I

A shadow moved through the house in the early hours before dawn; slipping up the stairs as silent as the breeze, and under the bedroom door as easily as the air. Upon the bed, a woman was sleeping, having only just nodded off a few moments before. She was just beyond the barrier in the realm of slumber, but not so far that she was not aware of something coming near; as though she felt the chill of the shadow cross her brow. Little trembles spread across her back, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath the sheets. In the dark, she swam toward the surface of her dream, before she got too deep. A cold weight was suddenly upon her as someone seemed to lean over the bed. Margaret Kimball’s eyes suddenly shot open.

At first she saw nothing in the black but the silhouette of her bedside table, and the dark lump of the book upon its surface, next the the outline of the lamp. It was probably still warm, as it hadn’t been all that long ago that she put the novel down and switched out the light. The room about her was silent—almost oppressive in its still. Margaret rolled over, and stared toward the corner of the room, where the darkness clung its thickest. As her eyes adjusted, she almost thought she could see a figure there; cloaked in shadow. She couldn’t see much more than an outline of a body, but the pale image of a high forehead above deep intense eyes seemed to catch her attention—for a moment only, then it was gone. Margaret gasped, but then shook herself free of the thought. Whatever had been there, she was sure it was only a left over image from some dream she had been about to have.

Margaret reached over for the glass of water she always kept on the night stand, and took a swallow. She replaced it carefully in the dark, then positioned herself comfortably back upon the bed—this time on her back, so her face would be toward the dark corner—just in case. A few moments later she closed her eyes—but opened them again just as quickly.

It was there again, the figure. This time Margaret knew it was not some nightmare reflection. A man stepped out of the corner of the room and walked steadily toward her. He was dressed in somber grey clothing, and covered in a cloak or heavy coat of an elder style. Brooding dark eyes stared out of a stark white face, framed by longish hair. There was something familiar about the image, and she shivered, though she could not think of where she might have seen him before. He stepped toward her, then gracefully around the other side of the bed, toward the night stand where he seemed to vanish into the air.

Suddenly the book opened. She could see the white pages flipping even through the dark, as though caught in the wind. When it came to the end, it turned back to the front; resting upon the title page. As her vision came used to the gloom, she could see faintly the words she knew were there. “Fanshawe.” She’d been reading it just before going to bed. A guilty pleasure, for it was a First Edition, not a reader’s copy. But it gave her a thrill to absorb the words the way they had first been printed. It made her feel that much closer to the author of the work.

Margaret could only stare at the book as it stayed open for a moment, wondering if she had not left a window cracked, and it had just been the breeze that disturbed her from her sleep. But in the very next moment the pages suddenly flickered alight. A flame sprung from within, and in the glow, she could see that face again. It seemed to hover on its own, above the fire. The same dark brooding eyes gazed out from gaunt features she knew she had seen before. It was like a picture, a mere moment of life caught in time. Then it was gone, as though it, too, had been burned away.

Margaret could only stare at the fire as the book on her night stand burned, and the smoke filled the room. She choked, and then coughed furiously. She was sure she was going to die of affixation, when she suddenly remembered the glass on the night stand. She reached for it, and poured the contents over the flaming pages. Particles of white that had once been pages flittered about, dislodged by the flow of water. The fire steamed out and fizzled. But it was too late. All that was left was ash.

For a moment more, Margaret Kimball sat there; staring at the wreckage of her favorite, and only, collectible book. It was so sudden. So unbelievable. She couldn’t understand how it had happened, nor why. But what was even more amazing, was that the flame hadn’t seemed to touch any thing other than the pages. Her night stand, her bed, the wall behind it, the lamp, even herself, were completely untouched.

The image of the man she had thought she’d seen invade her bedroom came to her again, and she had the sudden realization of where she had seen his visage before. If it was not for the feel of the ashes as she ran her hands through the ruined pages, Margaret would have been sure it was all a dream. For the man she had thought she had seen had been centuries in the grave.

