Read Online The Mona Lisa Sacrifice by Peter Roman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Roman
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to kill her and we’re still friends. But she’s definitely not human. In fact, I’m not even sure she exists. It’s a strange little world we live in sometimes.
I’d never been in this library before, so I had nothing to go on. At least it was a small neighbourhood branch. It would probably only take a few hours to skim the stacks, looking for the books out of place.
I started in the fiction section. Whenever I found a book that wasn’t where it was supposed to be, I took it from the shelf and read a few pages, then looked around. When Alice didn’t appear, I put the book back and moved on. I’d been doing this for about 45 minutes when a woman wearing a librarian’s name-tag came over and asked me if I needed any help. I was reading a passage from Donald Barthelme’s
Snow White
at the time, but she had a look on her face that said we both knew I wasn’t there for the great literature.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” I told her. “Only I’m not sure where to find her.”
She folded her arms across her chest and gazed at me. It was a look I recognized well from all the time I’d spent in libraries. She was trying to decide whether she should go back to her mystery novel or call the police. They usually went back to their mystery novels, because reading a book is always better than filling out paperwork. But some had read too many of those mystery novels and saw danger everywhere.
While she was still making up her mind, a chorus of young voices wailing together came from the children’s literature section.
“Never mind,” I said, putting
Snow White
back on the shelf. “I think I know where she is.”
I went over to the other side of the library and found Alice sitting on a stool in an open area in the children’s literature section. She was wearing a dress with stains on it that could have been blood, as well as a top hat. Today her hair was blonde, although there were streaks of mud in it. She looked like she was barely out of her teens, which was the same way she’d looked when I’d met her many, many years before. She was reading from an ancient leather tome to the weeping children seated around her. At least I think it was leather. It could have been human skin. And the stool was a giant mushroom that looked like a real giant mushroom.
“And that’s how the world will end,” Alice said as I walked up. She closed the book and slipped it into one of the shelves beside her and the children cried even harder and ran for their parents. None of the librarians seated at a nearby desk even looked up. I think Alice casts some sort of charm on them, so they recognize her as one of their own. They’re a mysterious bunch, librarians.
When Alice saw me, she clapped her hands together and ran over to give me a hug. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen her. Athens, maybe? When she had sported the shaved head and the military uniform?
“Cross!” she said. “Have you come to tell me you’ve finally found what you were looking for? I hope so. I want to see what it is.”
“Hold on,” I said. “I want to know how the world ends.” I looked for the book she’d been reading to the children, but now I didn’t see it on the shelf. It had vanished.
Alice giggled. “You should know how it ends,” she said. “You were the one who wrote the book.”
I shook my head. “I’ve had the good sense to never write anything more than a few lines of romantic drivel,” I said. “I’ve certainly never tried anything as ambitious as a book.” And I would never try. The novelists I’ve known over the centuries have all been drunks and vagabonds. Or insane. It’s best to stay clear of that business.
“You didn’t write it in this story, silly,” she said, ruffling my hair. “You wrote it in one of the other ones.”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”
She looked around and then leaned close to whisper in my ear. “But I like you better in this one,” she said. “You’re too mean in
I’d never been in this library before, so I had nothing to go on. At least it was a small neighbourhood branch. It would probably only take a few hours to skim the stacks, looking for the books out of place.
I started in the fiction section. Whenever I found a book that wasn’t where it was supposed to be, I took it from the shelf and read a few pages, then looked around. When Alice didn’t appear, I put the book back and moved on. I’d been doing this for about 45 minutes when a woman wearing a librarian’s name-tag came over and asked me if I needed any help. I was reading a passage from Donald Barthelme’s
Snow White
at the time, but she had a look on her face that said we both knew I wasn’t there for the great literature.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” I told her. “Only I’m not sure where to find her.”
She folded her arms across her chest and gazed at me. It was a look I recognized well from all the time I’d spent in libraries. She was trying to decide whether she should go back to her mystery novel or call the police. They usually went back to their mystery novels, because reading a book is always better than filling out paperwork. But some had read too many of those mystery novels and saw danger everywhere.
While she was still making up her mind, a chorus of young voices wailing together came from the children’s literature section.
“Never mind,” I said, putting
Snow White
back on the shelf. “I think I know where she is.”
I went over to the other side of the library and found Alice sitting on a stool in an open area in the children’s literature section. She was wearing a dress with stains on it that could have been blood, as well as a top hat. Today her hair was blonde, although there were streaks of mud in it. She looked like she was barely out of her teens, which was the same way she’d looked when I’d met her many, many years before. She was reading from an ancient leather tome to the weeping children seated around her. At least I think it was leather. It could have been human skin. And the stool was a giant mushroom that looked like a real giant mushroom.
“And that’s how the world will end,” Alice said as I walked up. She closed the book and slipped it into one of the shelves beside her and the children cried even harder and ran for their parents. None of the librarians seated at a nearby desk even looked up. I think Alice casts some sort of charm on them, so they recognize her as one of their own. They’re a mysterious bunch, librarians.
When Alice saw me, she clapped her hands together and ran over to give me a hug. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen her. Athens, maybe? When she had sported the shaved head and the military uniform?
“Cross!” she said. “Have you come to tell me you’ve finally found what you were looking for? I hope so. I want to see what it is.”
“Hold on,” I said. “I want to know how the world ends.” I looked for the book she’d been reading to the children, but now I didn’t see it on the shelf. It had vanished.
Alice giggled. “You should know how it ends,” she said. “You were the one who wrote the book.”
I shook my head. “I’ve had the good sense to never write anything more than a few lines of romantic drivel,” I said. “I’ve certainly never tried anything as ambitious as a book.” And I would never try. The novelists I’ve known over the centuries have all been drunks and vagabonds. Or insane. It’s best to stay clear of that business.
“You didn’t write it in this story, silly,” she said, ruffling my hair. “You wrote it in one of the other ones.”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”
She looked around and then leaned close to whisper in my ear. “But I like you better in this one,” she said. “You’re too mean in
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