The Cataloguer
by Gillian Turner
Published by Gillian Turner at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Gillian Turner
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Prologue
He stood at the centre desk, a crumpled up, yellowing paper in his fist. Another list. More had passed through his hands over the years, and more would continue to pass through them for decades more. It was his job, after all. He held no particular emotion about what he had to do – a blessing, really. Others might question the purpose or the justice of his actions, but he didn't care. He simply waited -- a little impatiently for he had plans with friends later that evening – he waited for the librarian to bring him the documents on his list.
The woman had half rolled her eyes when he'd said it was for research. A university course he was teaching. She wasn't what most people would stereotypically think of a librarian to be: her long hair was down in soft dark waves and her green eyes glistened as if she were in on a joke no one else knew about. The young woman click click clicked across the inner desk area in irresponsibly high heels, and kept adjusting her short black skirt and fitted emerald blouse. It made him a little less impatient. She smiled slightly in all that she did. He wondered if five years from now would make her age twenty.
The library itself was massive and echo-y in the main chamber. There were no carpets here, but tile work and hardwood dating back to the pre-Victorian age. Around the circular centre desk there was a rim of brass which made him think of an old pub. The dull light emanating from the Tiffany lamps certainly fit with that sort of atmosphere. Probably not Tiffany lamps... probably knock-offs. Or some of them, anyway. High above, on the ceiling of the chamber, was evidence of the Gothic Revival period done in carved wood and plaster, more suitable for chamber music than a library. What idiot decided on the architectural style of the building was beyond him. At least the reading rooms were more suitable to quiet study.
Regardless of its gaudy design, however, this was his library. It had been his through all the changes and all the renovations -- for nearly its entire existence, save a few years at the beginning. There had been someone else then, but he or she had passed on. Probably a he, since a woman would have attracted far too much attention at the time.
Tapping mindlessly on the brass rail, he stared at the clock which hung on a pillar in the very centre of the room, inside the desk area. Its hands read two-fifteen. Nothing was more irritating than having to wait for books and documents to be presented to him in his own library. Sometimes he wished he'd been given the task of a small village library where people could check out texts on their own. But he would have been bored in such a situation. Here, at least, his work was constant... items were brought in on a regular basis, several of which he had to peruse. No, he loved his library. It was his home.
The librarian appeared again, carrying a small load of items which she placed on the counter in front of him. She smiled a little more on top of her ever-present one, and nodded. She didn't need to ask his name, or his purpose, for she'd seen him often in the short time she'd been employed there. From under the desk she withdrew a large, green-bound ledger book, and wrote the index codes down in rapid succession. The items couldn't leave the library, so there was no point in using the computer system. When she was finished, she flipped the book around to him so he could sign underneath the list. She nodded again, pushed the the items toward him, then proceeded on to another client.
Taking the pile, he headed toward the double doors on the far end of the chamber and entered them. This part of the library was carpeted in deep red and the ceiling was much lower – barely a storey and a half in height. Rows of mahogany bookshelves created a claustrophobic feeling to which he was completely oblivious. He moved swiftly down the narrow corridor of empty space toward a brass spiral staircase leading up to the second level reading rooms. Once there, he chose the room second from the end. Room 14. His room. After closing the heavy door and drawing the blind down over its window, he settled himself in his leather-padded chair and turned up the light on his desk lamp.
He placed his hand on the top document, ready to begin, but then paused.
His hand began to trace the underside of the desk slowly and deliberately, until it reached its destination. There it was! After all these years, they still hadn't filed it down. He traced his own small rebellious act with the tip of his finger – the initials L.C. were carved deep into the wood. It was a point of pride, really. A tiny smile flitted across his otherwise emotionless face. Time to get to work.
He reached again for the top item and flipped through it rapidly. He always did this first, with each item, even though he knew he'd have to read them thoroughly. Nothing less was expected of him – that was the reason this library was his, and not someone else's. If he had been less competent, he would have ended up in some backwoods village in the middle of nowhere. But still... he liked to get a feel for what it was he was about to read, so he flipped. He glanced at the rest of the pile – none of them seemed particularly long, and indeed some of them were merely loose-leaf documents. It was good for him. Meant he might actually make it on time for his soirée for once. He opened the item in front of him and began to read.
