The Last Bookstore (Part 5)

Valentine’s Day arrived draped in false cheer. Millhaven Square was strung with paper hearts and flickering strings of red lights. Music from the festival stage drifted on the cold air, mixing with the smell of frying dough and cheap perfume.

Evelyn stood on the edge of the crowd, the black book hidden under her coat, her eyes scanning every face. The knowledge from the cipher gnawed at her: Target is you.

The man in the dark coat appeared beside her, as if conjured from the shadows.

“They’re using the festival as cover,” he said without preamble. “Cross doesn’t want the town, he wants the Key. And when he doesn’t get it, you’re expendable.”

“I have the Key,” she said.

“Then we need to make sure you live long enough to use it.”

The Holloway building loomed just beyond the square, its faded brick facade catching the glow of the festival lights. Together they slipped inside, the noise of the crowd muffled behind them.

The air was stale, thick with dust and something chemical. In the basement maintenance room, Evelyn saw it, a black duffel bag wedged behind an old boiler. Wires snaked from it to a small device blinking red.

Her breath hitched.

“Can you disarm it?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “We’re not here to disarm it.”

He pulled a second bag from under his coat, smaller, metal, and oddly heavy. “We’re here to swap it. What happens after depends on whether you trust me.”

“Why should I?” Evelyn asked

“Because you’re still alive.” He answered

She hesitated, then nodded. Together they worked quickly, replacing the device with the decoy bag. The real bomb or whatever it was, they carried out through a side exit into the service alley.

A shout rang out behind them. Gavin Cross stepped into the alley, flanked by two men from the SUV. His smile was gone.

“I warned you, Miss Chase,” he said, stepping closer. “The Scribes are a relic. You don’t even know what you’re holding.”

“I know enough,” she said.

“You know nothing. Those books, those warnings, they don’t stop disasters. They make them happen. We control the story so the ending stays the same.”

The man in the dark coat shifted slightly, blocking her with his body. “Funny thing about stories,” he said. “Sometimes the ending gets rewritten.”

Before Cross could answer, the man tossed the bag into a dumpster at the far end of the alley. A heartbeat later, a concussive boom rattled the brick walls. Shouts erupted from the square.

Cross’s men lunged, but the dark-coated man grabbed Evelyn’s arm and yanked her into a side passage. They ran until the sounds of chaos faded behind them.

When they finally stopped, Evelyn was gasping, her legs trembling.

“You saved the square,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. We did. And you have a choice now. You can walk away, go back to your quiet shop… or you can take my place.”

She stared at him. “You mean join The Scribes?”

“Someone has to keep the Key. Someone has to write the warnings.” He said

“And if I say no?”

He gave a faint smile. “Then you’ll never see me again. But the stories will still find you.”

Two weeks later, PageTurners opened as usual. Sunlight streamed through the dusty front windows. On the counter sat a stack of new arrivals, or so it appeared. Beneath them, locked in the bottom drawer, the black book waited.

Evelyn stood at the counter, pen in hand, writing in the looping script she had once only read.

March 3rd. 6:40 p.m. Bridge Street. 14 saved.

Somewhere in the shelves, the bell gave its half-hearted jangle.

The next story had already begun.

-The End-

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