He coughed, choking on a thousand burning books. Fire roared in his ears. Smoke blackened his vision. Lifting his hands to heat-chapped lips, he shouted, “Sarah! Sarah, where are you?”

Behind him, a shelf gave way. Books crashed down, plastic covers melted beyond recognition, pages browning from the mere heat of the flames.

“Sarah! Where are you?”

One last child from his reading class. One little girl, unaccounted for. He hadn’t thought. He’d simply charged into the building, determined to rescue that poor child lost in the burning library.

“Sarah!”

Again, he coughed. His lungs and throat burned. His eyes watered. Heavy smog threatened to blind him. He bent lower, searching, refusing to close his eyes.

Motion. His head snapped toward it. Across the room, a brightly-colored blanket shifted. A little girl peeked out from beneath, her hair rumpled, her eyes stained with tears. “Where’s my mommy?”

Grabbing her up, he wrapped the blanket around her. “Keep your head inside the blanket. The second I put you down, run straight ahead, okay?”

“Okay,” Sarah whispered, her voice muffled beneath the blanket.

He turned. Flames ate toward the doorway of the reading room, singeing closer with each passing moment. Outside, fire seared through the narrow hallway between shelves, greedily devouring aged paper. Institutional gray carpet burned underfoot. Flames crawled up the walls, browning the paint where they passed.

He wrapped his arms around Sarah, protecting her with his body, and ran for the door. Intense heat smashed into him, searing his arms, neck, and face. He flinched, but pushed on, cutting a hard left through the stacks and toward the exit.

One final aisle stood between him and daylight. The flames raged high here, higher than anywhere before. The blasting heat of an oven left the air wavering. He crouched below the smoke, choking as he gathered his strength. Eyes locked on the sun, he sprinted for the door.

Hammer-blows of heat pounded on his limbs. Fire licked at his skin. His sweat evaporated on the spot. His skin instantly crisped bright red. Inside the blanket, Sarah cried.

It’s okay. I’ve got you. He tightened his grip.

The exit loomed, so close, so bright. He sped up. Three more steps. Two. One.

Metal screamed. He whirled, eyes wide. An enormous shelf crashed down toward him, spilling burning books like flaming meteors. His heart seized. He threw Sarah away from him. At least her—!

BAM!

He screamed. The shelf weighed down on him, pinning him to the floor. His right foot laid dead, unresponsive. His left foot scrabbled at slippery plastic-bound books. He clawed at the carpet, digging long scratches into its surface.

Desperately, he reached for the light, even as the smoke swallowed it.

As the last glimmer of light faded away, a hand took his. Someone whispered something in his ear, and then everything went black.

To his surprise, sensation returned. His brows furrowed. He shifted slightly, blinking against the thin light that seared his sensitive eyes. His hands hurt, his whole body hurt, but with dull pain. Not the fierce agony he expected from burns.

What… what happened?

The library… burned down.

I was reading to the kids. Volunteering after work. Sarah got stuck. I ran back in… threw her out…the shelf hit me…

And then what?

He lay on his stomach, a strange pose for a hospital to leave him in. No monitors beeped. No orderlies rushed around, muttering short codes to one another, their sneakers slapping against a sterile tile floor. Rather than antiseptic, the room smelled of old books and iron.

What the hell happened to me?

Slowly, he pushed himself to all fours. His palms stung when he pressed them against the floor. Confused, he lifted his hands. Deep gashes scored across the center of his palms. 

He turned his hands over. No burns marred his arms. No t-shirt and jeans. Instead, rough black fabric cloaked his arms to the elbow, where loose white sleeves draped down. White leggings stretched below the black tunic, spotted with blood.

He lifted his head, taking in his surroundings.

Polished wood shelves marched off in all directions, winding whimsically out of sight as they twisted back on one another, each one heavy with books. The must of leather-bound books and old paper swirled with a sweet, waxen scent. A wrought-iron spiral staircase wound to the next floor, where another equally impressive library awaited, and above that, another and another, as far as his eyes could see, books climbing to infinity. Here and there, small nooks of warm wood and dark upholstery awaited a reader, lit with soft light. Large black-and-white-alternating marble tiles spread away underfoot, a cool counterpoint to the warm wood.

Some instinctive part of him relaxed, infinitely comforted. Home. This place is home.

He turned. Behind him, an immense desk held piles of paper, stray books, a crystal ball, a shallow dish of what looked to be mercury, and a dozen more knickknacks he couldn’t name.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

Despite the grandeur around him, his eyes drifted downward, to the floor directly beneath him.

Blood. Rapidly-darkening blood twisted all around, red in the deepest pools, almost black in the shallowest lines. A pentagram full of strange inscriptions circled him, layers of magical-looking symbols stacked up in concentric circles around him.

Unfamiliar clothes. Unfamiliar location. Blood circle. He went to rub his forehead, but stopped himself halfway, remembering his bloody palms. “Where am I? No.” He turned to his hands again. Soft. Young. His strange clothes. “Who am I?”

He swiped his finger at the blood circle. It came away wet. “Fresh.”

Taking it all in, Oz twisted his lips. He put a hand to his chin. I died. I’m sure I died, in that library. Either that, or passed out, and I’m still comatose from my wounds. Is this all a dream? A beautiful delusion, structured by my dying brain?

He clenched his hands. Sharp pain dug into his palms. He shook his head. I don’t think it’s a dream. I feel pain. Again, he looked at the blood circle beneath him.

