Damien. Jacquelyn Frank

      The sound of footsteps echoed in the caverns leading to the newfound Library hidden within them as Syreena approached the entrance. The traps had been removed, the trick of the locks disengaged for the time being. The stone that had protected the mysterious Library had been moved aside as scholars from differing Nightwalker species warmed the lonely shelves with the beginnings of a continued presence.

      She stood at the opening for a moment, taking in only her second view of the remarkable room. The smell of must and mildew was a little less, she noted immediately. Leaving the cavern open had allowed fresh air to circulate in. It was a relief to her senses and probably those of all the other Nightwalkers.

      The first step into the cavern took her from stone to a thin but intricately woven carpet. Though it was stained with the centuries and the dampness caused by neglectful trickles of water that had broken through the original seals put up to protect the Library, the craftsmanship of the red and gold rug was still apparent.

      Immediately to the left and right along the walls were the first shelves of books. There was not an inch of wall space wasted. Whether they were carved directly out of stone or made of wood and secured into stone, there were shelves covering every inch of the walls, from floor to ceiling. On those shelves, packed in densely, were books ranging in both height and thickness, some of them quite tiny, others quite enormous. At first glance, Syreena could only read about one out of every ten titles. That was remarkable to her because she could read and write quite a few languages, both human and Nightwalker.

      The main aisle was large enough to fit a row of tables comfortably down the center of the red runner, the books running the walls on either side for easy access. Someone had already lit several kerosene and oil lamps, setting them at acceptable intervals. The torches that thrust out from intermittent spots in the walls themselves were also lit and burning brightly. Almost too brightly. Syreena could feel the burn on her eyes.

      This was as far as she had ever seen into the Library. The day they had first discovered it, they had been pressed into other matters and had not had the luxury of exploring it. Anya, the General of the royal Elite Guard, had been the only one to come back and run through it in its entirety, strictly as a safety measure, just in case the traps and such did not end at the door.

      There were already two Monks and a Demon in the room. Syreena was positive there were more in the parts of the chamber that were out of her sight. She supposed they were just starting anywhere, grabbing the first book they came across. No one, as far as she knew, could understand the markings carved into the walls above the bookcases that were no doubt some sort of filing symbols.

      They should probably appoint some sort of a librarian, she mused. Someone to coordinate the effort, keeping them from doubling back on their own work. Someone to track the volumes and be responsible for keeping everything complete. Someone to arrange for the repairs to the cavern that would be necessary to keep the water from flowing in and ruining any more of the volumes than it already had.

      But while Nightwalkers could agree to share these findings, she would bet money that it would be nearly impossible for them to agree on something as individualized as assigning a librarian. Still, she would have to make the suggestion to Siena. The Library was in their territory, after all. Perhaps if they assigned someone without even asking if they should, it would become accepted as the norm and go unquestioned.

      Syreena’s speculations halted as a Nightwalker she could not immediately identify entered her perception. She was tiny, barely over five feet, and though she was quite pretty, she seemed terribly unsure of herself. She was creeping along the cases as if she were trying to tune out the fact that anyone else was even there.

      She was not Demon. Demons were tall and tanned and dreadfully gorgeous in a very stalwart way, as a rule, and while she was very beautiful, the little thing was delicate and almost frail looking. Neither was she Lycanthrope or Vampire. Lycanthropes could always sense their brethren, and Vampires had no circulation to speak of. Not after a certain age, at least. It was clear to Syreena’s senses that she had a rapid little heartbeat and a very efficient bloodstream.

      Who else besides these three would be studying in a Nightwalker Library?

      Syreena entered the room fully at last, making a straight line for the stranger. Her target noted her approach instantly and a look Syreena could only describe as panic seemed to cross her fine-boned features. She drew back, huddling against the bookshelf as the Princess stepped up to her.

      That was when Syreena realized what she was.

      “Hello. I am Syreena.” She greeted the frightened girl gently, extending a hand of greeting. “You are Mistral, are you not?”

      Syreena had only seen one other Mistral in her life. She was astounded that she was seeing a second. Mistrals were utterly reclusive. They did not associate with anyone other than themselves, and even then, outside of living in tiny villages together, they rarely gathered. They were xenophobic, they terribly feared crowds, and they very certainly feared those of any power.

      The young Mistral female nodded in confirmation of Syreena’s guess. She would not speak, the Princess knew. Female Mistrals were referred to as Sirens for a very good reason. The music of their voices alone was enchanting, dazing any who listened. It was an adequate defense mechanism. More than adequate. Like the ominous rattle of a poisonous snake, its effect was universally paralyzing. But also like the wise snake, she would rather slink away than face a challenge. However, Syreena was willing to bet that if put to the screws, one of the Mistral breed could do more than enough damage to an enemy. This would be easy to do to a mark that was entranced by their speaking voice alone, not to mention the utterly enamoring effect should they decide to sing.

      It was fortunate that they were a dedicated nonviolent species.

      The small-boned girl reached out and took Syreena’s offered hand, shaking head to toe the entire while. As they shook in greeting, Syreena marveled that the girl had come there at all. She had not realized Siena had extended the invitation to the Mistrals, never mind that they would accept. This girl, despite her cowed shivering, had to be uniquely brave to have volunteered for this duty.

      Syreena released her hand and glanced at the tables not too far away from them. She gave the girl a half smile and reached for one of the sheets of paper she saw sitting in a stack. She nodded to the pen clutched in the other female’s fingers.

      “What’s your name?”

      The Mistral actually smiled. She took the paper and, using the book in her hands as a lean, scribbled a quick response.

      “Aria,” it read.

      Syreena liked her instantaneously. She knew it was a bias but did not care. Mistrals