Bookish and the Beast

The truth is, the house was built by some eccentric millionaire back in the mid-’90s, who moved away because they probably realized nothing changed in this small town, with one road in and one road out. They probably got sick of being in the middle of nowhere and left to have grand adventures in the great wide somewhere.

It’s been rented out over the years, but I’ve never met anyone who lived there, and as far as I know, it’s vacant now, too.

“Dog!” I hiss, quickly following the shadow of the mutt down the driveway, but then I lose her in the dark of the house. Cursing, I quietly make my way up to the front door. It’s ajar, so I push it the rest of the way open and sneak in.

Strange. Why is the door unlocked if the house is empty?

I should leave. My common sense is telling me not only to leave, but to hurry back to my car and go home and just break the news to my dad. At least then I won’t be murdered.

But…for some reason I can’t get Mom’s story out of my head. About the prince alone in the castle. It’s not real—he’s not real.

But…

I’ve never been in this house before. And it doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.

As a precaution, I pull out my phone, turn the flashlight on because the sun is beginning to set, lengthening the shadows in the house, and press record. If I die here, at least there might be physical evidence.

“Dog?” I call again, and my voice echoes through the house.

There are dozens of cardboard boxes piled everywhere. It looks like one of those houses perpetually between one renter and another, constantly changing, never quite a home for anyone. I know that kind of look. Since Mom died, Dad and I moved from one place to another, hopping to where rent was cheapest.

Dad always reminded me that it was never the house that mattered, because home is never really a physical place.

But jeez, someone could at least move into this place and gussy it up a little. The interior is beautiful, with exposed stonework and steepled wooden roof beams. I don’t know half of the architectural jargon, but it’s pretty, and at least—unlike most of the houses around here—it doesn’t use antlers in all of the decorating.

I step into the foyer and ease the door shut behind me.

“Dog!” I whisper a little more urgently.

Something clatters to my left, and I whirl toward the kitchen and an open hallway that leads, probably, down to the garage. But there’s a door to the left, just across from the kitchen, that’s slightly open. Maybe the dog went that way.

Quietly, I creep toward the door and slowly push it open.

There are shelves of worn paperbacks and dime-store novels and gilded hardbacks, and boxes stacked high with even more books in them. The last bits of sunlight spills in from the two room-height windows, illuminating the books, catching the gentle sparkle of dust.

My breath catches in my throat.

I can recognize these books from anywhere—even ten, fifteen feet away. I know their spines. I know their titles. I know their thirty-year-old smell. In a few quick strides, I am at those books, my fingers running down their broken, well-loved spines, lingering on the Starfield insignia on each one.

The Star Brigade.

In The Night Abyss.

The Last Carmindor.

Starfield Forever.

My heart thrums in my throat. I know the names, I know the plots, I know the orders—all of the books in the extended universe of Starfield. And on the shelf next to them, Star Wars, and Star Trek, and more obscure alternate-universe series, but the biggest collection is Starfield. Although the show only ran for fifty-four episodes, the extended universe of books lasted decades. My childhood was filled with these old illustrated covers; my fondest memories sit between these pages.

Because, you see, my mom loved books and Dad still loves books, and so I do, too.

But there is so much more in those words than just loving books. I love the smell of them. I love the way their bindings look pressed together on a shelf. I love the feel of pages buzzing through my fingers. I love big books and small books. I love words and how they’re strung together, and most of all, I love the stories. I love how books are not really just books at all, but doorways.

They are portals into places I’ve never been and people I’ll never be, and in them I have lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand different worlds. In them I can be a princess or a knight of valor or a villain—I can be coveted, I can conquer on evils, I can defeat Dark Lords and destroy the One Ring and unite a Federation on the brink of collapse. In them I’m not simple, going-nowhere, unable-to-write-a-stupid-college-essay Rosie Thorne.

And I love, deep down, that the best memories I have of my mother are those of her reading to me, her voice soft and sweet. The memory is like a bright flare that I never want to go out, and I’m afraid if I stop reading, her voice will fade. I refuse to love anything more than books and stories and Starfield.