“This is ridiculous, but was I summoned somewhere?”

I’ve read plenty of fantasies in my day. I know the drill. Blood circle, mysterious runes? That’s how you summon things.

He looked up at the library around him. “I got summoned, huh? Summoned.”

He stared into infinity. After a few seconds, he blinked. “Huh.”

At the far end of the hall, the doors thumped. He jumped, whirling.

“Ossian!”

“Who?” He looked around him. There’s no one else here. He’s got to be talking to me. Turning down to look at his strange new body, he frowned. Me… or whoever this was. This person I am now.  

My name… shit. What was my name? He rubbed his head with the back of his hand. Nothing came to him. Not a syllable. 

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. Ossian it is, I guess.

He went to push himself to his feet. His fingers knocked a small porcelain pot. Frowning, he opened it, revealing a greenish poultice. A strong astringent scent assaulted his nose.

A note laid beside it. He peered at it. Unfamiliar letters quickly morphed into familiar ones, shifting before his eyes. For your hands.

“Kind of you, whoever you are,” Ossian muttered. He scooped out a bit of the poultice and smeared it over his palms.

The green goo glowed, then vanished into his skin. The skin of his palm knitted back together before his eyes. He stared, then threw his hands up.

“There we have it. Magic.”

“Ossian! Where the hell are you?” the voice demanded. The double doors thumped again.

“Coming!” He struggled to his feet, then paused, looking down at himself. Blood stained the white leggings he wore, giving him a murder-victim vibe. He grimaced. Can’t answer the door like this.

Beside him, a pile of black cloth laid beside a long note. Giving the note a glance, he snatched up the fabric and threw it over himself. A black robe cloaked his body, hiding the bloodstained leggings.

He hurried to the door as it thumped yet again, opening it in the middle of his opponent’s knocking. “Can I help you?”

“Oss—” A boy staggered away from him, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. He stared at Ossian. “You opened the door?”

“Yes? You were knocking,” Ossian said. He took the moment to take in the boy before him as he slipped outside, all but shutting the door behind him to hide the bloody circle.

Unlike Ossian’s plain black robes, this boy wore fine yellow cloth. Three gold sun-shaped medallions and a sword hung from a broad leather belt. Chestnut hair pulled back from his forehead in a half-up style, the long part hanging to his chin. 

“Aren’t you a dandy,” Oz muttered, raking his eyes over the boy’s garish, banana-like gear.

At that, the boy recovered. Hauling himself back to his full height, he laughed in Ossian’s face. “That’s right. I didn’t expect Master’s favorite coward to suddenly find the balls to open the door.”

Ossian gestured. “I did.”

Once again off-balance, the boy nodded. “Right, er… that’s right. I came to congratulate you on Master’s Ascension!”

He looked down at Ossian smugly, as if he’d just launched the comeback of the century.

“Thank you,” Ossian said, bowing a little.

Again, the boy stared at him. “What?”

“What?” Ossian asked.

“You’re… not worried?”

“Should I be?”

Frustrated, the boy gestured behind Ossian. “You, the powerless you, are now the lone man in control of the most valuable collection of magical texts anywhere in the kingdoms, and you’re asking me that?”

Ossian raised his brows. “Huh. Yeah. That sounds like a problem.”

The boy threw up his hands. “Are you really that stupid? You only realized it now?”

 “Let’s say yes. Oh, mind calling me Oz from now on?” I want to differentiate myself from the person whose body I’m occupying. Ossian and Oz are two different people. Slipping back through the door, he began to shut it.

“What? Hey—where are you going? You can’t shut the door on me!” the boy snapped.

“Why not? Sure feels like I can,” Oz said, continuing to push the door shut.

“You’re just—you’re nobody! You—”

“I’m the man in control of the most valuable collection of magical texts in the realm. You said so yourself,” Oz pointed out.

The boy’s face twisted into a scowl. “But you’re—”

“Powerless, yes. I’m used to that. But am I still? Now that I have all these books, don’t you think I might have some power?” Oz queried. He paused in shutting the door, leaning against the frame to listen.

“Only borrowed power. None of your own. Good luck keeping that library, now that you’re its sole protector,” the boy spat.

So Ossian didn’t have magic? Strange, since he summoned me. Unless…

Oz pushed the thoughts aside. That’s one positive. I don’t have to pretend to have magic. He nodded at the boy and gave him a polite smile. “Fuck off.”

“Fuck you, Ossian!” The boy lunged, his fist plunging toward Oz’s face. Oz flinched. In midair, as the boy’s fist crossed the plane of the library’s door, a wall of gold light materialized. His fist bounced off, and he staggered back.

Oz raised his brows. Interesting. What the hell is that? Mustering his smuggest expression, he looked down on the boy. Let’s see if I can provoke him into telling me.

Seeing his face, the boy scowled. “Hide behind Master’s barrier while you can. It won’t last forever!”

Oh, it’s a barrier. Good to know. Oz nodded. He shut the door.

The boy slammed on the door. “You’re still a loser, Ossian! Even with Master’s inheritance, you’ll never be anyone! I’m going to laugh when the most powerful mages in the realm beat down that barrier, steal all those books of yours, and flay you alive! I’ll savor each and every one of your screams! I’ll—”

Ignoring the ranting boy, Oz pressed his hands against the wood. Closing his eyes, he muttered to himself, “Burned alive, summoned to another world, suddenly put in charge of a giant library of valuable magical books, no magic of my own…”

He took a deep breath and laughed. “I’ve had worse days.”