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The woman accepted the money and stuffed it in a jar before rising from her chair, kneecaps popping from the movement. She peeked around the outside of the tent and pointed down the street. “On the corner there. That two-story building with the red doors.”
“Thanks,” I replied with a tight smile, pulling my hood over my head and tucking the book in the inner pocket of my jacket. I walked briskly through the rain and out of the stretch of tents, the sound of the market fading as the rain picked up and thundered over the top of my head.
In truth, I had absolutely nothing to do today besides wander around. Weekends were quiet on campus save for the raging Friday and Saturday night parties that took place in the dorms or on Greek Row. Facility housing had an air of bored calm to it, and instead of holing up in my cottage all weekend, I’d decided to get out and explore. This would be the only autumn I’d witness at Gatlington. My single year tenure would expire next summer.
I reached the building the woman had pointed at in a few minutes and pushed my way inside just as the wind started to pick up, spreading sheets of frigid rain and a cascade of red leaves tumbling over the wet street outside. A bell above my head chimed as I closed the door behind me with some effort and pulled down my hood.
The scent of parchment and leather hit me, mingled with a heavy mix of dust and wood polish. I arched my brows as I looked up, my eyes coasting over the bookshelves that went to the top of the pitched ceiling, two stories high. A loft took up half the space on the second level, overlooking the tightly packed area directly below.
Smaller bookshelves stood back to back and created a maze throughout the shop. A dusty counter housed an old-fashioned cash register with a sticky note hanging from it, the edges faded and the tape curling at the edges, fringed with dust. Cash only.
The burgundy carpet was flattened and worn from years of tread, and the short shelves held an array of books covering an insane combination of topics. Nothing looked to be organized.
I unzipped my jacket and stepped deeper into the shop, looking up as I passed beneath the loft and into the dark recesses of the store.
If I was looking for an adventure today, I’d found one.
I took a careful step over a mouse trap lying in the center of the aisle I traversed down and ran my fingertips over the spines of books. A shuffling sound caught my attention, and I looked up just as a blond man roughly my age stumbled down the staircase leading down from the loft. He gripped the banister for support, cursing under his breath. He met my eyes, gave me a tight smile, and gingerly walked down the rest of the stairs before disappearing into the stacks.
I turned my attention back to the stacks but had the overwhelming feeling of being watched as I traveled farther into the dust-covered shelves, the light from the front of the store nearly fading to black.
But a glimmer caught my eye, and I reached into a shelf and pulled out a book, weighing it in my hands. The Encyclopedia of Gothic Art, 2nd Edition fell open into my hands as I scanned the first few pages.
Whitney would love it.
“Can I help you find anything?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin as a male voice sounded somewhere over my shoulder. I turned, finding the blond man who’d nearly fallen down the stairs standing right behind me, his hands tucked into the pockets of his purple corduroy pants. Since he was several inches shorter than my 6’3’’ stature, I had to look down at him.
His glacier blue eyes dropped to the book in my hand. “Oh, now that’s a good one. I forgot I had it here. I have the third and seventh additions as well if you’re interested, but none of the rest. Still looking for those. A never-ending search!”
I closed the book and tucked it under my arm. “Are you Bill Livingston, by chance?”
“Depends on who’s asking,” he replied with a wicked grin. “Why? Are you a cop? No... not with that accent. What brings you from Liverpool, chap?” His grin only widened.
“How the hell did you know I’m from Liverpool?”
“You got the scouse, the accent.” He waved a hand in dismissal, then abruptly turned on his heel and motioned me to follow him back to the entrance of the store. “Let me guess, you’re attending Gatlington University?”
“No, not exactly. I’m a professor there.”
“Oh?” He arched his brows at me as he rounded the counter and swept his arm across it, dragging loose papers and half-bound books to one side. I set down the book I’d been carrying and fished in my pocket for my wallet as he continued, “Professor of what? Art history? English?” He motioned to the book.
“No, sociology and anthropology. How much do I owe you?”
“For what?”
“Uh, the book?”
“Oh, this.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head dismissively. “Seeing as I forgot I had it, I won’t be missing it, will I? Just take it.”
“I can’t,” I laughed. “Seriously, how much? This is a rare print—”
“Whoever you’re buying it for will find it far more valuable than I do, trust me. But listen, if you need anything at all, let me know. I have ample connections in the literary world and can get my hands on just about any copy of a book you need, even a first addition.” He shrugged, then tilted his head toward a doorway behind the counter. A curtain of beads hung still in the slightly damp air. Whatever was back in the inky black recesses of the room behind him likely contained just those types of books—priceless prints.
I looked him over fully in the light. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, wiry, and had an air of what I could describe as chaos about him that for whatever reason, I was immediately drawn to. “I will. Thanks, I mean it.” I nodded at him, tucking the book with the copy of the Iliad I’d bought earlier, and made my way to the door.
“Keep your guard up at Gatlington, scouser,” he added.