II

Life is a series of little deaths and rebirths. Like the Phoenix, we are forever remaking ourselves. But sometimes, we aren’t able to pick ourselves up from the ashes. And that is where the real trouble starts.

This was where Cole Booker was the day he received the knock on his door from the police officer serving the restraining order against his ex-girlfriend Kathryn, with whom he had been trying to re-kindle a relationship for the better part of the last year. The order, however, made it apparent that she had other thoughts on the matter. Cole had burned out into ashes very quickly upon the realization that all he had thought he had been struggling for as a lie built up in his own mind. The news the officer brought was proof that she had never believed it—and she wanted him out of her life. At that point, Cole Booker had no future. And in a way, he had no past—or at least not the one he thought he had.

After several weeks of drowning in alcohol and depression, he picked himself up at the insistence of friends, and returned to work. The first order of business was returning the calls of Edward Worthington—who had left no less than fifteen messages in his absence. In the course of two weeks, that was two a day. Plus this morning’s at dawn.

Figuring it was important enough to warrant a visit, Cole decided to return the messages in person. It would give him a chance to be out and about. So he headed to Worthington’s mansion up the hill on the north side of town, knowing that he would be there. Worthington always conducted his business at home.

When he knocked on the door, a very attractive, red headed maid answered. She looked as though she had been imported directly from Ireland, complete with a soft accent, and a twinkle of green within her eyes. She was dressed in a traditional maid uniform that showed her figure quite nicely. One thing that was nice about coming here was the attractiveness of all the girls that worked for the eccentric millionaire. Worthington required it. Unfortunately, he must have been a tough boss, because none of them seemed to stay very long. Cole would have found himself quite taken by this one, if not for the fact that after Kathryn, he thought it best to not get involved with anyone again. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself not too fall too deeply—especially not this soon.

“Tell him its Cole Booker,” he announced to the buxom, overpaid maid upon being informed that Worthington was in a meeting. “Book Detective. I’m sure he will wish to speak with me.”

“Mr. Booker, the Book Detective?” The girl responded instead with a pout of her full lips, proving to him just why she was overpaid. “That’s precious!”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Cole grumbled, not really in the mood for chat. With a girl like this, it could only get him into trouble. “Can you just get him for me?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Right on it,” the woman said, just before proving the opposite. She had led him into the sitting room and now leaned against the entryway, raising a very shapely leg to support herself against the wall. “So what’s your story, anyway?” She looked at him quizzically, dare he think, with interest? “Is that your real name, or did you change it? That’s gotta’ be some kind of coincidence! Or maybe you were destined to do this kind or work, huh? Although I’m sure you could work in a library or book store, too. You must love books…”

“Actually, I really don’t.” Cole cut off her speech before it could get too long. “I’m really not much of a reader. It takes too much time, when I’ve got so much other shit to do. I’m a much more active kind of guy. All my life people made fun of my name, telling me I should do something with books. So, here I am.”

There was a pause as the maid stood there looking at him. She seemed so languid about her duties, that he imagined that it wasn’t for her work ethic or ability that she had been hired. Though likely these were the exact reasons she would be fired, when the time came. Cole found himself thinking about what a shame that would be. He wanted to ask her name, but held back. It was too soon to go there.

“You work with books, but you don’t like them?” She said then. He could almost hear the pouting of her lips. “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Cole heard himself sigh; realizing that he was not going to get out of this very easily. Part of him wondered if the girl were flirting with him, but then decided that he would rather not know. After Kathryn, he was through with women. Besides, regardless of the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him, he still wanted to be with her. He couldn’t just switch his feelings so quickly—could he? “I love what I do. It takes a lot of investigating, and old fashioned “sleuthing” to track down a lot of the books my clients want. I specialize in old first editions, antiques, rarities. The top of the pile, so to speak. Nothing mass market, and nothing you’re likely to find in a basement used book shop. Often times there are only a few copies left in the world, and they are highly prized. I hunt down centuries old texts that most people have hardly ever heard of. It is a craft unto itself. You got to be able to recognize quality, and condition. It has nothing to do with reading, really. Hell, half my clients don’t even read. They just like the look of the volumes on their shelves, or they have so much money, that they’ve run out of other things to collect—like your Mr. Worthington. Takes a lot of investigative work, too, which is what I love. I had originally wanted to be a cop, but I couldn’t take the stress.”

