Beneath Clay’s apartment sits the Greenvale Public Library, where I play the part of charming librarian, Bridgette Adder. Clay’s family were the original keepers of the castle, maintaining the wards protecting residents and riches inside. But with time, the castle became a heritage building, and the city converted it into a library for the community. Humans and Mythos alike enjoy its three floors of services. But I was interested in what lurked beneath the Library, in the archives.

  My false identity wasn’t particularly new –though the glamour was a definite upgrade– I’d been accustomed to using my mother's charms and some enchanted makeup to hide my appearance while in public. I had begged her to allow me to get an after-school job, and she’d only agreed after I’d promised to keep a low profile. Thankfully, I had done a good job, stocking shelves and running errands for the librarians. The library’s Director is somehow an acquaintance of my mother’s, though I’d never met them. It is likely the only reason I got the job in the first place, though I like to think it is my hard work and great personality that’s kept me around. Only the seasoned librarians that have been here since the beginning know of my arrangement, others just know me as Bridgette, the nice girl with purple hair on the night shift.

  Being on the main floor during the day makes me feel nostalgic. A few college kids are running carts for reshelving, there’s a Mommy and Me read-along in one of the group rooms, and one of the aids is assisting an elderly man at the computer bench.

  My shifts are normally spent alone, caring for magical items that aren’t open to the public. But today, I’d be splitting my time between processing checkouts and assisting information sourcing. It was almost refreshing.

  After clocking in and grabbing a snack from the break room, I find someone already manning my station. An unfamiliar young man behind the checkout desk looks at me with a shaky smile. He’s young, a college freshman at most, with a face still clinging to its boyish youthfulness, and long awkward limbs. His name tag reads Mateo.

  “H-how can I help you?” His voice wobbles. I try to offer a kind smile, but it still feels too tight.

  “I think I’m actually here to help you.” His confusion is priceless. “I’m covering for Shannon today?”

  “Oh, thank God.” His posture slumps a little, and his next words are spoken like a secret. “I thought I was going to be stuck here by myself. I only just started.”

  “That’s alright,” I come around the desk to find a mess of books on the shelves and floor. “Looks like quite a haul today.”

  “You have no idea,” he helps me pick up the books on the floor to stack them on the empty shelving cart. “This isn’t even including this morning’s drop-off. I have been so busy trying to get these sorted for re-entry, I haven’t had the chance to grab them.”

  The pile of books would be daunting for someone without magic to assist them. Not only would the books need to be registered in the database as returned, they would need to be assessed for damage and sorted onto the carts by their section and call number for reshelving. We got so much foot traffic here that it was often a two-person job. At least, it is when humans are around.

  “Lucky for you, I’m a sorting pro.” I start moving stacks around and log into the computer before grabbing the scanner. “It’s better to get this all done in one go. You know where the returns are, right, how about I start sorting these for scanning while you grab the rest?”

  “Are you sure?” He rocks on his feet, and I know he wants to take the offer out. “This is a lot.”

  “Seriously,” I beam, this time feeling a little more natural. “I promise. Go stretch your legs, there are muffins in the break room.”

  He leaves right after, saying he’ll grab me a muffin when he returns. Turning back to the messy piles with a small sigh, I have no interest in doing this by hand. Thankfully, working in a building full of Mythos means I don’t have to. So long as I don’t get caught.

  Reaching in to feel around the roof of the checkout desk, I feel for a worn engraving dug into the wood. One of the librarians had shown me once when I was still an aide, carved into the underside of the desk was a sigil for organizing books. So long as one could charge it, it could be activated. At the time, I had thought the tool useless, since I can’t manipulate my mana to cast spells. But sigils are less fickle than other forms of spell casting, unless otherwise programmed in by the creator, any charge would work. A witch may choose to charge a sigil with their mana, while vampires could do so with a drop of blood, just as a mermaid may choose to use a teardrop.

  One day I’d find a way to make the rest of magic just as accessible. I just needed a little more time.

  Looking around casually, I make sure no one is close enough to see what I’m doing, lining books out over the desk’s surface. Public displays of magic in the presence of humans is strictly forbidden. The cost of such a crime often includes some heavy fines and jail time. But they’ve always been more of guidelines if you ask me. On my right hand sits a bloodwell ring, capable of pulling a drop to its surface without the pain of a cut. Pressing the sides of the band, a ruby red droplet pools atop the center, and I reached under the desk.

