Chapter 1

Lost Library

An Urban Fantasy Romance Series

Kate Baray

Copyright © 2014 by Catherine G. Cobb
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to people, places,

persons, or characters are all intended as fictional references

and are the work of the author.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Lizzie Smith had been Lizzie since before she could remember. When she moved back to Texas a few years ago—new job, new friends, new city—she tried to make the change to the grown-up version of her name. But Elizabeth hadn’t stuck. She also cut her long curly locks to what she imagined was a more mature medium-ish length. Over thirty and still answering to Lizzie seemed to scream perky—and Lizzie wouldn’t describe herself as perky.

But her name and her shorter curls stayed. She was still Lizzie Smith at thirty-four. A not particularly perky, not especially young, but not very old, Lizzie. She liked herself. Well, for the most part—everyone had flaws. But she didn’t think of herself as particularly unusual in any way. She wasn’t brilliant, artistic, or gorgeous. Just average.

When she received a large padded envelope, addressed in handwritten capital letters to Elizabeth Smith, a name not one friend or family member used, it stood apart from the similarly addressed bills and junk mailers. Not a bill, not from a close friend…

She picked up the padded envelope along with several bills, a fundraiser request—it was from her alma mater, so what else could it be—and the normal assortment of miscellaneous junk mail. She thrust everything under her arm and hurried into the house. Austin, Texas wasn’t cold often, but the temperatures had been abnormally low, record-breaking even.

Several minutes and two happily-pottied dogs later, she sat at the kitchen table to investigate her unusual mail. Hand addressed packages weren’t common, and receiving one was an event. She planned to savor the moment. As she’d set the package down on the table earlier, she’d recognized the unique heft and size of a hardcover book.

Hot tea ready at her elbow, she opened the package. Carefully slitting the package open, she discovered she’d been partially correct. When she tipped the contents out on the table, a book emerged. But not a standard, mass-produced hardcover. The cover was dark green, worn leather. The edges were battered and faded to a lighter mossy green. But, even showing its age, it was a gorgeous old book. Thumbing the edge, she discovered the pages were thick and likely hand cut. Seeing no title or author printed on the cover, she flipped it open to examine the title page.

Lizzie’s eyesight wasn’t perfect. A few too many late nights cuddled in bed with her Kindle, or one too many paperbacks read by flashlight under the covers as a child—who knew? But she passed her driver’s eye exam every time it came up, and really, who could read the tiny white letters on street signs? That’s what GPS was for. Still, it was possible her eyesight was more impaired than she thought. Because those tiny, faded letters, swam on the page.

She closed the book, rubbed her eyes, then got up and flipped on an extra set of lights. Once again sitting in front of the book, she flipped the front cover open…and couldn’t believe her eyes. Bold red ink, where there had been faded blue. And there was no question—the words on the page swam…and flipped…and maybe even glowed. Thump. She let the book fall closed.

Confused by the book’s contents, several competing questions pushed into her mind. “Who might have sent it?” won the contest, since that was a question she might be able to answer. Standing up, she walked over to the recycle bin and retrieved the discarded padded envelope.

Just as she’d seen on her initial inspection, there was no return address to mark the sender, and no postage mark. She shook the envelope sharply, cut side down. But no note appeared. She reached her hand inside and swept from side to side to ensure no message was hiding or stuck inside. Nothing.

This was the moment when average Lizzie Smith might have decided she’d been the victim of mail tampering—perhaps LSD? Average Lizzie might think she was hallucinating, maybe feverish? Average Lizzie might have decided she needed medical attention.

But she didn’t call a friend for a ride to the hospital. She didn’t call her doctor to schedule a checkup. She didn’t even make an eye appointment with the ophthalmologist. What Lizzie did was sit down, drink her tea, tuck her feet under a napping dog…and study a book.

This was the day Lizzie Smith decided that, while she might not be perky, brilliant, artistic, or gorgeous—she might not be average, either.

Chapter 2

Two years later…

When does magic become commonplace? Lizzie contemplated the question. Was there a tipping point? After a certain amount of exposure, was it simply no longer the fascinating stuff of wishes and dreams?

The freakishly cold winter reminded Lizzie of a similarly cold winter two years ago, when she received what she thought was a wondrous gift. A magical book containing ever-changing, handwritten text—her first peek at what she believed to be magic. Each time Lizzie opened the book, a new entry appeared on the first page. Sometimes in red ink, sometimes black, occasionally in unusual shades of violet or green. The writing ranged from loopy, feminine cursive, to printed block letters.

