Page 118 of Nightshade

“Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t.”

The uneasy feeling in my gut twisted tighter. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important. Promise me you will read the story.”

“I promise.”

She gave a slight smile and took the flyer still dangling from my fingertips. After folding it in half, she tucked it inside the book’s cover. “Go now. Your escort is waiting on you.”

“Won’t you tell me your name?”

Lips pursed, she huffed. “If you insist. My name is Catriona.”

“Catriona,” I echoed. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. Now go.”

Leaving the woman standing there, I pressed the book to my chest, curious to know the story it held, and scampered back down the stairwell. To my relief, the hidden door at the bottom slid to the side on its own, and I hustled back down the winding stairwell to the lower level, where Jericho stood looking around.

“Hey, I’m here.”

“I asked you not to wander far.”

“I didn’t. Just … grabbing a book.”

He strode up to a gray-haired woman standing behind a counter, who wore thin spectacles that she adjusted as we approached. When Jericho set his book on the counter, I caught a slight trembling in her hands as she reached for it.

“Will that be all, Mister Van Croix?”

He jerked his head toward me. “And her book.”

“Oh, um. Catriona told me it was mine to take.”

“Catriona?” The woman glanced toward Van Croix and back to me, wearing a perplexed expression.

“Yes, she’s up on the third level. Behind the wall door thingy.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not quite understanding what you’re saying. There’s no one here by the name of Catriona. And we don’t have a third level.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you do.” On a confused laugh, I shook my head. “I just … there was a wall that moved. And creepy stairs? A bunch of really old books up there.”

“Tell you what, how about I take a look at the book and see if we have it listed in stock.”

“Sure.” I handed it off to her, watching her slide the spectacles down her nose and back. Brows knitting to a frown, she bent below the counter and lifted an enormous book, flipping it open to what looked to be a ledger of all their titles. “We’ll just search by date.” When she cracked open the spine of the book I’d held, she frowned again, flipping through its pages. “No date. No bother, we can search by title.” Running her finger down the list that ran into the next page, and the next, and the dozen or so which followed after that, she shook her head. “It doesn’t show record of this book as our inventory.”

“I … I swear …”

Perhaps it was the thoroughly confused expression on my face that had her eyes softening and her lips stretching to a sympathetic-looking smile. “It’s all right, dear. Keep it. No charge.”

“No, but I …” I rubbed the back of my neck where that creepy, prickly sensation hit me again. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

“Absolutely.”

The uneasy feeling stuck with me, as we exited the bookstore. On the way back to the carriage, I made a point to approach those who passed us, inquiring about my father. No one I’d asked had seen him, which led me to believe I’d never find him in this place. While intrigued by the book that lay on my lap, after we’d climbed back into the carriage, I felt lost and exasperated, depressed by the possibility that I’d have to abandon the search for my father and return to my old life.

Which meant jumping that damn cliff.