Midway Used & Rare Books Novels & Stories

He ordered. I don’t know who died and made him the boss of me? What gave him the right to order me around? It made me furious, but again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Cain Cadell was known to treat witches like servants, and when they didn’t do his beddings, he killed them. Usually, in the most gruesome ways ever. I just want this night to be over with. I thought to myself, then said, “Just bring a shovel.” He gave me a Cheshire grin and nodded his head. The car ride was engulfed in a tense silence. He gave me a side glance, as we neared the cemetery, “How long have you lived in Midwick?” He asked out of the blue.

Racism, police brutality, corporate slaves, extreme poverty, and an ever so visible class struggle between the pitiful and the blessed, hidden from the sight of the masses by a grandiose illusion conceived by the nature of man; these are the true colors of Midway. Ria and I need to flee from here the moment we find the missing pages in the book. And fulfilled our side of the deal. Trying to "fix" the errors of this dumpster is like trying to be Jesus, but for now, I'll make it a better place for when she wakes up. "Here, take mine. That's a new model." "T-Thank you?" "I'll be off now." I'm grateful for your offering, but may you please refrain from reminding me of the considerable distance b

“Beach or mountain scenery?” Freddie thought for a moment, his brows coming together. “That's hard...” “That's what she said,” I immediately replied. “Are you going to say that every time?” Freddie asked, turning to give me a gentle glare. “Yup.” I grinned up at him. He chuckled and shook his head before settling back into his original spot. “I say mountains. We have beaches in Paradisa, but there are no mountains. What about you?” “We don't have beaches or mountains in the midwest,” I replied, buying myself some time to think about my answer.

But the system log—the boring text feed no one checked but professionals and the truly petty—pinged with destination presets the moment Marco plugged them in. Stop 1: Florería Mendez, 73rd and Lex. Stop 2: Salgado Rare Books, Fifth and 58th. Stop 3: Private—international. I smiled. Books, not jewels. He remembered she liked words more than stones. Good boy. Good dog. I snapped another picture of the log, then turned when someone cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” Marco said. He filled the doorway like a wall. “Hello, Marco,” I said. “Your boss is buying poetry for his wife. How romantic.”

Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, full of antiquarian leather bound volumes. “I’ve always been a collector. Currently I’m building a collection from the Civil War era. I’ve now got a substantial number of volumes of Byron, Shakespeare. This one,” he moved to a shelf and pulled out a book, “Is a rare first edition of Othello. Have you read Shakespeare?” “A little.” “Baudelaire?” He moved to another shelf. “I’m not familiar with.” She felt conspicuously illiterate in his presence.