The girl responded with a soft, “I see,” and then said nothing further. Cole felt a sharp pain in his heart as he realized that whatever he’d said, he’d somehow put her off. Though he thought he hadn’t cared, he wished now that he had simply continued with the flirtation, rather than whatever it was he had just done. Kathryn was the only woman he truly felt had ever understood him. That point became clearer to him every time he got into a situation like this one. It saddened him that he would not see her ever again. It was almost as though she were dead. At least they had that in common. For a little part of him was, too.

“You know, I’ve gotten fifteen calls from your boss,” Cole did his best to salvage the situation. “I really think you should let him know I’m here.”

The maid finally did as she was told, but she did not seem happy about it. Cole was not bothered, however. Worthington had been his best client to date, and no doubt had something important on his mind if he had left so many messages. Cole could feel the curiosity already boiling over in his veins. Just what would he be on the hunt for this time? A First Edition Poe? A thirteenth century illuminated manuscript? Some obscure piece of literature, rumored, and likely not, to exist? It was always something unusual, intriguing, often dangerous, but most importantly, expensive. It was just the type of thing he needed to pull him out of the abyss into which he’d stumbled—whatever it was. With fifteen messages it had to be good!

“Cole!” Worthington came into the room a moment later. Except the fact that his bald head and face looked like a scrunched up pug, Edward could have been a double for Hugh Heffner the way he dressed, acted, and walked. His physique was not bad for his age, but it surely took all his money to get anyone past his visage. “Where the hell you been?” He did not wait for a response, however, before continuing. “Been trying to get a hold of you for a job. But the clock is ticking. You interested?”

“Let me hear what you got.” Cole said. He didn’t care much for deadlines, preferring to have the time to explore a matter fully. But just now, he was more interested in the distraction. “And how much?”

“What I need,” Worthington began with an intake of breath and a heavy sigh. “Is a pristine copy of Fanshawe. Going price should be about 45K now. More if you doddle. I’ll give you a 25% finders fee if you get one for me this week. 20% the next. Or 15 after that, and so on.”

“Nathaniel Hawthorne’s first?” Cole frowned. Something was already troubling him about this. “That’s rare, sure. Especially in good condition. But don’t you already have one? What’s going on?”

There was a pause before Worthington would answer. Something about this troubled Cole.

“I had…” Worthington breathed heavily. “But not any more.”

“What’s happened to it?” Cole wanted to know. “Did you sell it? Loose it in a poker game or something?”

“No. Nothing so mundane,” replied a mirthless Worthington. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Scotch, and another for Cole without bothering to ask. “It was destroyed.” He paused to take a sip, then elaborated. “In a fire.”

“Ouch,” Cole sympathized with an intake of breath. He took the offered Scotch, though he didn’t much feel like drinking. “Did you loose anything else from your library?”

“Just that,” Worthington returned. “Fanshawe was the only thing burned.”

“That’s lucky,” Cole said. But the silence that followed made him think there was more to the story.

“Huh. Luck had nothing to do with it,” Worthington grumbled. “Someone set fire to it!”

“Just the one book?” Cole questioned. “Someone broke in and set fire just your First Edition Fanshawe?”

“Not exactly,” Worthington informed. “They didn’t break in.”

“What?” Cole was surprised. “Was it someone you know?”

“I’ve no idea who it was, Mr. Booker.” Worthington sighed. “Somehow, someone got into my house, found this one book, and set it to the flame in the middle of the library floor. By the time I got down stairs, not more than a few minutes later, they were gone, with no sign of exit. The book was ruined. But that’s not the point. I want you to get me another one.”