  With a silent plea, asking the sigil to work, I press the ring into the carving. For a moment there’s nothing, then a small light flashed from the shelf, barely noticeable, then gone again, and the books were organized instantly on the desk’s surface. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold in the shock. I hadn’t fully expected it to work with my glamour on. It was meant to render me human, but it didn’t seem to fool the sigil. I was fascinated with the implications of what it could mean for Clay and I’s research. I knew mana could be found in blood and DNA, but does this mean sigils are immune to transmutation and illusions meant to deceive it? My train of thought was cut short as sudden acidic pain washes through my abdomen. Hands shaking, I rest one arm on the desk, gripping my stomach with the other. It takes five slow breaths before the initial sharpness passes, leaving behind a dull but persistent ache.

  “Um, Miss. Bridgette?” I look up and find one of the regulars, a man named Joey. His earthy hands hold several books on bread making, and he looks at me in a way that sends my skin crawling. He sees too much. Tap tap-tap tap.

  “Hey Joey,” I throw what I feel is an unconvincing smile. “Just these three today?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he watches me pull the books over to check out. “You feelin’ alright, Miss. Bridgette?”

  I keep typing so that he can’t see my fingers tremble. Where the fuck did Matteo go?

  “Just a bit of bad cramps. Nothing that’ll kill me.” I add a small laugh to try and ease the tension. By the way his brow draws low, I think I’ve failed. I focus on punching the return slip, just so I don’t have to look at him anymore.

  “I know it’s not much,” a chocolate candy bar slides across the desk, stopping beside the keyboard. “But the missus always seems to like these when she’s having a tough time.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind,” I take it, setting it to the side as I finish processing his books.

  “Why not eat it now? No one’ll get’cha in trouble for it.” His eyes twinkle with a smile hidden behind his thick dark beard. I suppose he’s not wrong.

  Snagging the sugary treat again. Joey watches me, seeming more satisfied. I sink my teeth into a gooey bite of dense nougat and what I think are peanuts. When I swallow it down, it sinks like a brick to the bottom of my stomach. I know this is all worthless, but I don’t want to concern him. Even my aunt, a prestigious doctor can’t figure out what’s wrong with me, a candy bar isn’t going to fix it. Maybe it’s just the sugar giving me a kick, but surprisingly the pain lessens a fraction, enough for my fingers to stop shaking.

  “I think your wife is a genius, Joey.” I take another bite as I pass the books back to him. He laughs right with me.

  “That she is, and you won’t hear me saying a word otherwise.” He takes the books back, offering me another pointed look. “You take care of yourself now, Miss. Bridgette.”

  “I will, Joey. Thank you again for the treat.”

  While I wait for Mateo’s return, I start processing returns. It’s meditative work, scanning the books in, confirming their condition in the records, before adding them to the lined up return carts. I reward myself every dozen books with a small bite of the candy bar. By the third bite, Mateo has returned with another cart full of books. It’s not as bad as I’d expected.

  “You’re back,” I say, scanning another book. “Did you snag a muffin?”

  “Hey, yeah, it was pretty good.”

  I hear Mateo sputter as I add the book to a return cart. “You got them sorted already?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, the taste of chocolate mixing with tangy blood. “I’m a pro, remember? Once you start picking up the numbers, you find a flow.”

  Mateo starts to reply, but I’m distracted by another wave of burning, this time in my bones. My body was once again attempting to reject the glamour. The world smears, and my ears start to ring as I lean harder into the wood. The pressure and bite against my skin, helps me focus. Something warm touches my bicep and I rear back, the touch jarring and adding to the burn.

  “Bridgette?” The voice is muffled under the rush of blood and ringing in my ears.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Keep scanning, n-need a break.” I grind out. Mateo is saying something, I think it’s something kind, but it doesn’t matter.

  The hallways feel impossibly long as I try to move without making the pain worse or drawing attention. Everyone’s looking at me, I can feel it, even if I glue my eyes straight ahead. I know they are. I can feel the crawling under my skin despite the burning. The floor begins to swim with the growing cloudiness in my head. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

  I manage to make it to a storage room before losing the battle with my stomach. There’s a spare bucket I grab while collapsing to the floor heaving. My mouth and nose burn, and I squeeze my eyes tight against the reeling vertigo.

  Once I’ve poured my guts into the cheap plastic bucket, all that remains is the pain. Dozens of tiny hook-like piercings tug at my marrow, straining against the rejection. You would think being born immune to spells targeting you would be an incredible gift, –and you’d be right!-- but it also makes me vulnerable. No healing spells or illusions can stick to me, and I’ve always been a little sick. My aunt, one of the most respected doctors in the supernatural world, hasn't found the source of my strange conditions, so I give myself some grace when it comes to the user compatibility of my creation.

  “You signed up for this,” I groan into the bucket. “It’ll be fine, you said. Fucking dumbass.”