Chapter 1: A Tiny, Rotten, No-Good Crossroads Deal
Darren sat on the couch watching Supernatural with his girlfriend, Kris. To be fair, he was staring off into space during their "quality time" together and she was staring at Sam Winchester, drooling. A few more moments and it might have been quite literal, but on popped the character of Bobby and the crisis was averted. They were both taking a night off from studying for their first year Art History final. Mind you, taking a night off shouldn't necessarily indicate that they had even started. College was probably the furthest thing from their minds, especially since that was their last final and all the end of year parties would be going on that weekend, starting Friday. Which was tomorrow.
Their Art History final was on Monday.
"I'm gonna go get a beer," said Darren, when a set of commercials came on. "Want one?"
"Sure, babe. Thanks!" answered Kris.
He had seen this episode before. In fact, he had seen all the episodes up to that point in the series at least three times. Darren had been a fan of the show since the beginning, which he caught hell for in high school since guys apparently weren't supposed to like the show, so he had been thrilled when he had met Kris at the beginning of the school year. They had both taken Art History, thinking it would be an easy way to boost their average. She was an avid Supernatural junkie as well, and even kind of looked like the character Jo -- petite, blond-haired and pretty. Just don't ever mention to her that the character died.
It was all kinda perfect, actually, since Darren looked like Dean Winchester. The two characters ended up falling in love in the series, so how wonderful it was for Darren/Dean to meet Kris/Jo. Well, until he started re-watching the series with her and found out that she was a Sam Girl. All Supernatural fangirls fit into one of two categories: Dean Girls or Sam Girls. Well, there were girls who liked other characters -- Castiel or Bobby, for example -- but they didn't count. So, Darren's girlfriend was completely in love with the character who was opposite to him, supposedly.
"Seriously?! It's a TV show -- don't take it like anything more! I'm into you," Kris had said, when he brought it up once. "And you don't look that much like Dean, anyway. You look like you."
The last part really didn't help matters. Darren knew it was stupid, but he really enjoyed the idea of being like Dean, his idol. He had even taken to wearing a brown leather jacket and using the character's rather unique expressions. Hell, if he could afford a black,1967 Chevy Impala, he'd get one. Maybe when he got out of college he could move to Kansas with Kris...
Darren always stopped at that thought. There was no way Kris would move to Kansas, with him or anyone else. It would take her too far away from her family. Besides, like she always said, they were only in their first year -- things change so quickly in college there was no point in making plans or getting too comfortable. That being said, he figured at very least he could get comfortable on the couch. She wasn't opposed to that, thankfully.
They were heading onto campus the next day when they passed the college route bus waiting outside the main pub. Two of their mutual friends, Justin and Ashley, stepped off the front and they stopped to make plans to meet up later for a few pints before moving to one of the off-campus parties happening later that evening. All of a sudden, Ashley grabbed Kris's arm and pointed to a guy coming out the back doors of the bus.
"Holy shit! Doesn't that dude look like one of the guys on that show you guys like? Whatsit--" she said a little too loudly.
"Supernatural... OH-EM-GEE! He so looks like Sammy! Don'tcha think?" Kris said, turning to Darren for a second. A second was all it was, since she turned back immediately to gawk openly.
"Yeah. Sure." He didn't know what else to say. The dude did, indeed, look a hell of lot like Sam Winchester. And the dude did, through no fault of his own, suddenly become Darren's most hated enemy.
"I wonder what year he's in...." Kris trailed off.
"Darren -- beer. We must refocus the girls," Justin cut in, playfully putting blinders on Kris with his hands. "Beer is more important. Let's say... 4 o'clock? Be there, or be a dumbass."
"You're buying!" Darren yelled back, as he and his girlfriend headed inside and toward the library.
Four o'clock came quickly, but at least they got a little bit of studying in for their exam. Most likely they'd both flunk it, but it was only an elective. They both counted on picking up a few extra credits in the Spring and Summer terms, since neither wanted to go home during vacation. Going home meant working, and working sucked. If they were taking a bird course, it meant they'd have more free time. Financed courtesy of government loans, of course. Who'd give up a free party?