“Alright,” Cole began slowly; drawing out the syllables. “Do you have any leads for me?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a few here,” Worthington returned. “I’ll pass them on and authorize you to make an offer. You in?”

“Yeah. I’m in.” Cole breathed. “So you don’t know why or anything? That’s very bizarre. No suspects? I hope you’ve at least beefed up your security.”

Worthington sighed something that sounded like an affirmative.

“No suspects. No way he could have gotten in,” he confirmed. “But I wasn’t the only one hit.”

Cole raised his eyebrow. The case suddenly got much more interesting.

“You’re not?”

“At least four other Fanshawe owners have been hit as well,” Worthington dropped the bomb then. “There are only three more prime condition copies left. And I want at least one of them. I’ve got a safe prepared. I’ll pay your expenses, but you need to go now. I have a feeling that if these are not retrieved, then they won’t be around much longer…”

III

“So you’re looking for Nathaniel Hawthorne’s first, eh?” said Arthur Rose, the owner of “Works of Art; Rare And First Editions” in Boston, Massachusetts. Cole Booker had just made it in that afternoon at closing time, but had called ahead to make sure the store would stay open for him. He wanted to complete his task and get out of here as soon as possible. “Yeah. I’ve got a copy of that bugger around here. Fetches a pretty penny these days…”

Arthur was quite energetic for a squat little man, and easily maneuvered through the many book shelves of his dimly lit store. During ordinary hours it was much more inviting, but he had been in the process of shutting everything down for the night, so the lights were on half power. His store was a marvel. It specialized in first editions of all variety; from the more recent best sellers, to the older, rare original presses of the likes of Walt Whitman, Herman Melville, and quite a collection of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Though the books were located in various positions throughout the building, the rarest of them were behind lock and key. Fanshawe was no exception. Above a nicely packed row of other of Hawthorne’s works, the authors first novel, along with a First Edition “Scarlet Letter,” and a First “House Of Seven Gables,” not to mention a framed letter from one Herman Melville, praising Hawthorne’s work, and the reply letter, were all neatly tucked away within a glass case. Arthur unlocked it and took out the book, gently handing it over to Cole for his purview.

“This is the rarest of Hathorne’s books,” he said, pronouncing the name in the old way, before Nathaniel had changed it. “Not many of them left. He had self published it, you know, but later regretted it. Rumor has it that he used to collect all the copies he could find and burn them…”

Cole examined the book just long enough to make sure it was a true First Edition, and not a re-print done sometime later. He also checked to make sure it was in decent condition. Satisfied, he placed it under his arm, as though for safer keeping.

“I’ll take it,” he said; not wanting to take any more time with the transaction than necessary.

“Just like that?” Arthur was a little surprised—though pleasantly so.

“Yeah. I’ve got a plane to catch,” Booker went on; looking around as though he heard someone creeping about the stacks. “So could we speed things along? I also don’t want to keep you too late. I know you must want to get home…”

Before Arthur had a chance to answer, however, they were both distracted by a fluttering behind them. They turned and looked just in time to see a row of books come flying off the wall; scattering all along the ground. The pages fluttered furiously as though in a breeze. Cole and Arthur just had time to look back at each other when the rest of the books leapt from the shelving—save for the Hawthorne collection. Cole had the urge to flee when the lights flickered completely out. Suddenly he was shoved from behind. As he stumbled, the book was wrenched from his grasp.

Cole recovered just in time to hear the echo of foot fall bounding down the aisle. He looked around and spotted a black cloaked figure fleeing through the shadows. He gave chase immediately, but his progress was slowed as more books came soaring off the shelves in his direction; he had to keep ducking from the continuos onslaught. As the figure reached the end of the aisle, though, Cole was only a few steps behind him. He leapt the rest of the way, grasping the man around the waist. With a great and unexpected strength, the figure forced him off, and Booker went flying backward into a shelf, then crumpled to the floor with a rain of books all around him.