I refuse to let my mom go.

And here—here in this strange, dark library…

I pull the closest volume down off the shelf.

It’s well-worn, the binding cracked and the pages yellowed and dog-eared, loved almost beyond recognition. There’s a coffee stain on the top left corner, and as I slowly flip through the pages, they smell like old enchanted libraries and summer reads.

STARFIELD, the title reads in big, blocky letters, and then underneath, The Starless Throne.

The cover is one of those old early ’90s covers—reminiscent of illustrated paperback fantasies. General Sond’s long blond hair is tossed in the wind as he looks out onto an exploding daystar, Carmindor on the other side, gazing back with this tragic look in his eyes. It was the first book that detailed the history of the general and the prince. It was the story behind those three brief episodes in the TV series. It gave flesh to an otherwise forgotten character in the great wide cosmos of Starfield.

My fingers shake as I trace over the author’s name—Sophie Jenkins.

And I smile, because this was the book my mom loved the best. It even looks like her copy, the spine broken and the pages read, but it can’t be hers. Hers is gone.

Without thinking, I press the book tightly to my chest.

I want to dive into the stories, I want to memorize their plots, I want to venture into the abyss of their pages and get lost in the Federation of stars. I want to spend all night reading it, studying her words, trying to find my mother in each vowel and syllable, memorizing the legacy she left behind.

I want to—

The ceiling creaks.

I freeze.

It sounds like…footsteps.

There’s someone in the house.

Oh—oh no. This does not end well for most—if not all—unsuspecting victims that venture into an abandoned building. I need to get out of here as fast and quietly as possible. Maybe Freddy Krueger doesn’t know I’m here yet.

One can only hope.

I slide one foot back along the wooden floor, and then another, quietly making my retreat out of the library. The footsteps leave to the right, out of whatever room is above me. I let out a breath of relief—until I realize, with a bolt of horror, the footsteps seemed to disappear toward the stairs.

Oh, Noxballs.

I’m dead.

All I wanted to do was catch a dog, and I ended up in a murder-house about to get murdered by a murderer.

There is a shadow at the base of the stairs, tall and broad and man-shaped. I feel my knees begin to give with fright. My heart slams into my chest. I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to—

Get a grip.

But even in the dark, his eyes catch the light of the moon that reflects off the pool in the backyard.

“What are you doing here?” the shadow’s voice rumbles, soft and angry.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat.

What do we say to the god of death?

Not today, sucker.

I spin on my heel toward a glass door that’s ajar and make a run for it. The dog, wherever the dog is, can fend for herself. I scramble out into the backyard to where the pool and some sort of garden is.

“Wait—stop!”

A hand fastens around my arm. My reflexes kick in. I spin around, bringing my elbow up, and nail the murderer straight in the face. As I do, the floodlights pop on. And that’s when I see him—really see him. Blond hair, blue eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a scar on the bottom left side of his lip. He stumbles back with a cry of pain.

Oh my God—oh my God, it’s Vance—it’s Vance Reigns! It’s—he is—oh my Go—

My heels teeter off the edge of the pool. I pinwheel my arms back, and finally realize oh, I still have the book before I fall backward into the water, taking the priceless edition of STARFIELD with me.

SHE ALMOST BROKE MY BLOODY NOSE!

The girl bursts through the surface of the water with a gasp, swiping the chlorine from her eyes, before she settles her attention on me again. Because yes, yes, she did bloody well recognize me. “Y-y-you…”

A book floats up beside her, and I massage the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my feelings under control. My stupid, sod-ding, fecking luck. I can’t even hide in the middle of nowhere.

I grind out, for the umpteenth time, “What are you doing here?”

She scrambles toward the edge of the pool and grabs onto it, staring at me from between bangs plastered to her forehead, eye makeup melting around her eyes like candle wax. Her teeth chatter loudly. “I—I w-w-was—”