dust-catching moonlight.

Bright eyes narrow, and its head cocks as it steps forward.

Moonlight cuts across the open space before the bookshelf.

A face—pale as milk, long and strange but mostly human—peers at me.

He looks as confused about my appearance as I am about his.

A wave of ink falls across his shoulders.

His clothes are mostly unnoticeable, pale and embroidered, a long lithe blade in his hand, brushing the floor.

I back down, catching my arm on the railing when I nearly lose my footing and go tumbling.

He makes a strange jerk of a motion, as if meaning to step closer to me, push me the rest of the way down. His lips part. A thousand wary tales about fae and their music, their songs and ensnaring words, rush through my mind.

Daring to turn my back on the creature, I flee. Fingers shoved into my ears, I stumble through the bookshelves, ankles unsteady on the dusty cold floorboards.

For a moment, I’m certain I’ll take the incorrect turn through the maze of bookshelves and never find the door, but I nearly knock into it in my haste, stumbling to the leaf-strewn ground outside. No music.

The sun has fully gone down. I wasn’t here nearly long enough for such a thing.

Scrambling to my feet, I drag the door shut with shaking fingers and turn for the honeysuckle, feet pounding on the quiet forest floor, legs burning, breath refusing to come quickly enough.

I shouldn’t have dropped the book , I think, casting a last glance over my shoulder to check if it’s following me.

In the dark, the library is nothing but a shape in the moonlight.

It may be my imagination, but I’m certain I catch a flicker of movement in one of the broad glass windows of the second story.

Honeysuckle cuts out my vision, and I sprint a half dozen full strides through its corridor before closing my eyes and losing my way back into the mortal realm.