Max read the Librarian’s words again.

The symbol is associated with Shadowholme.

Shadowholme . . . Shadowholme, Max mused. Why does that word ring a bell?

He cudgeled his brain, trying to remember.

Then it occurred to him. Mirrorkin had referenced the word a couple of times during the process of slotting Max into the Vigilante Division. What were the exact words Mirrorkin had used?

Absentmindedly tapping the desk the Librarian lay on, Max flogged his brain some more. What Mirrorkin had said finally floated to the surface: “The caliber of this school’s students is plummeting. Shadowholme must be rolling over in his grave.” And Mirrorkin had also used Shadowholme’s name like it was some sort of oath, saying, “What in Shadowholme’s name are you talking about?”

Despite Shadowholme sounding like what Max might name his lair if he ever managed to become a certified Hero, he was clearly a person.

Dipping the white quill in ink again, Max wrote a new message to the Librarian. Shadowholme is a name Mirrorkin mentioned to me before. Who is he?

I could tell you, but I won’t. Knowledge is earned, not given. As I alluded to previously, my role is to facilitate your learning, not spoon-feed you. I have made available the seminal work on Shadowholme. It contains the answers you seek. You will find it on the shelf in the same location you obtained me from.

Max glared at the Librarian’s words. If he had laser vision, the Librarian would burst into flame again. “Why is nothing in this darned school ever easy?” he muttered as he stomped back to where he had found the Librarian.

A thick book now occupied the space on the shelf once containing the Librarian. There was no title or other lettering on the book’s exterior to hint at its contents. It was bound by rough, cracked leather; the cover looked and felt so old, Max wondered if it had been harvested from a cow from Noah’s Ark. Metal reinforced the book’s corners and spine. Bands of identical metal wrapped tightly around the top, middle, and bottom of the book, preventing Max from peeking at so much as a word of the book’s contents. A lock was embedded in the central band, with a mechanism stretching to the bands above and below. The mechanism seemed designed so that, upon undoing the lock, the mechanism would simultaneously release all the bands securing the book.

Max thought the intricate setup hinted at the importance of the book’s contents.

Or maybe it contained porn, and the lock was childproofing. Perhaps Shadowholme was just a smut-slinger, the Hugh Hefner or Larry Flynt of his time.

If Max had a crowbar handy, he probably could have pried off the book’s bands. But then he noticed the bands glowed very faintly. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but thrusting the book into a dark shadow cast by a shelf made him realize it wasn’t.

The glow gave Max pause. He’d bet money that if he forced the bands off, something bad would happen. Blow your hands clean off kind of bad. He’d expect nothing less from Prometheus Academy.

Max lugged the book back to the desk where the Librarian lay, setting it down with a thump.

The book is locked. How do I open it?

Knowledge is earned, not given.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Max let out a long, calming breath, trying to not lose his temper. No lighter was handy. But maybe, if he found two sticks, he could rub them together and set the Librarian ablaze again.

In other words, you’re not going to tell me how to open the book.

Indeed, the Librarian agreed.

Max thought to check his suit’s chronometer, something he hadn’t even known the suit sported until Waldo informed him and the others in Gadgetry class. The time allotted for the first years’ meal was well over, and the subsequent free period was nearly expired as well. If he didn’t leave the library soon, he’d be late for class. The fact he was concerned about not accumulating demerits for the Vigilante Division demonstrated how insidious the credit/demerit system was; it made Max more concerned than he normally would have been about what his peers thought of him.

I don’t have time to figure out how to open the book now. Can I take it from the library for later study?

A book can be checked out for as long as a student needs it. It must only be returned by the end of the school year. Or sooner if another student requests it. Considering no student has checked out this particular book since the school’s founding, it’s unlikely the tome is in high demand.

Finally, some good news. If Max hustled, he could go to his room, hide the book, and make it to his next class in time. Some blind instinct made him not want the faculty and other students to see him with the book. In the normal world, unreasoning paranoia was a character defect. Here at Prometheus, Max was realizing, it was a survival tool.

Max’s quill hand hesitated above the Librarian. He was unsure of what to write next, or if he should write anything whatsoever. After all, he hadn’t gotten the comprehensive answers he had been looking for in coming here. Plus, he knew the Librarian was holding out on him, the entity clearly knowing far more than it was willing to volunteer.

But at least now Max had this book. And a name: Shadowholme. Both were more than he had when he walked in here.

“It costs nothing to be polite,” his father used to say. Many of his father’s rules were too namby-pamby to apply to a place like Prometheus. His don’t hit girls rule, for example, seemed untenable long-term in a place where the females were as physically aggressive as the males. But, despite the harsh realities of Prometheus, Max found that his Deep South upbringing ingrained in him a politeness he couldn’t shake off, even when dealing with non-flesh-and-blood entities.

Thanks for your help, he finally wrote. I really appreciate it.

You’re very welcome. There is no need to re-shelve me. Simply leave me as-is and return to school via the library’s exit I am recreating now.

Max glanced up and saw that the library’s front door was right where it should be, supplanting the blank wall that had been there an instant before. He was so astonished by this door’s magical appearance, he nearly missed what the Librarian wrote next. Everything else the Librarian had written had been in a bold, elegant hand. These new words were in a font so small and in a hand so hasty, Max had to squint to decipher them.

Don’t react or respond to this, as we’re under surveillance.

You and the school are in grave danger! Trust no one and nothing. Including me.

In a flash, the alarming tiny message was gone, leaving only the conspicuous You’re very welcome message above it.

Max blinked. The message had come and gone so fast that he almost thought it was merely a figment of his imagination.

But that was just wishful thinking. He had read the message correctly.

As the Librarian’s warning sank in, Max got a prickly feeling at the nape of his neck, like someone was sneaking up on him. Suddenly he felt like he was being watched, despite seeming to be alone in the library.

Maybe it was just the power of suggestion. Entire careers in hypnotism were built upon it.

Or, maybe he really was being watched as the Librarian warned. It’s not paranoia if people actually were out to get you.

Max resisted the temptation to pose follow-up questions regarding the Librarian’s fleeting message, instead taking the entity at its word they were under surveillance. He wanted to poke around, probe the area for a hidden camera or H.G. Wells’ Invisible Man, but he instead tried to act normally. Well, as normally as someone can act who just finished conversing with a book.

He stuck the quill in the inkwell, hoisted the metal-bound book the Librarian had lent him, and strolled out of the library, trying to keep his demeanor casual. But he wanted to run, feeling like there was a target on his back the entire time.

A few seconds after Max disappeared through the exit, a new figure materialized in the library, just feet from where Max had stood before the Librarian.

The figure stepped up to where the Librarian remained open, picked up the quill, and began writing.