Arthur came bounding a split second after him, swiftly avoiding the mess, and racing on in the perpetrator’s wake. He rounded the corner only a few moments later, but as Cole rose to his feet, he saw a flicker of light from the other side, and heard sudden whoosh as though all the air had been sucked out of the world. Limping and sore, he moved to the end of the aisle and peered around the edge.

Arthur was huddled against the wall, rocking himself back and forth; murmuring repeatedly the words: “It’s him. It was him!” in a voice tinged with as much madness as it was grief. “Oh my God, I saw it, and it was him!” A few feet away, a lonely pyre slowly died out. The book had been reduced to ashes.

IV

The second copy that Cole set out to find was in the hands of a private collector in San Francisco. He went to the man’s house, in the hills above the bay. Secluded by Redwoods and Oak, it was a peaceful palace that seemed the last place likely to be touched by any foulness. The only thing that threatened the still was the continual roar of the ocean below. Some people were lulled to sleep by the sound, but Cole had never been one of them. Instead, it never failed to put him on edge.

“As I’ve said before, my client is willing to pay top dollar for the book,” he stated as they climbed the stairs toward the elaborate library. “If it is in as good condition as you say, Mr. Bartholomew.”

Gerald Bartholomew huffed, though whether it was from the exertion of the climb or the suggestion that the book would be of inferior quality, Cole could not say which. He stopped at the door to the library and looked at the other man. As though in suspicion, he raised bushy grey eyebrows that made Cole think of an owl.

“So you say,” replied the man. “$45,000? You know the book is worth no more than 30, tops.” He stroked the equally fuzzy fur on his chin. “What makes your client offer so much more?”

“Just really wants a copy, I suppose.” Cole shrugged. “Are we going to have a deal, or not?”

“That depends… on who you represent.” Bartholomew returned.

“Is that really important?”

“It is if you want my book.”

Cole sighed, realizing there was no way around the matter. He didn’t want to risk being caught with empty hands again. He told him who he represented.

“Worthington, eh?” Bartholomew seemed to consider this. “He already has a copy, doesn’t he?” It wasn’t a surprise that he would recognize the name. Collectors often kept up with each other—especially on who owned the other copies of a particularly rare volume. “Tell me the truth. He’s trying to corner the market, isn’t he.”

“No, not at all.” Cole said, though he had to admit that this cold have been a possibility. What better way to increase the value of your own library if you made sure that no others existed? “He’s uh… No longer has his copy, and would like another, that’s all.”

Bartholomew eyed him skeptically, not believing a word.

“I’ll bet,” said he. “I’ve heard about the fires. I half expect it’s him doing the torching. Or at least someone in his employ. Tell me son, that’s not your purpose here, is it?”

“No sir,” Cole replied. “If it was, I don’t think he would send me here to purchase a copy, now, do you?”

This was, in fact, the only argument that kept Cole believing himself that his employer was not somehow involved in this affair. Bartholomew considered this, and then nodded his head, as though coming to an interior decision that had nothing to do with what they were currently discussing.

“Alright. I’ll sell it,” said he. “If someone is going around destroying these things, I don’t want to get caught with one in my hands. You’ve got a deal… but I want 60.”

Cole thought about this for a moment, then nodded his head. At the rate things were going, this was likely to be the last copy in existence. Even at that price, it would be a steal. The deal now struck, Bartholomew pushed open the double doors to the library. And that was when they saw him.

In the center of the room stood a man wearing old fashioned clothing. A book lay open at his feet. He had a high forehead, and dark eyes; a mustache decorated his face. He looked up at them as they entered, and as Cole met his eyes, he suddenly realized that he could see rightthrough them. Bartholomew took a step forward and a fire blazed up from the pages. The smoke and flame obscured the man from their vision, and they had to shield their eyes from the ash that flew about them. When all was settled, Bartholomew’s prized copy of Fanshawe was gone. And so was the figure. But this time, Cole Booker thought he knew who it had been.

