John P Holt Library Novels & Stories

Slowly, reverently, he pulled out an ancient tome, and placed it gently on the table next to the pumpkin. The library was deserted, but I still looked around warily as he showed me the book. The Hawthorn Central Library was split over two floors, and the only other person I’d seen so far was the librarian, sat by the door downstairs, a shrivelled old man wearing a spotty tie and a striped suit. He’d given us a rheumy-eyed smile and a little wave, his thin hand almost see-through in the musty light. His eyes had brushed over Skye, lugging around a huge pumpkin, but he hadn’t questioned it. I’d asked him politely if there was a section for folklore, or old myths, and he’d pointed me upstairs.

“Caldwell.” She kept walking. “Holt.” He fell into step beside her. Just like that. No asking. No do you mind or heading anywhere specific. He simply matched her pace and walked alongside her like this was already a thing they did. “I’m going to the library,” she said. “I know. Second floor.” A beat. “Ade mentioned your consultation is Friday. You’ll want the Okonkwo texts. They’re not in the system, physical copies only, east wall, third shelf from the bottom.”

POV: Sienna Rhodes The New York Public Library's special collections division closes at six on weekdays, which means I have been here since nine this morning and I have been given nine hours to find what I am looking for, which is either enough or not enough depending on whether what I am looking for wants to be found. I am looking for Helena Moreau Sterling. Not the person. The record of the practice.

I turned toward the window and kept my thoughts to myself. Raymond Holt’s property sat at the end of a private road two hours outside the city. Iron gates, flawless grounds, and an old stone house that felt quietly powerful. I knew more about Holt than he would have been comfortable with. His name appeared in the Vela documents. He was not the architect of the structure, but he understood it completely and had benefited from it for years. I needed to see his private records to understand how deep his involvement went. That was why I was here.

Our clothes were soaking wet because of the rainstorm and we had to drop by in Giofré’s house to find some clothes to wear. And since almost all of our stuff were stuck there, we managed to change our clothes so we could head to our destination which was the library. Library of Hillford was the oldest library in this town and was the main library of this city. It was one of the largest libraries in this country, containing the oldest—ancient—books that only the Hillford was authorized to have. I remembered, during high school, I had been there once. It was for a research and when we got the chance to use the computers, we found some skeptical files in there that the librarian was quick to no