  There’s an irritating ringing in my ears, piercing through the throbbing ache as another wave of heaves passes. So much for Joey’s gift. It’s a battle to raise my head off the rim, but I manage to squint over to my phone. My mother’s name glows in the otherwise pitch black closet, and I stare, frozen, watching as it rings until eventually it goes to voicemail. But not a second later it kicks up again making me flinch, kickstarting another wave of pain. With a groan, I swipe it up and accept the call.

  “Hello,” I try not to slur, fighting back a gag at the leftover taste in my mouth.

  “You sound awful,”

  I sigh, eyes burning. “Hi mom.”

  “What’s wrong?” She sounds irritated, like I’ve gotten in the way of whatever message she’s so eager to deliver.

  “Nothing,” I make sure to hold the phone as far away as possible when I can’t stop a small sniffle, immediately gagging on the leftover vomit bits being sucked back down my throat. “Nothing, what’s up?”

  “You’re lying.” But she steam rolls on anyway. “If you had picked up earlier you would know already, but your grandmother is requesting you home for dinner.”

  That makes me sit up straight, eyes rolling in my head as the room continues to kilter forward. Swallowing hard, I try to make my next words clear and nonchalant.

  “I thought I was excused while on sabbatical.”

  “You clearly haven’t checked your email,” she sighs, and I begin to hollow out my chest. Draining out any emotion to leave my mind and face a clean slate.

  “I’m sorry, lab hours have been running late. I was up all night.” The lie rolls off my tongue like butter. “I hadn’t gotten the chance to look yet, I haven’t even had my lunch.”

  The best lies are based in truth. Strict parents rear sneaky children.

  “Well make sure you do,” she sniffs. “It’s Mabon tomorrow, and we will be hosting the Feast of Fortune.”

  Fuck, was it already that late into September?

  “The coven will be gathering together along with several special guests.”

  “That’s very nice,” I fight to keep my tongue.

  “Including a human.” That cuts all the spooling thoughts muddying my mind.

  “A human?”

  “A senator no less,” she hums, and I feel the hairs on my neck stand up, the interest in her tone. She almost sounds impressed.

  “Do you know him?” I hate how small and curious I sound. Tugging at mommy’s skirts again? I shove aside the memory of my cousins’ needling comments.

  “I’ve never met him personally,” while my mother is the representative for all Witches on the North American Council, her interactions with humans isn’t as significant. She prefers to keep to the wings, handling the less sexy, paperwork and litigating side of politics.

  “But you know of him,” I prod, holding the phone away again to spit into the bucket.

  “He’s a young senator from Ohio, quite popular from what I understand. He’s shown interest in a partnership to improve human relations.” Even though humans aren’t supposed to know we exist.

  “Sounds like an interesting guy.” I reply lamely. My mother’s silence is deafening.

  “You’ll get to meet him at dinner.” Which throws me back to my original question.

  “Why does grandma want me home for Mabon?”

  “Your research sabbatical has almost come to an end, Brigid.” She sounds oddly gentle. “It’s time to start thinking about how to further yourself and the family.”

  “I-I understand but–” Tap, tap, tap.

  “The family has put a lot of resources into caring for you. It was very hard all these years with you being so sick and needing those tutors.”

  Because I am weird and unremarkable. She doesn’t say it, but it hangs in the air between us. Like a butterfly that crawled out of its chrysalis too early, I emerged odd and half-baked. By all accounts, I should be as extraordinary as the rest of them. But something went wrong, leaving my mother unable to have any other children, and I’ve always wondered if she resents me for it.

  “Your grandmother has set up some opportunities for you. Just like she did for your cousins and your aunt and I when we were ready to step into our roles. You’ll still be able to finish your research through Yule. But after that, it’s time to move on to ventures more fitting of your capabilities.”

  “My capabilities?”

  “You know what I mean,” another sigh. “Listen, I have to go. Another cabinet meeting is–”

  “I understand.” My voice is hollow, throat tight with effort. Tap tap-tap tap

  “Don’t forget to read the email.” She reminds again and then she’s gone.

  I stare down into my bucket of vomit, not recognizing any of the food I’d eaten in it. Strangely, my stomach feels better after getting everything out. It doesn’t make sense, since I’ve been so hungry lately. But the hollow sort of ache is far more pleasant compared to the burning acid I’d been struggling through earlier.

  For just a moment, I think Clay might’ve been onto something, I could call in tonight. But after that phone call, it only makes me that much more invested in going in. The archives hold answers, I’m sure of it. Whatever opportunities my grandmother has for me can’t be good.

