Chapter 7: S1 Hidden: Book of Light & Shadow

Sophia Mahoney

Wait. Holy fuck! Did I just agree to eat breakfast with him?

Sophia locks the door and engages the deadbolt. Still unsure of what just happened, she picks up the safety chain and slides it into place.

What am I thinking? Or should that be not thinking at this stage of the game?

The door handle jiggles, and she jumps back, eyeing the handle as if it grew a mouth and teeth.

"Make sure it stays locked." Aden's voice rises over the outside sounds on the other side of the door.

Peering through the peephole, the side of his chiseled face comes into view. "Okay. I g-got it."

He turns the knob a second time, a third, and then walks down the cement steps.

Hmm. A bit obsessive-compulsive there, Aden?

Exhaling a ragged breath, Sophia leans against the door and closes her eyes. Thoughts of the day come crashing in on her - first, the unproductive call with the detective about her uncle's case, which, just like the other calls, is going nowhere fast. Then the academic sabbatical paperwork that had kicked her ass.

The jog in the park, one of her only stress-relieving vises, sure as shit didn't fill her with a sense of peace. If anything, the attack only punctuated the shitstorm month taking place by highlighting just how fragile life really is.

The masked man's words from the park - or whatever the hell he was - whispered through her thoughts along with the notion of wings.

Enormous, leathery wings like an oversized fucking bat. Rabies came to mind. Don't bats carry that crap?

"Fuck." She shook her head. "I need to focus. I'm all over the fuckin' place."

Okay, he wanted something and asked for it by name.

He had asked about a book. A specific one. Something he called the Book of Light and Shadow.

Uncle Hugo, God rest his soul, used to collect all kinds of books - not really uncommon since he owned a bookstore. The ones he treasured most were anything but ordinary.

But they damn sure weren't mystical in any sense of the word. No, their owners often neglected them. Many of them, old and falling apart when they finally came to him, and they always needed repair. But he'd cherished every one of them, breathing life back into their delicate pages.

Uncle Hugo always told her that books provide a gateway through time, allowing readers to glimpse the past, present, and future timeline. A ripple set in motion in the past always had a hand in shaping the present and the future events to come.

Her mind drifts back to his most cherished and prized pieces, which he always kept locked and secured in an old, air-tight bookcase. It wasn't a typical, everyday run-of-the-mill case. No. This piece of furniture wore the Old-World charm of a French chateau.

Uncle Hugo, what did you get me into?

Walking away from the door, she peers out the window, closes the curtains, turns around, and then makes her way down the darkened rows of shelves.

Small floodlights at the shelving base create an amber glow that spills across the floor every three feet. At the back of the room, in the far corner, stands her uncle's beloved case.

The distressed black finish with silver trim matches the cherry veneer backing. It creates a wholesome warmth with a sense of rich heritage. Even the rounded corners soften the look, and the sliding beveled glass doors, with crown molding, add to the exquisite details of the piece.

She stands on the tips of her toes and skims her fingers over the top of the bookcase. A smile blooms on her lips.

Memories of her uncle hard at work in the restoration room and her snooping around come to mind. No matter how many times he caught her sneaking about and lectured her, she couldn't help herself. She had to touch the old leather bindings of the books, smell the aged ink and paper. To her, those delicate bodies contained the smell of home.

She searches, brushing her fingertips against the cool, hard exterior of the case. The cold surface of the skeleton key slides, and she plucks it from its hiding spot.

The simplistic act incites another smile to dance across her lips. Unlocking the case, she scans the contents. Her eyes lock onto two books, her uncle's favorite go-to bodies.

They're old, worn, and weathered - catalogs from the 1930s. Pulling them from the shelf, Sophia makes her way to the parlor room and plops in the middle of the brown leather sofa. Skimming through the pages, she doesn't find a listing for the mentioned book.

Time for a modern search.

Sophia grabs her laptop off the coffee table. She powers it up, then logs into the bookstore's online catalog. But there's no listing for it there either. Opening a browser window, she conducts an internet search.

Several images of books come into view. They're all Wiccan-related, and many of them appear to be spell books for witches.

Okay. So, the masked guy at the park thinks I'm Wiccan, or he's bat-shit crazy.

She shakes her head.

Wiccans. What the fuck?

Her internet search pulls page after page of spell books, recipes, how to find one's true love, and how to initiate a curse or lift a hex.

Witchcraft. The thought blows her mind. How does anyone believe in that crap, anyway? And what the hell was he? Because he wasn't human. People don't sprout wings. And why would he - or his master, as he called him - think I had what they were looking for? And who has a master, anyway?

Sophia stretches her legs out on the couch and continues to search the web, looking for any clue that may lead to what he was and the Book of Light and Shadow. Each search she pulls leads her to another dead-end.

Yawning, she shuts her laptop and sets it on the coffee table. She lays back, closes her eyes, and then sinks into the familiar folds of the couch.

A thought lingers as she drifts off. Am I going crazy? And if so, would I know?