V

The last remaining pristine copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Fanshawe had been found in the hands of the person the furthest away. Cecilia Williams lived in a flat in the middle of the worst part of London, England. Cole had been afraid of getting mugged just on his way there, let alone in the house, once he got his hands on the book—provided it was still in existence. As luck would have it, Cecilia had not yet met the perpetrator. Neither had she heard of the fate of other such volumes. She was at first quite reluctant to sell.

“Well, I don’t know,” Cecilia said. She was an older woman, frail of health, yet oblivious to her squalor. She had served him tea in chipped saucers and cracked cups as though it were fine china. “It is, in fact, the finest possession I own. I don’t think I could part with it.”

She looked at her book shelf across the room. There were not very many volumes upon it, whether of new or old works. The First Edition Fanshawe stood out like an obvious foreigner. It worried Cole that it was so unprotected, but he was also glad that it was well within view, should anything happen to it.

“It has been in my family for years. The closest thing we have to an heirloom,” she continued. “It was given to my great aunt by Nathaniel Hawthorne himself, when he was serving as the American ambassador. It is personally inscribed.”

“Yes, I know.” Cole began, being as gentle as he could. “But, I’m afraid you are in danger as long as you have it. You see, there is someone who has been… stealing these books. In fact, burning them, Mrs. Williams. My client and I are offering a sizable sum for this edition. In the future he may put it on display, and give a description of where it came from—tell all about your aunt, and your family. Many people will see it, from around the world. And… The money we offer is no small sum. It will get you our of this tiny apartment. You can live practically like a queen.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cecilia began. “I don’t have that many years left. I’m not so sure living like a queen would be worth it. I wouldn’t know how. Besides, this is the only inheritance I can offer my children.”

“The money we offer would go a long way toward an inheritance,” Cole persuaded. He put down his tea cup, then looked at her with the utmost seriousness. “And if this thief does strike here,” he warned. “You could end up with nothing at all.”

Cecilia considered this a moment, then sighed. When she came to see the wisdom of his words, she nodded her head—though it was not without some sadness. For that, Cole was sorry. But he had to do what he had to do. He was just glad that he was able to make the deal this time, before the assailant arrived.

VI

Though he had finally managed to acquire his charge, Cole was in no way confident that the job was yet done. Based on prior experience, just when he had been about to get his hands on the book, it had been taken from him, and put into flames. Though he carried the volume now securely in his leather book back, there was no guarantee that the same fate would not occur.

It was late when he departed the William’s house, and an overcast sky had already given into the dark of night as evening swept across the land, like a cloud of dust left in the wake of a dozen galloping horses along and old and forgotten trail. Booker shivered, though in his wool jacket he wasn’t particularly cold. It was more the suggestion of what he knew may be out there that had him chilled. Something was indeed after this book. And it could be anywhere.

Cole first set out on his feet back to his hotel in St. James, but soon found himself unnerved in the darkening city by the echo of footfall all around him, and the lack of visibility. A soft mist had settled in as well, and not too many seemed to be about. Was that the sound of his own feet, reverberating on the cobblestone? Or was that someone else, stealthily following? Cole didn’t know, and he didn’t care to speculate.

At his first opportunity, he made his way off the streets, and into the recesses beneath the city; hastily climbing aboard a subway car where the light was brighter, and the population more dense. He thought that would have been better, and may ease his burden. That he wouldn’t have to worry so if he were alone about being assaulted. But as he looked about the crowded car, at the gaunt, unfamiliar faces; the countless eyes staring into a void as they tried to ignore how close one and another stood, he was assailed by the horrible feeling that this had only made things worse. For how would he ever know if he were being followed in this mass? He may run less risk of being confronted—though it was doubtful—but had heightened the possibility of being trailed back to his hotel—where he would truly be alone. This thing that had sought out the other books had apparently no trouble getting through locked doors, walls, or any other kind of barrier for that matter. And it hadn’t seemed to care overly for witnesses. There was nowhere, really, that he was safe.

