“As you all fucking saw, I am still in the same fucking skin bag and that bitch is alive, so I am up to 130 days.” Deg’Doriel swipes a clawed hand over his face and to the back of his neck in a human show of exhaustion. He unclips his white collar. “Some housekeeping, Kragnash and Buster send their regards. As you can guess, he’s very busy with the re-election so we won’t be seeing much of him for a while. I expect to see you all out supporting him in November. There are planned police checkpoints in the Docklands and South Shores for the next few weeks, so stay clear.”
He goes on to list a few more details that mean nothing to me. None of these really affect how I will go about my time. I do not have to hunt like most of the drivel here. My food comes to me. The library, for as long as the concept has existed, has always been a beacon for the curious, foolish, and weary parts of humanity. Humans have always been the type to congregate, and I found my sleepy hunting grounds in their place of study. Scholars and upper echelons of society used to gather amongst the hallowed halls, and it was so easy to prey upon their deepest emotions.
The crowd has not changed drastically from century to century, but my hunting ground has a way of bringing forth a rare and exquisite delicacy. A soul, a scrap of a meal so filling, they consume me in a way I want to solely consume them. They are a once-in-a-lifetime meal, one that threatens the grasp I have on my control.
My sands trembled at the memory of my first taste of the morsel who came to the library eighteen months ago. If I had known then what an addiction she would become, I still would have dabbled in her dreams. In her luxurious golden aura and the savouriness of her fear, the sweetness of her arousal, it is easy to forget myself and the monotonous drag of our existence. She is simply too delicious to ignore.
Her dreams are scattered and few between, even as exhaustion seeps from my new obsession’s every pore. But when she does slip and fall truly into my realm, it is nothing short of glorious how she frees herself toeverypossibility.
But my old friend says something surprising that brings me back from my ruminations.
“And we will be hosting a monk for the Franciscan seminary in three months’ time for a year. He isn’t to be scammed, possessed, or eaten during his sabbatical here. Apparently, the idiot thinks he wants to be a priest, and with any luck, he will be my new skin bag. So do not fuck this up for me.”
“Oh, so possessive already, Padre,” Ramón teases, heavy tail swaying behind him.
The demon growls but says nothing more. Doug, as the current priest he wears is called, is maybe 40 years old. Definitely not at the current retirement age for humans. Something else about this skin suit must be bothering him. Another time I will ask when we are both feeling more patient.
All in all, a short meeting I am happy to be done with. I pack away my journal and tuck my pen into its inner pocket. Before Ramón can annoy me further and before the ghoul, Arlo, can introduce himself to me properly, I leave Our Lady for work. The library and, if my luck persists,shewaits for no one but me.
And I am so very hungry this evening.
2
Joanna
I’m here again. My body is exhausted, but my mind is restless. That’s been the pattern lately, my thoughts refusing to settle, so I lay awake in bed for hours until the sun crests over the horizon and light filters through my thin curtains. I’ve tried all the usual methods of sleep aids- soothing teas, sleep casts, meditation, weed, masturbation. None of them stops the tidal wave of anxieties and stress, making guilt churn in my stomach and making my eyes burn from exhaustion.
Sleep should be an escape from the nightmare of my everyday life, but I can’t find it.
My life isn’t really a nightmare, by any means. For a short time, after my moms died, I got lost in the go-between of foster homes and university. That was a nightmare. Nobody knew what to do with me, so I did everything I could to prove to them I was fine. No matter how my situation changed, when I was moved on to the next placement because one person didn’t want me, I always told the social worker I was fine. I’ve always been a people pleaser, a trait my mimi instilled in me at a young age. When I was sixteen, I latched on to it to try and keep her with me, even if it hurt me.
As I got older, I realised that everyone is holding onto something they shouldn’t and mine really isn’t that bad in the grand scheme of life. I went through a phase of reading self-help books, so I try to frame my situation in a positive light when I can.
My flat on the south side of the river is a bit damp and I can’t keep it warm. But the bus can get me to work every day, and I can afford the rare fancy barista coffee or new shoes if I am indeed desperate. Work is shit, but who doesn’t have a shit job these days? I’m not starving, and I’ve got a roof over my head. My life shouldn’t feel like such a nightmare.
Yet when I slog home from work day in and day out, the monotony of it all is a hellish nightmare I can’t escape. The boring routine has made me feel like a drone, a worker bee slaving away for its queen. There are times I want to believe it is because of the industry I work in, but I am even more frightened of the idea that every job will be like this one. I am belittled and ignored, but at least I know the enemy here.
There is comfort in knowing that every day will be the same shit. I don’t have excitement or an adventure to look forward to, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have the energy for that anyway. I don’t feel anything except tired these days.
Except I can’t sleep. My mind is constantly abuzz with a need to do… something, anything that could make me feel alive again. A shackle around my ankles that I slowly drag behind me each and every day.
So on nights like these, I throw on some clothes, whatever is soft and doesn’t smell like the laundry I haven’t done in weeks, and I go to the library. There is a sense of safety at these ungodly hours on the north side of the river that I don’t always feel in South Shores. The security guard is stoic but always polite. The handful of homeless people seeking refuge and the internet are near the newly renovated front addition that holds the tech area and community resources.
I wander further into the building, leaving the shiny extension and into the real majesty of the library. Antique fixtures, low yellow lighting, and the slightly musty smell of dust and old books all transport me back in time. Built in the late 1600s, the Ravenscroft Somnium Library is one of the oldest buildings in town, at the centre of the historic district and open all night long. It takes me an hour on the bus to get here, but it is always worth the fare.
The interior is almost overstimulating. While the exterior of the building is just like every other Neo-Classic building in the district and blends in with the terraced shops and houses, the inside is like something fromThe Picture of Dorian Gray. Dark wood bookshelves are crammed from floor to high ceilings with books and tomes. Where there isn’t a bookshelf, there are frames and frames of art pieces, each with a small brass plaque next to it. The curtains on the wall are a lush, ruby-red colour. The fixtures are ornate. All the little wires and modern essentials are painstakingly hidden away within the designs of the wallpaper or moulding.
A beautiful space for a beautiful librarian.
He is at his usual station,the librarian. He ardently works, reviewing books and taking notes of the damage behind a grand, tall desk. I can’t tell if he is old or young, happy or tired. He is as resolute as the stone columns outside the library.
Maybe that is what I like about him. He doesn’t change, and he’s always working, like me. I’ve turned him into some sort of fixture of comfort and security in my mind because even when I feel like I am losing my grip on reality he’s right there at that desk. A beacon I can rely on.
For a moment, I watch him from a nearby stack stuffed full of cracked leather-bound books. He’s tall– long and lean, with sharp features that make the shadows dance across his olive skin. Well-groomed, his button-downs are neatly ironed and tucked into pleated trousers, a tie knotted perfectly around his neck and clipped to his shirt. He dresses like a professor from a different age, right down to his wire-frame glasses. Tonight, he is even wearing a hunter’s green tweed vest that makes him stand out more against the curtains. His dark golden hair catches the light when he looks up.
He’s spotted me.
Does he recognize me as a regular? I’ve never spoken to him before, because I have never needed to in the months of nights I have spent here. This is where I go to feel anything, to hopefully catch some sleep before I have to rush home and prepare for work.