Each entry was different, of that Lizzie was certain. Her logs recorded the date she opened the book, the color of the ink, and descriptions of the writing. She spread the records out on the table in front of her. Looking at them, she assured herself that, indeed, the entries were never the same. Beautiful script—and that was one constant, the writing varied but it was always beautiful—colorful messages, magically changing. How could Lizzie not be in awe? The words turned on themselves, swam and flipped on the page. So Lizzie concentrated harder and looked more closely at the page. But, two years later, the words still swam. She was no closer to reading its contents than when it had arrived.

Lizzie—never one to give up on the first, tenth, or even fiftieth try—experimented with a variety of techniques to still the moving words. During various attempts, a mirror, a feather, a candle, steam, ice cubes, and spit were employed. The last involved a late night, a few stout homemade margaritas, and an especially high level of frustration. So to say that the wondrous magical-ness of the unreadable book had become somewhat less wondrous over the intervening two years, was not incorrect.

After an especially disappointing late night of book gazing—she could hardly call it reading—Lizzie decided she needed reinforcements. For some unknown reason, she felt a strong push this week to solve the old mystery. Who did a thirty-six year old, relatively sane—she thought—woman call, when she needed to consult on the interpretation of her magical book? Not anyone who would immediately recommend institutionalizing her. That only left her best friend of twenty years.

If she couldn’t rely on twenty years of sane, shared history to prevent an immediate call to emergency services, then she decided the book itself would provide evidence of her story. So after a good night’s sleep, she called Kenna McIntire, her best friend. Then she packed up the book and headed to Kenna’s house. The result was one newly invigorated woman, a magical book, a long-time friend, and some excellent coffee, all converging early on a Saturday morning.

***

“Two years ago, you received an anonymous package with a mojo book inside? And you’ve kept this from your very best friend for two years? Two years?” Kenna responded to Lizzie’s tale of wonder, magic, and mystery with a tiny bit of surprise...and annoyance.

Lizzie knew she should have left out the dates.

“I would have told you sooner, but I didn’t think any rational person would believe the flying, changing words, part of the story. It’s a stretch for me to believe, and I’ve seen the book.” Lizzie’s words held a distinctly defensive tone.

Kenna clarified. “Oh, don’t be confused. I think you’ve gone around the bend. I just can’t believe you kept such a huge secret from me for so long. For two years. Even if there is no such thing as magic—and I’m not saying there is or isn’t—you believe there is. And if a friend has a life-changing experience, like, oh—say, getting a magic book, she should share that life-changing experience with her best friend. Immediately,” Kenna concluded.

A little concern peppered with humor, that was Kenna. But her flippant attitude about magic—maybe there was, maybe there wasn’t—was very unlike her. Kenna, with her sleek blond bob, trim figure, and attention to detail, was no nonsense…except in her persistent efforts to set Lizzie up on the perfect date. She was all nonsense when it came to Lizzie and men, or so Lizzie thought. And, apparently, in her belief that magic might exist. That was news to Lizzie. If she’d known her friend secretly watched Supernatural, and believed it, she’d have considered fessing up much faster.

“You haven’t mentioned medicating me yet. That’s a good sign, right?” Lizzie decided that clarifying whether or not Kenna intended to call 911 should be a priority in this conversation.

Kenna looked at her steadily and refrained from comment.

Uh-oh. Time for the evidence.

She pulled out the Book—when she’d started thinking of it as Book with a capital B, she wasn’t entirely sure—and flipped it open to the first page.

After turning the Book around and presenting the first page to Kenna, she said, “Other than the dancing words, there is also the changing text. Every time I open it, there’s a different entry.”

She closed and reopened the Book, then she showed Kenna the first page a second time. Lizzie’s eye caught on the bold, black, slanted writing on the page as she turned it toward her friend. She looked up and, for the first time during the conversation, she saw real concern on Kenna’s face.

“Honey, there’s nothing on the page. It’s blank.” Kenna reached a hand out to her and pressed Lizzie’s fingers reassuringly.

The Book fell to Lizzie’s lap. She glanced between Kenna and the Book.

“No. That’s insane! How can you not see it?” Lizzie was slowly shaking her head over and over. “I don’t feel like I’m crazy. Delusional for two years and no one notices? You didn’t notice?”

Her voice had slowly escalated in speed and volume as she spoke. Realizing this, Lizzie stopped and took a slow, deep breath. “The Book has always seemed real to me – weird, but real.”