Hand in hand, they went down to the pub and met up with Justin and Ashley. The four decided to get some chairs near a pool table and play a few rounds. Darren wracked the balls up, and Ashley grabbed some cues.
"I'm gonna go get a round of shots..." announced Kris. Pure love, that girl. Any guy's dream. Or girl's, for that matter.
"Yup. Make'em Liquid Cocaine! Tastes like Hot Lips candy...." suggested Ashley, trailing off.
Kris went over to the bar and waited her turn to order. Darren watched Justin break, then took his turn, sinking a stripe. He went again and sank another striped ball. The third time he wasn't so lucky, and nearly sank a solid one. Ashley went, but she wasn't successful in doing anything but scattering the balls around a little more.
"It's Kris's turn," Darren said, looking up to see if his girlfriend was almost done at the bar. She wasn't. She hadn't even ordered yet, by the looks of things. Darren looked on in horror as he saw Mr. Sammy-Boy Look-A-Like flirting with Kris, who was coyly pushing her hair behind her ear and biting her lip like she'd met the real thing. "I'm going to kill that guy!"
"Uh huh. Yeah, sure," laughed Justin. "But seriously -- are you gonna do anything about it?"
Darren just gritted his teeth as Ashley called Kris back over to the pool table for her turn. She sank one more stripe, then went and stood next to her boyfriend.
"What's your problem?" she asked, seeing his face.
"Does that Sammy dude know you're with me?"
"His name's Ch--"
"I don't care what his name is. Could be Pricky McPrickerson, for all I care."
Kris sighed. "Alright. Yeah -- he knows I'm with you. But you don't have to worry about it -- he has a girlfriend. And anyway -- he's, like, a grad student or something. Twenty six. Way too old."
Darren still didn't feel any better. The fact that the guy existed, and that he looked like his girlfriend's biggest crush just didn't work for him at all. It didn't matter that he said he already had girlfriend of his own. Darren saw the way he looked at Kris. Like they were meant for each other or something. The guy needed to go away.
"DO something about it, then," Justin urged, when Darren talked to him about an hour later. The game score was one to one. A tie-breaker was in order. "Even if it's just something that makes you feel better. Like on that stupid show of yours -- call out a demon to kill the dude or something. May not be real, but could feel therapeutic." He shrugged.
Darren didn't think it was a half-bad idea, really. He'd seen the stuff needed to summon a demon -- put it in a box and bury it at a crossroads. Justin was right -- obviously it was just fantasy, but it'd be kinda like burying all his anger and letting it go. He knew his jealousy was an over reaction. Better to handle it this way than try to punch some guy who looked like he could pile-drive Darren with one hand tied behind his back.
As they were heading out -- Justin and Ashley had won the last game -- Darren said he had to go back to residence for a few minutes, and that Kris should go with them to the party off-campus. He said he'd catch up in about half an hour. He went back to his room and collected as much of the stuff he could remember, with a few substitutions. Since he had no witch hazel, the demon would have to settle for a sprig of limp parsley. A few other things had to be omitted altogether. Then he shoved a few cigarettes in the hard shell pencil case for good measure.
On the way over to the party, he went down one of the dirt side roads till he came to a crossroads. It wasn't so much of a crossroads as it was an "old dirt bike trail intersects an old horse-and-buggy trail," but whatever. It was the thought that counted, right? Darren dug the hole, dropped the box in and covered it back up. He cleared his throat.
"Um... Okay, I feel like a loser. I'm talking to myself," he started, then thought a moment. "Uh. Okay. So... I'm calling any demon that will come. I'd really like it if you killed that jerk that looks like Sam from Supernatural. That's it, really. I'm gonna... go, now. Yeah."
Darren walked quickly back towards campus, hopped on the next bus and went to meet his friends. He was a loser, but at least he felt better. By the time he got to the party, he wasn't thinking about anything else that had happened that day. The mickey of vodka Kris handed him didn't hurt, either. Coming out of the bathroom for the second time, he heard a voice behind him.
