So, we booze-cruised to the book store...not. Liah stopped at one beer, and was perfectly fine to drive. Something about her special constitution giving her a higher tolerance. It’s nice how occasionally all this supernatural stuff works out to our advantage. Not that magic isn’t useful for other stuff, like creating a feeling of self-satisfaction when stuck in traffic.

 

It wasn’t a large book store, tucked away in an out of the way shopping center along with an Indian grocery store and a restaurant. It was the kind of hole in the wall used book store that always managed to accumulate a few gems now and then, as long as you don’t visit too often. Anyone who really likes books has one or two of these they make the occasional stop at, whether to find something exciting or just to enjoy the scent of musty old books.

 

You’d think I’d be used to the scent of old books given my job as an archivist, but different books have different smells. I’m not sure how to explain it, but it’s something you just know. The Archive, well, it smells sort of like you took the scent of a prestigious Ivy League library, and removed the top scent notes of people using it and the bottom notes of wood shelving and reading desks, leaving old-fashioned leather bindings, laid paper, and hints of parchment.

 

Meanwhile, the average used bookstore has a different perfume. You get some of the older books, true, but the heart scent is along the lines of cheaper pulp paper, ink that rubs off of a low-priced fantasy paperback when it’s been read too much, and the owner’s coffee and meal. If the Archive is the essential oil of “rare book” and a stately library is the work of a high-end perfumer, then a used bookstore is the subdued spicy choice of bookseller scents. And I’ll just ignore Liah rolling her eyes at my  deep and meaningful mental discourse.

 

“I swear, half the time I forget you’re supposed to be older than me.” She huffed in feigned exasperation.

 

“I like to think letting my inner child run rampant helps me in my chosen profession. What did that one show say, ‘a believing heart is your magic?’ Keeping my inner-child happy and well supplied with books and art supplies is practically a necessity.” I thought my comparison was rather apt if nothing else.

 

“I live in constant fear that your inner child will draw on the walls in crayon. Or eat the crayons.”  She answered as we browsed the books on display outside. There was a bit of that late-October chill in the air, but that just added a crispness that made the sunlight more enjoyable. It had been a long night, after all.

 

“My crayon-eating days are over, at the very least. Now I get to enjoy the laid-back life of a lazy civilian guvvie, stealing a paycheck with no real work to do.” I wish.

 

Sandra was browsing through the books with us, either engrossed in finding something worth reading or pointedly ignoring the back and forth between Liah and I. Didn’t we offer to take her around to help her forget about relationship stuff? Oops.

 

“Come on, let's head in. They have a pretty great selection of fantasy novels.” I gestured for everyone to follow.

 

“Do we really need that? I just want to have the fantasy of not dealing with any more clusterfucks from your job like last night.”

 

“A bit of escapism is always nice. Besides, some of the urban fantasy novels are pretty funny when you compare them to real life. It’s the same general feeling of reading Tom Clancy and seeing what he got right or wrong.” I explained.

 

“I don’t think our current line of work really makes that a fair comparison for Mr. Clancy.” Sandra answered, nervously entering into the conversation. “Not that I’ve been involved long enough to know for sure.”

 

“His stuff is pretty much fantasy anyways, after his first couple books. Take Rainbow Six for example.” I spouted off, an authoritative air to my confident voice.

 

“The game? I don’t really play video games...”

 

“Oh, neither do I. I mean the book. Do you really think it’d be realistic to have a major corporation go out of their way fearmongering for- Eh, not the best example.”

 

“So your point is?” Liah butted in.

 

“Eh, I forgot. I just wanted to get in a few jabs at a thriller author who’s plots got massively unrealistic.” I conceded.

 

“You’d do the same if you were an author, I’d imagine. I’d almost be afraid to see the kind of wish-fulfillment dross you’d type out if the urge to become a writer struck you.” Liah rolled her eyes.

 

“’Help! I Got Ran Over By An LAV and Transported to Another World, and My Catgirl Harem Keeps Pawing at my Status Scre-Ouch!” I can’t believe she scratched at me!

 

“No harems, reverse harems or anything else of the sort for you.” She muttered while we browsed.

 

“Fair enough, I wont- Ooh! They have a full boxed set of Ouran High-School Host Club!” It looks almost mint too. Definitely nabbing that one. Not sure why Liah’s giving me a weird look.