She handed Kenna the Book.

“Look again. Please,” she begged.

In the back of her mind, the specter of mental illness slowly rose. It was shocking, really, that she had never seriously considered something was wrong with her. That someone might think she was crazy? Sure. But not that she actually was crazy. Not since that very first day when she received the Book. Wasn’t the total commitment to belief in the face of something so entirely abstract and unreal, evidence itself of mental illness? Lizzie’s hand went to her midriff as a sick feeling started in the bottom of her stomach.

As Kenna’s hand closed on the Book, she made a small sound of pain and dropped it. Looking at the Book on the floor, she slowly rubbed her fingertips together.

“What—” Lizzie began, but Kenna interrupted, the surprise on her face clear.

“I think your book has an alarm system.” Kenna straightened and took a step back from the Book.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Lizzie frowned in confusion. “Did it hurt you?”

Great. Not crazy, just stupid. She’d brought an evil and dangerous object into her best friend’s house and placed it directly into her hands. Excellent friendship skills officially displayed.

Both women looked at the Book resting innocently on the patterned wool rug. Another moment of silence passed. Kenna seemed to be lost in thought.

When she didn’t reply right away, Lizzie said, “Kenna? Hey.”

“No. No, it didn’t hurt me. Not really.” She blinked a few times, as if clearing her head. “Before I touched it, it hummed or vibrated a little. Like a cell phone on silent. But then it was hot to the touch and the vibration increased.”

“It was hot but didn’t burn you?” Lizzie asked, as she inspected Kenna’s hand.

“My hand’s fine. As soon as I let go, the feeling stopped. Like no burn I’ve ever experienced, that’s for sure.” She waited patiently, hand held out, until Lizzie was done.

If Lizzie was looking for evidence of magic that would convince her friend, this was it. However unexpected it was.

Kenna reached down to pick up the Book again. Before she could pick it up, Lizzie said, “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Kenna replied with a shrug, “I have no idea. But it doesn’t actually hurt.” She looked down at the Book again.

“I can’t see the words. You can’t feel the heat or vibration. Something bizarre is definitely happening with this book. Besides,”—she gave Lizzie a cheeky grin—“I may be mostly practical, but I find the idea of magic completely fascinating. So I’m willing to admit there may be mojo involved.”

Several trials later, Kenna and Lizzie reached a few conclusions. Lizzie could pick up the Book with no effect, but Kenna experienced the “alarm.” Kenna described the pages inside as hazy. No words or characters were visible, the pages were simply unclear, like an out-of-focus picture.

After repeated trials with no new information, they set the Book aside. Both were convinced that there was something unexplainable about the Book. Magic? Maybe.

Kenna spoke first. “We can’t tell anyone about this.”

Lizzie nodded emphatically. “Agreed. They’d think we’re nuts.”

Kenna nodded her head with a thoughtful look on her face. “Or want the book.”

Kenna didn’t have to explain who “they” were. Bad-guy, magic people, the authorities… “They” could mean almost anyone, because a book like this held appeal and value for a vast array of individuals and organizations. She could only hope that her and the Book’s safety would be ensured through secrecy. She hadn’t really worried up till now, because the Book had been hers alone. It was as if by sharing it with Kenna, she had somehow let the secret out into the world to be discovered. Silly. But that was how she felt.

Kenna interrupted Lizzie’s troubled thoughts when she said, “Have you thought about where it came from? Why it came to you?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “It’s been two years. Of course I’ve thought about that. Also, what’s it for? What’s written in it? Are there other magical books? I stopped myself at some point, because the questions really can become all-consuming.”

“That book may have come to you for a reason. Until you either understand what’s in it or know why you have it, I think keeping it under wraps is a good idea,” Kenna said.

“And if it’s dangerous?” Lizzie asked. The question had been buzzing around in her brain ever since Kenna had set off the Book’s “alarm.”

“You don’t truly believe that. If you did, you’d never have brought it here and invited me in on the secret.” Kenna paused and grinned. “Or you would have at least warned me first. And you have excellent instincts. ”

Lizzie hoped her instincts were correct this time. Because Kenna was right. She didn’t sense anything evil or wrong in the Book.

***

A few months passed without any significant progress. Occasionally, Lizzie caught a word out of the corner of her eye. But any focused attention produced the same disappointing result. The thrill of discovery—even discovery of magic—faded as time marched on and the book remained unreadable.