Concern flushed through Cole’s body that the book could already be gone. So easily could it have slipped away, just as had the others. How would he know? How could he stop it? And what would he do then? Edward Worthington wasn’t likely to look kindly upon spending a fortune for a book that no longer existed. Slowly Cole reached out and felt for the contents through the leather of the bag. There seemed to be enough bulk there to support the book, but he had to know for sure. He unzipped the flap, and slipped his hand in; rummaging about until he felt the cool lines of the fabric and cardboard cover beneath his finger. A part of him thought that he should leave it there, but he had to know for sure. So he removed it from its shelter.

The few moments that the increasingly rare First Edition book was in the open air were the most nerve-wracking of Cole Booker’s life. He fully expected the thing to go up in flames in his very hands. He searched about him, as though looking for the shade lurking in every man’s eyes, though he knew that if his adversary were there, he would never see him coming. The foolishness of having the book displayed came to him there, for it was like luring the bull to the toreador—an extremely unprepared toreador. No one would be wave that red flag until they were ready for the beast. And Cole was certainly not ready.

He rummaged through the contents of his bag again until he found a paper sack that had contained some other items he had purchased during the trip. He emptied it, and then slipped the book within. This he now held so tight in his hands that the thought he might tear through the paper. Though it was perhaps more exposed than when it had been in the leather bag, he somehow felt safer. It was in his hand, where he could see it, feel it, but was not obvious enough to summon the moth to the flame.

When his ride came to an end and it was time to ascend back to the world of shadow and darkness above, Cole Booker moved at a cautious, but deliberate pace. He walked up and down the streets near his St. James place hotel, as though tempting his foe to meet him face to face; to have it out and just get it over with. But that wasn’t his plight at all. Initially, Cole had just thought that he did not want to guide anything that might follow directly to his room, but the more he wandered, the more he realized that it mattered very little. The book would mostly likely be found, no matter where it, or he, was.

It was only when he passed the umpteenth book shop along the row that the seed of an idea at last came to him. With only the briefest glance over his shoulder to see if he were watched, he entered the store. Just like nearly every other book store he had been in, there were aisle after aisle of shelves, piled almost to the ceiling with books—of every type of variety one could imagine. But Cole was not here to browse. He knew exactly what he wanted. And it didn’t take him long to find it.

In the literature section, he pulled a slim paperback volume from the shelf, and proceeded swiftly to the check out counter. He placed it before the cashier, and rummaged through his pockets, hoping he had a few British pounds left somewhere there. He did not let go for even the briefest of moments from his package as he searched. He was not about to let something even as mundane as leaving it where he’d set it down occur.

“Haven’t heard of this one,” the book seller said as he rang up the book and packaged it into a bag rather similar to the one Cole already held. “Is it any good?”

Booker looked at him straight faced as he handed over the bills he’d finally managed to find.

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t read it,” he admitted. “But from what I’ve seen, it would have to be pretty awful.”

VII

True to his word, Edward Worthington locked the last First Edition copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Fanshawe securely away in his safe. But for Cole Booker, that was not good enough. He explained to Worthington that he had an idea who was going after the books, and how they were doing it; that it was doubtful that they would not come after this one. Considering how successful they had been the first time, he also predicted that Worthington wouldn’t be able to keep them out again—no matter how hard he tried. Cole further explained that he had a plan on how to stop them. Edward eventually consented to let Booker spend the night in the library, to see if the culprit would show up. To Cole, however, it wasn’t so much of an if, but a when.

The event he was waiting for came just after midnight. Cole had just been starting to doze, when he heard a sound like a patter upon the window. It could have been just the rain, but he had been only lightly sleeping all evening (partially due to the proximity of the red headed maid in one of the next rooms, though he wasn’t willing to admit that) and came instantly awake.