"He's upstairs, you know." The man who spoke looked to be about thirty, and had the air of a movie star with the looks to match. Darren swayed, wondering what the hell the guy was talking about.
"Who's that?"
"Pricky McPrickerson. The dude that looks like Sam Winchester. Oh, and--" There was a loud crash outside, and people screamed. "Oops. Looks like he tripped and fell out a window. Onto a car. I don't think he made it. Can I ask you something?"
Darren couldn't believe what was happening. He gaped. The man continued, unfazed.
"What kind of idiot actually calls a demon using a crossroads? You aren't exactly helping the reputation humans have for being morons."
"Who're you?" Darren finally choked out.
"My name is Alastor."
Darren blinked stupidly.
"Gawd, if it's not on TV you don't know anything about it. Beelzebub... Legion... you know them. Alastor -- of course not! Never heard of him," the demon seemed just a bit irritated. He sighed dramatically, and took out an iPhone. He made a few clicks and taps, then continued, "According to Wikipedia, I'm 'a personification of a curse' and a 'demon who avenges wrongs committed by other men.' Basically, I love revenge tragedy -- it gets me going."
As the demon spoke, Darren drunkenly picked up a silver letter opener that was sitting on a table. Demons were supposed to be allergic to silver, according to Supernatural. When Alastor was finished his introduction, Darren stabbed him in the chest with as much force as he could muster. Alastor fell back several steps, then pulled the letter opener out of himself.
"Now why did you do that?! Pinches like a son-of-a--"
"Where's the black smokey stuff?" Darren interrupted him, as the wound healed before his eyes.
"The what?!"
"The black shit that's supposed to come out of you."
"Black shit is supposed to come out of me?" Alastor repeated, getting more annoyed by the second.
"Yeah... y'know. Releasing the person you possessed."
"You watch way the hell too much television. First of all, demons don't possess human beings. We wouldn't lower ourselves to use your filthy bodies as meat sacks. This," Alastor motioned to himself, "is all me. And trust me, I'm much better equipped in all ways."
Darren stepped back. He had half a mind to run, but he was pretty sure he couldn't outrun a demon. There was nothing he could do -- he was screwed.
"Yup, totally screwed," said the demon, reading his mind.
"You own my soul," sighed Darren. He figured there was no reason to get too upset -- there had to be a way out of the situation. He just had to... dare he say it? Do some research. Preferably once he was sober. "So, how long do I got?"
"Soul? I don't own your soul -- what little of one you have, anyway. You make choices, you condemn yourself or faith conquers all, yadda yadda yadda. Too bad you don't have any time for a makeup test."
"Whaddya mean? I thought we had a deal..."
"The crossroads deal, yeah. If you read the fine print, it has nothing to do with souls..."
"But why--?"
"Why do we do it? For the sheer fucking joy of it. Some idiot comes along," he smiled sweetly as he motioned to Darren, "and asks us a favour. We get to kill someone -- or more than one person -- at the request of a pure, innocent human, loved by God as his own personal supposed Xerox. Then, when we come back to collect on a contract you people made with a demon, which should be suspect to anyone who's ever read even a cellphone contract, we get to kill them. Personally, I find it much more entertaining to hunt down reluctant prey, but I'll take what I can get. In the end, the torture devices are all the same. Thank you, by the way."
Darren was frozen. He couldn't speak, but Alastor read his mind as a courtesy.
"Opening the door. There are doorways all over the world, but most of them are locked up tight," he shook his head, as though recounting a shameful family drama."But... thanks to you, we can come to others here rather than having to wait for them to call on us. Two-way line, now. Fantastic!"
Darren was screwed and the demon was monologuing. There must be a double fucking rainbow somewhere. Usually when someone on television or in a play monologued, particularly a villain, it meant they were about to lose. Something would happen to thwart the bad guy, or someone would come in and save the day at the last moment...
"Not this time, kiddo."