So on this particular and in every way unremarkable Tuesday, the wondrous and magical book, with ever-changing text and a built-in alarm system, was gathering dust in the bottom drawer of her desk—the only drawer that locked. She still recognized its value, but simply couldn’t maintain a high level of enthusiasm in the face of no perceivable progress. The book had finally lost its proper pronoun status in Lizzie’s mind. A perusal of her log would show the last entry dated a good two weeks previous. Life had intervened in the guise of bills, work required to pay bills, dog walks, and the occasional margarita night with her girlfriends. So, while not forgotten, the book and magic was far from the fore of Lizzie’s mind.

She certainly wasn’t thinking of magic books as she hushed her frantically barking dogs that evening. Her dogs weren’t big barkers, so she got up with some curiosity to see what all the fuss was about. Their attention was focused intently on the backyard. She squinted, looking out into the darkness. Her yard butted up against several acres of undeveloped land. Not a public green space, unfortunately, so the land wasn’t maintained. Just a property with overgrown grass, and trees scattered throughout.

Lizzie brought the dogs with her as she stepped out into the yard. She lived alone and was accustomed to handling minor household and neighborhood upsets, but the dogs were a comfort and made her feel a little braver. Not that she thought there was a burglar. Ha. Laughable. She quickly decided that turning on the backyard lights might be a good idea.

As she was turning back to the house, she saw a large animal loping away. She didn’t get a clear view, since she saw him through the wrought iron bars of her fence. But he didn’t look scared or in a hurry. Coyotes were bold and not particularly scared of humans—just cautious. So Lizzie thought it must have been a coyote. A large coyote…

At least it wasn’t a burglar, she thought, as she headed into the house. Silly to have worried over nothing.

Later that night, Lizzie lay in bed thinking about the coyote she’d seen. This was Austin. Central Texas was overrun with coyotes. They trolled suburban neighborhoods looking for easy prey, like neighborhood cats, small dogs, even garbage. Lizzie knew all about coyotes. Anyone living in Austin for very long could spot the leggy, spare creatures.

But the more she thought back, the more she questioned her conclusion. What she’d seen was more than three times the size of a coyote and much more densely furred. In that moment, standing in the darkness and with poor visibility, her mind had leaped to the most likely answer—coyote. But the animal she saw had looked much more like the neighbor’s Malamute, Spencer, than a coyote.

Spencer was a love. Big and slow at about 100 pounds, he was a fluffy, friendly, teddy bear of a dog. As she rolled over in bed, hunting a more comfortable position, she wondered if it was possible it had been Spencer she’d seen. She’d have to call the Cooks early tomorrow and double-check that Spencer hadn’t escaped.

She was asleep before she could consider what the too-big, too-fluffy, not-a-coyote, animal could have been, if not Spencer…

Chapter 3

Lizzie woke up with a feeling that she was supposed to do something. Dang it. That’s why there was a notepad by her bed. She could never remember her late night to-do lists. Right before sleep, seemed to be a productive time for her brain. But if she didn’t write her thoughts down on paper, it took her ages to remember them again. Grocery list, gone. Awesome idea for redecorating the guest room, gone.

Lizzie had been working on a client’s website for several hours before she remembered—Spencer! She rushed to her cell and called up the Cooks. Mrs. Cook answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Lizzie! How are you sweetie?”

Lizzie would be surprised if Spencer was missing. Otherwise, Mrs. Cook wouldn’t be so chipper. Spencer was her and her husband’s darling. Their kids were grown and out of the house, and Spencer reaped the benefits of all their spare time and attention. If Spencer were missing, Lizzie was sure she’d hear it in Mrs. Cook’s voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Cook. I’m good. Um, how’s Spencer?” Lizzie didn’t want to upset her for no reason. But it really had looked like Spencer. Mostly. Maybe a little bigger, a little darker than Spencer. Well, the more she thought on it…

“He’s just fine. Getting a little fat, the vet says, so he’s grumpy about his new diet. But otherwise, great. Why do you ask?”

“I saw a loose dog out behind my house. I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t Spencer. It didn’t occur to me that it might be him until really late last night, or I would have called earlier. Sorry, Mrs. Cook.” Lizzie said guiltily.

“No problem. Thanks for thinking of us. Oh! You don’t mean that big dog, the one running out back around ten o’clock? Robert swore it was a wolf-hybrid. I told him he was silly. This close into town, none of the neighbors would have a hybrid. Maybe out in the country, but not here. Spencer growled and barked like crazy, or we wouldn’t have even seen him.”

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