Everyman's Library Novels & Stories

He dropped his hand reluctantly and let me go; I gave him a small reassuring smile and headed to the door to see who was there. “We are closed, sirs,” I said with a weak smile to the three bulky men who were looking around suspiciously. “Oh, I see. Did a man come here, or did you see him pass by?” the tallest one asked. “This is a library, sir; a lot of men come here to read books.” “This one is no ordinary man. Well built, 6.5 foot, tan skin, dark hair, amber eyes, stabbed, bleeding,” He said, smirking.

His assets were gone, and he was buried in debt. As for Susan, the gentle facade had long since vanished. What remained was a woman on the verge of hysteria. "They fight almost every day. Susan yells at Harold for being useless, and the two of them are constantly at each other's throats. The neighbors upstairs and downstairs have filed multiple complaints." My expression remained unchanged. I couldn't help but wonder if Harold's downfall was, at least in part, a form of silent revenge against Susan. Honestly, even if he left with nothing, he should have been able to make a comeback given his skills.

But the deeper I moved into the room, the stranger the titles became. Organized Crime and the American City. The Syndicate Wars of the Eighties. A slim, unmarked volume with a spine so worn the title had rubbed away entirely. “This isn't a normal library,” I said quietly. “No,” Elias agreed, settling into one of the leather chairs as though his knees had been waiting all day for the chance. “It's a history section, of sorts. The Master believes a man should understand where he came from. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.”

He hugged me back for a moment and then straightened. “Would you like to see our library? It’s very nice, my great grandmother had it built.” “I’d love to,” I said. The library was amazing. it covered two stories of the manor, with shelves lining an open balcony and rolling ladders spaced around to help reach books higher up. There were tables for studying, several of which were occupied by wolves I recognized as some of Ethan’s guards. There were little reading nooks in odd corners, with plush chairs and reading lights, and a few odd little nests of pillows and blankets set near the windows.

The bookstore had a new shipment of romance novels. I spent the morning unpacking boxes with Ethan, laughing at the ridiculous cover art. Shirtless men. Women in flowing dresses. Dramatic titles like The Rake's Redemption and Tempted by the Billionaire. "This is basically p**n," Ethan said, holding up a particularly scandalous cover. "Glorious, wonderful, life-affirming p**n," I corrected. He laughed. "You're something else, Lucy."

“It was a fucking library” Neat and surprisingly well-maintained, the library was lit with a dim, golden glow. A fireplace in the corner lent a soft warmth to the room, making it feel oddly inviting. Towering shelves lined the walls, packed tightly with books. I stepped inside, the faint creak of the wooden floor breaking the silence. I picked a book at random, scanning its title: Leadership for the Ruthless. My nose wrinkled. “Why would anyone willingly read this?” Another title caught my eye: Tactics of Power. I rolled my eyes. Of course. What did I expect? The library of a Mafia Don would be filled with books on control and domination.

We needed all the evidence we could get against Mr Ranault even if it means coming to see a stranger alone in a library. The library had another floor for history and science while the bottom floor was for kids books and pretty much basic stuff. I searched around the ground floor of the library but there was only two teenagers,some women and two nerdy collage guys. There is no way any of these people had that manly voice I heard on the phone last night. Just as I was about to go upstairs,I saw a man seating in one of the chairs with a book in his hands titled: A little life. The man had brown skin like dark chocolate. He pulled the book down a little to be able to peep his eyes out and look

The grand library glowed with the soft amber light of floating lanterns and a roaring hearth fire that cast long, dancing shadows across towering shelves. Guests had retired for the evening after another lavish solstice supper, but the manor refused to sleep. Enchanted books rustled faintly on their own, pages turning as if reading scandalous secrets aloud. Elara slipped inside after midnight, telling herself she only wanted a quiet moment with a novel to calm her racing mind. In truth, her body burned.

Already much more soothing than sad songs and the sound of explosions. Tall shelves lined the walls, crammed with books. Of course this man had a library that looked like it belonged in an interior magazine spread. A low chandelier hung in the middle of the room above a long solid wood table, a few chairs, one couch in the corner with a folded throw. I walked along the first shelf, letting my fingertips brush the spines. Gold lettering, embossed titles, lettering already faded. The first row was full of classics. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Dumas. Of course Zane owned a collection of depressed men who liked to write about sin and consequences. Fitting.

My name is Angela. I’m 28, single, and hopelessly addicted to the quiet escape of books. That’s why, three times a week, I slip into this little library tucked between a coffee shop and a dry cleaner on a side street in Lower Manhattan. It’s always half-empty — dusty shelves, soft lamplight, the faint smell of old paper and polished wood. I love it. No one bothers you here. Or so I thought. That afternoon I was deep into a worn paperback when my bladder protested. I approached the circulation desk, smiling at the librarian — a severe woman in her fifties with silver hair pinned tight.