Chapter 2: The Fair Exchange
It was 4 am and Lena was sitting in the emergency room waiting area, wrapped up in a blanket she'd brought from home. The room was a fair size and standard issue white, except for the pale green border running along the tops of the walls. On one of those walls was a single door, and next to that was a window leading from waist level up to the ceiling. The wall on one side of the window held a placard holder for the queue, currently at Number 63; the other held an anti-bacterial hand sanitation pump. Plastic leatherette chairs in pale green lined the walls, and also made up two rows back to back in the centre. In one corner was a mounted television currently set to a sports news channel. The volume was set on low, thankfully.
Lena's head pounded. She had gone to bed early after a marathon studying session for one of her grad courses, but had awoken suddenly at midnight to what felt like a grenade having gone off in her head. Her eardrum had exploded, and blood was pouring out. Lena had stumbled out into the living room of her apartment to find Amy, her housemate, still up. Amy was kind enough to drive her to the ER, but couldn't stick around -- she had her own exam in less than nine hours.
"Number 64, please go through the door," announced the nurse who was manning the window. She looked thoroughly bored and had barely looked at Lena when she'd first presented herself for admittance. A man got up -- Number 64 presumably -- and wandered slowly to the door. He didn't look sick, but moved with such a gait that Lena suspected he had unhinged something on his lower body.
Besides her, there was now only one person left in the room. Two, actually -- but just one who needed to be admitted. A mother held her colic-y baby in her arms. The infant had finally fell asleep after nearly three hours straight of crying. She looked relieved.
The pain in Lena's head had now eased to a dull throb, which would have been a blessing if only it hadn't been masking other pains below it. Her ear, of course, hurt badly -- obviously infected. But the soreness had travelled through her upper jaw and into her left eye, while simultaneously travelling down through her lower jaw. Now, she could feel each individual tooth on the left side of her mouth pulse with sharp intensity. Her whole head felt like one raw, open nerve ending.
She closed her eyes tight and cupped her ears with her hands, forehead down on her knees. Why couldn't they go faster? They usually did. Lena got ear infections all the time -- she didn't understand why she couldn't just have a refillable prescription for antibiotics. She knew damn well when she had an infection -- it would make hers and whatever doctor who happened to be on duty lives a whole lot simpler.
Lena heard a door close, and looked up. The mother and baby had gone through the door. At least it wouldn't be long now. She waited.
The analog clock on the wall -- the kind they used in schools -- read 5 am. Her eyes watered, blurring her vision. She couldn't be reading the clock properly. Lena looked down at her watch, and discovered that it read the same time.
Damn.
Now it was 5:30 am. The nurse had disappeared from the window, having gone on a break or perhaps to help out with an emergency. Maybe they had forgotten about her?
Just as Lena was preparing to get up from her seat to issue a complaint, the door swung open. A man in his late 50s appeared, holding a clipboard. He had dark, deep set eyes, and a full beard. Wild, longish grey hair framed his whole face, and the overall effect made him look rather like a lion.
"Lena Wallace?" he asked, looking up from his clipboard to meet her eyes.
"Yeah -- that's me," Lena answered. She walked toward the door and glanced at his name tag which read Dr. Barbas.
"Sorry about the wait... can you come with me, please?"
She followed the doctor down to an empty consultation room, and had her sit on the raised examination bed. Dr. Barbas muttered something about having to check a board and wandered out, leaving Lena there alone. The room was stark white, like the waiting room, and also had a coloured border running around it near the ceiling. Pale blue instead of green, though.
The fluorescent lights above pulsed in time with her teeth.
Another twenty minutes passed before the good doctor re-emerged from the hallway.
"So, Ms. Wallace, what seems to be the problem?" he asked. The doctor's smile made Lena slightly uncomfortable. She considered asking for a nurse to be present, but decided that the mixture of pain and lack of sleep was making her paranoid.
"I have an ear infection in my left ear -- I get them all the time."
"Well, let's take a look," he said, taking an otoscope and placing a disposable speculum on its tip. Dr. Barbas took the base of Lena's ear and gently pulled down and out, straightening the ear canal as much as he could before putting the otoscope in her ear. He looked in. "Yup. It's infected alright."
"I usually get Biaxin, but I find it's not working as well anymore -- I think I'm becoming resistant to it," she told him. "What else can I get?"