Libraean
London, 1857
Libraean set down his quill, watching the shining ink slowly dry to matte black. He had used his last piece of parchment, pages of notes stacked high around him on the makeshift desk. The scent of sunrise hung in the air, and he glanced at his pocket watch. They’d been listening for the length of an entire day and night.
He glanced up to study David’s face. A frown had settled on his lips, furrowing his brow. Though other immortal beings surrounded him, his skin looked impossibly smooth in comparison, as if it had been etched out of stone. Libraean recalled a time when he once had sunspots around the bridge of his nose, a fresh-faced youth with wide, emerald eyes and perpetually unkempt auburn hair. The man before him now had not changed drastically in appearance, but his expression had grown weary, his eyes telling the stories of a hundred lifetimes. They searched now for his lover, who wore a similarly troubled expression.
Dan slumped down in his seat, swirling the last bit of brandy in his glass as he stared into oblivion. “I need to rest,” the hybrid creature decided, looking up to reveal the dark shadows beneath his royal blue eyes.
David nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Before I do,” he said, taking a long drag from and extinguishing his cigarette, “let me tell you that we met a host of creatures in Paris, including a very young, very rich Lucius. When I left them, they were in the midst of plotting some sort of uprising that I was not included in. Cahira joined their crowd, but I could not will myself to do the same. I ended up traveling back to our village, which had been overrun by wolves. Most of the villagers escaped but many, including the Marquis and his family, died trying to fight them off. I couldn’t stay in our home without her, so I took over the castle until one day, a raven appeared at my window. It told me you were here, and that I needed to find you to stop Lucius, Angelique, and their following. So here I am. But I cannot speak any more of Cahira. Not tonight, anyway.” He finished his drink and stood, filling the room with his broadness and height.
David stood as well, usually taller than most men, but appearing average next to his herculean friend. “You have been more than helpful tonight, and I thank you for it.”
“Yes,” Morrigan echoed. “Thank you for telling us your story, Daniel.”
Dan nodded and left without another word, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke behind him.
Morrigan’s eyes swam with worry, as if her mind was racing behind them, connecting ideas and memories at a rapid pace. Finally, words spilled from her lips, reflecting what they all were thinking. “If the realms have been destroyed, that means if we die on Earth, we will not return to the Upperrealms. We will simply no longer be. There are no human believers left to bring us back into existence and the only thing keeping track of any reincarnations was the Records Hall I left behind in the Underworld.” Her expression seized up with worry. “David, if there is no Underworld, that means Anubis has died. We have to find him.”
“We will,” David promised her. He turned to Libraean, addressing them both. “I guess it is settled then. We must go to France.”
Libraean frowned but gave a nod of acquiescence. He noticed Jacob had dozed off at some point in the night, burrowed under a wool blanket on a couch near the fireplace. He did not stir, even with the movement around him, emitting tiny, grumbling snores.
“We should let him rest,” David suggested.
“Yes,” Libraean replied, the word light with his apathy. He packed up his things and retrieved one of the dwindling lamps. “I will take the upper rooms.”
“Are you certain—”
“I am,” Libraean interrupted firmly.
David sighed in easy defeat.
“What is the problem with the upper rooms?” Morrigan inquired, observing their exchange.
“It is where our ghosts reside,” Libraean replied, too tired to explain any further. He withdrew in a similar haste as Dan, hoping no one would follow him as he headed up the east wing stairwell.
He couldn’t remember a time that his body didn’t feel tired, a persistent ache in his bones that grew worse with lack of sleep. His knees popped in protest as he hobbled up the stairs to the third-floor corridor, holding the railing tightly with one arm and a stack of papers in the other, taking his time up the spiral. He was too exhausted to organize his notes, but he already thought of a title for Dan’s story: The History of Lycanthropy. The term was used in the ancient times by Petronius, the first to blend the Greek words for “wolf” and “man” to describe the affliction. He wasn’t sure if that was the earliest source he had; he would have to check his records, which were sealed in the Lardone vaults that lay underneath the manor’s cemetery.
The subject of Cahira was of particular interest to him, though he decided he would keep his thoughts to himself. She had naturally tapped into a power that had been undocumented for centuries. Although he was certain she was a liminal being like himself, he knew it wasn’t the sole reason for such power. There was something more. He would need time to sit with the information, to consult his records.
He sighed in relief when he reached the top of the stairs, taking a moment to catch his breath before he opened the door, releasing the scent of musty old wood.
The third floor of Lardone Manor had two spacious bedchambers to the west, accompanied by their own staircase. The eastern set led to a single room that should have been an attic, a drab, spartan chamber with no fireplace and no windows except for a small half-moon shape near the ceiling. The bedroom held a simple bed in the corner, an unfinished pine desk against the wall, and a chamber pot. The man who sold them the house referred to it simply and uncomfortably as “the inhospitable upper rooms.”
Libraean shuffled towards the desk, setting down his papers and lamp. He and David once speculated what the room had been used for, since it was noticeably set apart from the rest of the house in its deliberate lack of extravagance. Although most of the Lardone belongings remained on the property, Libraean could find no records belonging to them, save for an old deed to the house, a crudely drawn family tree that had been tucked in a book, and a binder of the Lardone Company’s financial records. Any photographs, letters, or keepsakes had apparently been destroyed along with the family. Anything Libraean did know of them came from the ghost of their youngest son, Philip.