The first thing he noticed was the chill. Then it was the breeze. It blew past him, toward the back wall, where the safe was located behind the portrait of one of Worthington’s ancestors. The picture fell and Cole rose. He switched on the lights just as he the dial was beginning to spin. He cleared his voice, and called out as authoritatively as he could.

“Looking for this?”

Cole held up the paperback. A cold wind blew from nowhere, and the figure manifested out of the shadows, then came toward him. Despite the fear that trembled in Cole’s heart, he held his ground. As the ghost neared, he tossed the book on the floor before it.

“There. You see? It’s been reprinted.” He said. The pages began to turn of their own accord. “At least a thousand times now. You protect nothing. All you do is create ruin. This is art. Nothing to be ashamed of. The world knows it. You can’t erase this any longer. Even when that first edition is destroyed, the work will live on—in this, and countless others like it. Millions have read it. What would you do then? Erase it from their minds? Leave. Be at rest. There is nothing to hide.”

The figure looked up at him with its deep set, hollow eyes. For a moment Booker hadn’t thought he had made any impact, but then, abruptly, it turned around, and walked toward the library door. Before it could reach it, however, it vanished into the air.Cole breathed a sigh of relief.As near as he could figure, this one “spectral portion” of the author was locked in its purpose, to destroy all the copies of that earlier book. There was a strong enough passion to conjure the spirit, like a moment trapped in time. His life was like that, Cole reflected, being trapped on one girl. But now he figured it was time to renew a certain acquaintance. He came out of the library, and searched out the maid. She was busy flipping through a magazine in the sitting room, no doubt waiting for the next caller, or for her employment to end.

“Hello again,” Cole said, flashing his best smile. “I don’t think I was ever told your name.”

The girl looked up at him, and actually smiled.

“I’m Kelly,” she said, and put aside the magazine. “You’ve been here all night. I was wondering when you were going to come down and see me.”

VIII

Evening descended like a fog upon the city. As the winter months came upon the world, it seemed to get darker earlier and earlier. Madeline Desbrow hugged herself in her coat against the night chill, adjusting the book she read under the flickering light at the back of the bus on her way home from work. It wasn’t the best situation for reading, but at least it made the forty five minute ride somewhat tolerable. Besides, she had plenty of school work to catch up on. This particular novel happened to be one of them. She had to read Fanshawe for her American Literature class. It was an interesting contrast with Hawthorne’s later works, being his first attempt, but she wasn’t sure she would have ever picked it up on her own.

Madeline had her face practically buried in the worn, paperback edition of the book to compensate for the faint light, so she didn’t notice the man who came up beside her. She felt his presence, more than saw it, but she was not in he habit of talking to, or even paying attention, to strange men on the bus. When she heard the heavy breathing beside her, however, she began to become a little uncomfortable. She looked up to see if the man was a pervert, or just someone with an asthma problem—she did not want to be rude unless she had to. As Madeline lifted her vision away from the pages, her eyes caught directly those of the figure beside her. Dark brooding eyes seemed to bore into her. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away.

It was only a moment later, though, that she broke the hold. Dazed, Madeline looked around her, suddenly confused about what she had been doing. She looked down at the book held in her hands, but didn’t recognize a thing about it. Had she been reading it? Or just picked it up? She had no recollection whatsoever.

Just as Madeline was flipping back the cover to see what it was she was reading, the man, who in the dim light was really nothing more than a shadow, reached over and snatched it from her hands. Immediately the pages seemed to leap into flames, and he dropped it on the floor between the seats. A sudden commotion filled the bus, and as the other riders cried out, the flame quickly flickered out, leaving nothing but ashes and soot. But not a mark upon the bus floor.

The driver pulled over, and the dark cloaked figure immediately stepped out the back door. Madeline stared after him, and gasped as it seemed he literally disappeared into the shadows of the night. In a moment, not a trace of the figure, nor the book, even remained. Madeline could not even say what book it had been.