 

“What?”I asked.

 

“I know the answer to this question already, but have you ever gotten checked for ADHD or anything like that?”

 

“Never got pinned down with that sort of thing by any sort of psych.” I replied. And I haven’t been diagnosed with ADHD if nothing else, although it'd be a bit rude to pry into medical history like that, Liah.

 

“Sorry.” She said, before rubbing my head. “You pet me all the time, so it’s only fair I get to do the same once in a while.”

 

Just then, Sandra came up to us, arms full of books. Old collected volumes on Pavlov and Jung, a copy of the Ars Magna, and a Diane Gabaldon novel.

 

“Is that everything?” She nodded in response. “Hand them over then, I got this.” I could feel a bit of annoyance from Liah at this.

 

“I should be more specific. Work’s got this.” I smiled, flashing the government card. Given some of the books Sandy was holding, it could even be argued to be work-related. Yes, even the Diane Gabaldon novel.

 

“I don’t think your manga box set counts for that.” Liah snorted.

 

“After last night I think work owes us.”

 

“If you say so.” Check out, and back in the car. I had remembered something important we’d need to talk about, after all.

 

Our second stop was, predictably, another bar, this one located in the same historic district I often liked to visit. Why did we go here? Because of the beer selection of course. And the scotch selection. Two very good reasons.

 

Plus, the upstairs seating tended to often be empty, with a tv that could be turned up loud enough to make our conversation harder to hear. Not that I’d advise doing this for anything sensitive, but we were just going to talk scheduling. The boring nitty gritty “what days of the week do you have classes, when can you come into the office” sort of admin crap.

 

So, fresh glasses of lager in hand, and a side of french fries, we huddled around the table almost conspiratorially.

 

“I do love the atmosphere of this place.” I spoke first, grabbing a fry covered in Old Bay.

 

“’Atmosphere?’ There’s a ghost in that corner over there.” Sandra was unsettled. Miss Ivy-League apparently doesn’t like spooky things.

 

“You can ignore it if you want. Actually, definitely ignore it.” I corrected myself.

 

“I know that much. That’s been one of the worst parts about getting caught up in this shit. The city’s absolutely crawling with the things.” She shuddered.

 

“Speaking about that, what’s your schedule look like?” Cutting to the meat of the matter seems best.

 

“Classes Monday through Thursday, and Friday’s off.” She answered, still distracted by the spirit in the corner.

 

“Good. We can meet up at this address.” I handed her a slip of paper. “It’s just my house, not anything as sketchy as work.”

 

“Inviting coworkers over like this is pretty sketchy.” she snarked. Liah nodded in agreement.

 

“I don’t want extra work. But the boss made it seem like our next assignment could be dangerous, so I at least want a slight baseline of how proficient you might be.” I explained.

 

“And what qualifications do you have for that?” She asked.

 

“About the same level of qualifications I have to be a law enforcement officer, which is to say none. But honestly, most cops are so shitty at their jobs I at least have confidence I’m a better shot than most of them. Actually, I did go through a marksmanship coach course. What do you know, with that and an IQ above room temperature, I’m downright overqualified.” A gulp of beer helped emphasize my point.

 

“So...”

 

“I’m just going to take you to the range and make sure you can at least hit a target. Anything better than NYPD level should at least give me something to work with. Then we’ll need to stop by work for, well, work. Since you have classes during the week we’ll need to do most of our actual, er, ‘job-stuff’ on the weekend.” I was really trying to side-step the specifics.

 

“You mean like- Oh, yeah, the NDA.” She nodded to herself.

 

“I swear, I don’t understand why the Archive is so lax on the whole training part. It’s like they completely forget about the whole concept of explaining how the job works. Just, try not to talk about stuff when not in the workplace.” I explained.

 

“She sort of went over that, but I was already so overwhelmed by it all that I’m not sure it stuck at the time.” She smiled sheepishly. It would have been endearing if she hadn’t looked like she had just gotten out of the sickbed, with the unkempt hair and massive dark circles under her eyes.

 

“Ouch.” Liah kicked my ankle under the table.

 

We hashed out the details while working our way through our beers, when I received a text from an unfamiliar number. It simply read “say there, we’re otw to pick up the new hire.”

 

And with that ending the day, my work life has entered yet another fun and exciting chapter. Yay.