  Accepting my decision, I slowly amble to my knees. Using my phone’s camera and a spare roll of paper towels from the shelf, I clean up my face as gently as possible, trying to avoid looking any more red and puffy from puking my guts out. The burning of my body’s rejection has settled back into a low, constant ache. I massage my arms and legs briefly, especially around the joints to try and relieve the pain, but it’s more for my sanity’s sake than anything.

  Rolling my shoulders and grabbing the bucket to sneak to the nearest bathroom, I make a mental note to read my email. Just a few more hours to go before the real work begins.

  Ringless hands wrapped in white nitrile gloves cradle a tea cup once belonging to the consort of a Fae Queen. Its owner’s story is romantic and tragic, and I’d love to read more about it sometime, but the pulse of energy stemming off it is what I’m really interested in. The last archivist to accidentally touch it fell into a fit of laughter that wouldn’t end. She didn’t come back to work, but I think she survived. That’s why it’s stored in a lead-lined box in the low-upkeep section. Precisely why it’s so convenient to visit during my shift without bumping into anyone.

  Though, running into someone here is rare. The archive exists within some kind of pocket dimension, older than the castle itself. It doesn’t follow conventional rules of space like we expect, it stretches and compresses to accommodate the needs of its caretakers. I could turn the same corner and end up somewhere different each time. I think the last time I saw someone down here was about a month ago.

  Quietly recording my session, I describe the object, its storage, and known abilities. The cup’s energy wraps around my fingers almost affectionately, I can feel the weight of it attempting to wriggle under my skin. I only catch glimpses of sparking aether from the corners of my vision, it’s got a lot of built-up potential energy. I reach for my outdated tablet, a jury-rigged version of a Reaper Book that can read aether levels and give me insights into the magic’s construction. Knowing the structure of a spell helps me identify similarities or even shared traits with other schools of magic. It reminds me of studying DNA in biology class, there are so many markers for different expressions in spells that it can be dizzying to try and dissect. Especially the older, more complex spells. There are some artifacts that don’t even have a third of the expression traits I’ve found in other pieces from the same region, but centuries or decades later. Clearly, there is some kind of evolution, akin to how a language would develop.

  The tablet beeps, informing me the scan is complete. Reading the chart, I’m surprised to find multiple components that are an exact match to the base structure of Sanguimancy spells. Blood magic is almost as open-minded as sigil work, since most creatures, immortal or otherwise, bleed. Placing the tea cup back in its box, I return it to the shelves with care and a whisper of thanks for its participation in my research. I feel the caressing of magic across my gloved hands, bidding me goodbye before the lead-lined box seals it away once more.

  With research done for the time being, I tuck my research materials into my backpack and return to my duties for the day, upkeep in the Hall of Keys. It can be dull work, polishing each key before returning it to its proper place in the humongous floor-to-ceiling case. But after the hellish morning I’ve had, I could do with something mindless for a change. I fall into the flow, switching out gloves after each interaction to prevent any cross-contamination and speaking to each key as I go, noting how beautiful it is, how it feels in my hands before placing it back. The artifacts down here must get lonely, I’m sure. It’s not part of the training, but I find speaking to them makes the work go smoother.

  By the time I’ve finished the hall, my stomach is twisting in hunger, but the last thing I want to do is eat. Swiping my palm on the Keystone, the archives acknowledge my existence with a small rumble, before the stone wall splits open for me to leave. The library is now dark for the evening, but no less bustling. A nocturnal book club is having their biweekly meeting in one of the group rooms, while a group of friends is pouring over the comic books in the teen lounge. Quietly, I work my way over to the eastern tower wall, where a hidden stairwell climbs up towards Clay’s apartment. I barely have the energy to light a witch orb with one of my necklaces, using it to guide my steps on the steep, uneven stairs.

  When I do make it back to the apartment, dawn is starting to break. My stomach protests again, and I give in to its request, snagging a small handful of shredded cheese from the fridge. Scarfing it down, I feel the immediate relief, though I know it’ll be brief. Kicking off my shoes, I snag my phone and tablet from my backpack and head to my room to further analyze the teacup’s readings.

  Back in bed, I open my phone to see the reminder notification. I promised mother I would read the email. But I really don’t want to; acknowledging it means accepting I have to return home. But then again, a quick glance won’t hurt, just to know if I need to take off work tomorrow. I’d be in deep shit if my grandmother came here looking for me to drag back home. It’s too great a risk.

  Opening the email, I do a quick key-word search to find what time I’m needed. Thankfully, the dinner is set for six, meaning I should be back in time for the start of my shift. The rest can be figured out after I’m done. I scroll through and annotate my findings, hands feeling heavy with fatigue. When I make the sixth typo in a row, I decide to give in and let my exhaustion finally win.