The Library Ghost of Tanglewood Inn

This Jaya Jones novelette was originally published by Henery Press in 2017 and won the Agatha Award for Best Short Story.

  

i.

“I can’t believe you forced me to get into that stifling sardine can on the most crowded travel day of the year, Jaya.” Tamarind dropped her plaid backpack at her feet. The overstuffed bag fell onto its side, hiding her purple combat boots.

A few minutes before, we’d stepped off an oversold flight we’d barely squeezed on to. Yet we were still over a thousand miles from home. We’d left Japan en route to San Francisco via a tangle of connections because of our last-minute booking, and weather conditions diverted us to Denver—where all planes were now grounded due to a snow storm.

Which is how we found ourselves stuck in a line that snaked for miles—or at least far too many slyly hidden twists and turns—to reach an airport counter where we hoped to find out our fate. The only reason I’d agreed to fly on one of the most crowded travel days of the year was the anticipation of what was waiting for us on the other end. It now seemed unlikely I’d make it in time.

A man in line next to us cleared his throat. He was already dressed for the weather outside in a parka, wool hat, and infinity scarf, and carried ear muffs in a gloved hand. Everything he wore was a shade of gray. If he got lost in the snow outside, it occurred to me that no one would ever find him. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. I must have been giddy from lack of sleep. After the week I’d had chasing a murderous ninja, tracking down a missing trading ship from two centuries ago that nobody else thought existed, and helping with a magic show based on an impossible illusion, my imagination was running wild. But the past week was behind me. Why was I still on edge?

“The Sunday after Thanksgiving isn’t actually the most crowded travel day of the year,” the man said, smiling at Tamarind. At least I imagined he was smiling based on the cheerful tone of his voice. It was hard to see much beneath the hat and scarf except for youthful dark brown eyes and light brown skin. “That’s only a myth.”

Tamarind scowled at him and his face reddened.

“Sorry about my friend,” I said. “Long day.”

“For us, too,” he said.

Tamarind and I exchanged a glance as the line inched forward. Was he referring to his suitcase? I looked around the line, filled with frustrated travelers of all ilk. In our immediate area were parents with slumped shoulders carrying young children and pushing precariously stacked baggage carts, older kids playing a game of hide and seek around baggage claim, college students in sweats with their eyes glued to their smartphones. Our gray snowman wasn’t traveling with any of them.

He laughed. “I’m not as eccentric as I look. I’m not used to snow so I bought all this in one of the shops in the airport while my boss got in line. But now I can’t find him and he’s not answering his phone. He’s—”

“There you are, Kenny. Why are you in this ridiculous line?”

The speaker wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he had presence far beyond his looks and stature. With his long black hair, pale skin, and a stride that caused the sea of people to part, he looked like a haunted anti-hero who’d stepped out of a vampire television show. Like his companion, he was already dressed for the storm. And he must have ventured outside. Clumps of snow dotted his stylish, Victorianesque black coat.

“Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I employ you,” the newcomer continued. “I found us a taxi and a hotel with rooms available.”

“Shut. Up.” Tamarind said. “I thought the local hotels were already booked up and we’d be stuck in purgatory for the night. How’d you beat the system? And by the way, that vintage coat is to die for.”

He grinned at her and eyed her purple combat boots. “Nice boots. I have my ways. Feel like escaping purgatory? There’s room if you two want to come.”

“Thanks, but we’re fine,” I said.

“We’re not fine,” Tamarind said. “Jaya, for the love of all that’s good and holy, please remember that not everything is a murderous plot.”

Kenny choked. His vampiric boss laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s a chaperone in the taxi.”

I slipped on my jacket, hefted my travel pack onto my shoulders, and followed Kenny’s boss past another line of angry passengers. Tamarind was right. No flights were leaving that night, and I didn’t want to spend the night at the airport. I was overly suspicious of everything these days.

“Why does he look so familiar?” Tamarind whispered. “Maybe you were right about being cautious. Do you think he’s hypnotized us and we’re following him into a cult?”

“You watch too many B movies.”

“Of course I do. They’re awesome.”

Our benefactor, who did look vaguely familiar, led us past an outdoor line of shivering people boarding the last shuttle buses to take stranded travelers to local hotels. The area was nominally shielded from the elements, but the snow was blowing sideways. I’d spent the first eight years of my life in Goa, India, and grew up in California after that. I wasn’t prepared on any level for a Colorado snowstorm. I pulled my completely inadequate jacket more tightly around me, wishing I’d brought something warmer like Kenny or was at least wearing more practical shoes than my heels.

I bumped into Tamarind as our group came to an abrupt stop in front of a taxi so large that an automated step descended when the driver opened the back door of the SUV. I hesitated when I didn’t see other people inside.

“What are you standing around for?” a woman’s voice with a faint Irish accent called from the back seat. “Shut the car door already if you’re not getting in. It’s colder than Finnegan’s feet the day they buried him.”

I stepped forward and saw a woman with a bountiful bun of silver hair on top of her head sitting in the back row of seats. She looked up from her knitting and nodded at me, not missing a beat with her stitching.

The driver took my bag, in spite of being only a couple of inches taller than my five-foot frame. Underneath her driver’s cap, tendrils of curly auburn hair had blown loose in the wind and encircled her petite face. My mind at ease, I climbed into the heated car.

“Simon was kind enough to offer me a ride after I stopped him for an autograph,” the knitting passenger said. “Are you fans as well?”

I felt my cheeks flushing as I brushed snow out of my hair. Was Kenny’s boss an actor on a vampire TV show?

“I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier,” said our host from the front seat. “I’m Simon. Simon Quinn.”

I groaned to myself. That’s why he’d looked familiar. He was the famous author. Or rather, the infamous author. What had we gotten ourselves into?

“Buckle up,” the driver said, tossing her cap aside. “The roads are killer out there tonight.”