He was already seated on the bed, his dark, cheerless eyes sweeping across Libraean’s hobbled form. “Oh yes, I remember you. The cripple.”
“Good Morning, Philip. If you don’t mind, I came here to rest.”
The young ghost sighed, rising to his feet in disappointment. He paused to adjust his head back on his shoulders, his neck cracked after his fatal fall off the third-floor balcony. “Too bad,” he said wistfully. “I have to tell you something of great importance.”
“Oh, yes?” Libraean sighed, realizing the apparition blocked him from the bed. He took the desk chair, setting down his glasses to rub his tired eyes.
“Yes, since you have finally discovered that the afterlife has been altered.”
Libraean frowned. “How do you know that?”
The ghost shrugged, the action almost knocking his head back off its shoulders. “My sister likes to eavesdrop on you all. She finds the master of the house quite handsome.”
“What do you know of the predicament?”
“I can confirm what the wolf says is true. There is nothing left now but Heaven and Hell. The ancient realms that existed alongside them are now in shambles and there are no gods left to fix them. You are all earthbound, like us spirits, who have been trapped here since the space between realms was altered.”
“The astral plane has been affected as well?” Libraean was taken aback.
The young boy nodded. “There are still many in our world who do not accept the God of man, though they aren’t likely to admit it out loud. Souls once had the ability to choose where they rested in death, or if they’d return in a new vessel to begin life again. Now these deceased souls are stuck in limbo, either forced to spend an eternity in the overcrowded astral plane or trapped trying to find peace as an apparition on earth.”
“Is that why you are here?”
He smiled sadly. “Not everyone is accepted into Heaven. Though He does not cast me to Hell as some would hope, there is no place for men like me there.”
Libraean realized what he meant and was overwhelmed by emotion. “My dear boy, of course there is a place for you to rest in peace.”
The boy shook his head, his sorrowful eyes like saucers. “You have written it in your own books, Mr. Libraean. Gods exist because men create them. The ancient gods have all been murdered, their realms destroyed. There are too scant believers to bring them back. There is one deity left, but the God who lives in Heaven has been altered so many times by hateful humans throughout history that He has become exactly what they wanted him to be—exclusive and condemning. It does not matter what his Son or his angels believe—the Watchers who sit with Him now will not allow any benevolence. They are the ones who make the rules. Each religious sect has its own heavenly paradise for their followers, but for those that sin, entrance is strictly forbidden.”
“You are not a sin.” Libraean fought against rising tears.
“I can accept being stuck on earth, but my sister would like to rest,” Philip continued. “So, we have decided to help you. There is an old gypsy woman who lives near Limehouse, working under the facade of a tea and cake parlor. She is secretly a gifted medium who once performed seances at this very house for my siblings, long before you and the new master arrived. She can travel about the astral plane and perform what is called hypnosis, a tool which she uses to access memories that have been hidden away. My sister believes this will be of much use to you.”
Libraean was amazed at his random benevolence. “Why thank you, young sir. And my gratitude to your sister, wherever she may be.”
The boy nodded. “Please restore the realms. Stalking the earth is getting tiresome.”
Before Libraean could say anything further, the figure of the young man evaporated into the air as if he’d never been there. He stared at the empty spot, mystified at what had just transpired, when he heard a sharp knock at the door.
He looked up to see David standing in the doorway, his apprehension almost palpable. “I know you do not want to be bothered, but I cannot rest knowing you’re distraught.”
“No, I’m glad you are here. I just had the most curious conversation with young Philip Lardone. We need to go into town.”
David looked surprised. “You spoke to the ghost of Philip Lardone? He hasn’t surfaced for years. We cannot go into town. The sun has just risen—it will be hours before dusk.”
“We can take the carriage with Jacob as the driver,” Libraean formulated a plan out loud. “By the time we get ready, travel, and arrive, it will be nightfall. The weather has been dreary enough that we can use parasols and cloaks. Or you can give us a proper windstorm, as it was revealed earlier you still can.”
“Libraean, will you please pause for a moment and explain what is happening here?”
“The ghost confirmed Dan’s story—there are no realms left except the ones under the dominion of the God of men. The ancient realms are irrevocably destroyed, and the astral plane is overcrowded with lost souls who have no place in Heaven nor Hell. All the ancient gods and goddesses are dead. We need to access Morrigan’s memories from the time she died in Romania until now. From them, we can figure out what happened and how we can fix this mess.”
David put his hands on his forearms. “Libraean, why do we need to go into town?” he repeated gently.
“Philip says there is a medium that uses a trick of the mind called hypnosis which can unlock Morrigan’s repressed memories.”
“Ah.” David nodded. “Now I understand. Allow me to speak with her first—we both know better than to make plans in her absence. Why don’t you rest for a few hours before the sun sets?”
“I’ll go wake Jacob.”
“Libraean, you need to rest,” David insisted.
“I will have plenty of time to sleep when I am dead,” Libraean muttered as he brushed past him. “There is no place for me in heaven, either.”