Day 5
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A strong, woody scent rushes past me once I'm inside, caressing the few strands of hair resting atop my shoulders; even as one who doesn't frequent libraries very often, the smell of old books and inky pages is one easily familiar.
The square room extends nicely, not being overwhelmingly big or washed out white like the corridors leading here; instead, it takes a simpler approach, resembling any library easily found on the outskirts of any city.
To the left and right, tall bookshelves attempt to reach the ceiling where some chandeliers hang, lit up and illuminating the place with a fine, cozy light.
While looking around, I walk forward, following the glimpse of Dalia's form on the edge of my vision—that is, until she stops in front of something, forcing me to pull the brakes before bumping against her.
Finally, the box she has been carrying all this way is placed down, atop the long table in front of us; it releases specks of accumulated dust from inside the moment the lid falls to its side.
A cough leaves me as soon as I dare breathe in the air, something that I quickly catch on to and wait a second before trying again; meanwhile, Dalia pulls a chair from the table and lifts her gaze upon completing her motion, eyes falling on mine.
"Detective, why don't you take a seat and allow your legs some rest? If we are to deal with these old files, it is best to do so while resting our bodies."
"Oh, okay, you're right." I step closer to her, watching as she waits for me to sit on the chair before she pulls one to herself, taking the space beside me with no hesitation. "By the way, these files seem very dusty; are you sure anything in here will help us?"
"They are dusty indeed; it is sad to see that the archive workers are becoming slowly unmindful of old documents, despite their importance."
Dalia raises her hand and pulls out one of the more poorly treated files, then she taps its side to allow the dust to fall off. "Old as they may be, I believe they will be enough to satisfy some of my deeply rooted questions. That is one thing I have to believe in."
Suddenly, her eyes unglue from the document in her hand to me as I rise slightly from my seat, just enough to extend my arm and grab one of them. "If that's what you believe, then I'll lend a hand; better to do this than to rot on that hospital bed."
"I appreciate it, detective, more than you know." Her words make it inevitable for me not to turn and gaze upon her face, but in doing so, she smartly makes it impossible by unloading a pile of documents from the box at once. "Ah, I almost forgot to ask; would you like some tea, detective? I find that a warm mug always makes researching somewhat more enjoyable."
"Oh, well, I'll accept then; I never refuse tea or coffee when someone offers, especially if it is to help with work." Amidst speaking, I move my eyes around the library, finding no place to make it near us. "If you'll go out to grab it, would you like if I went with you?"
The question, even if well intended, isn't driven only by wanting to do something good; no, in truth, I'm sure I won't deal well if someone comes here and starts staring at me over a book.
"There won't be a need for that; there's an easier way to get it that doesn't require the effort of going to the cafeteria." Her words confuse me for a moment, but then I see something in the shadows of the table slithering closer; then, slowly and steadily, that same something starts to come out of hiding. "I believe it is time to teach you the basics about magic, and what better way to learn than visually?"
Perfectly synchronized with Dalia's words, from her side, a thick mass of overlapping deep green stems, smelling of wet dirt and wintry pine resin, rises; supported by it, a closed flower softly comes to rest on the table—the thing impressively rivals the size of my head.
Tapping the clearly magical flower casually, she seems to stimulate it to open by the way it slowly starts to do so, and from inside it, it reveals two clean ceramic mugs, two glass vials filled with what seems like water, and a pair of small, rounded stones, all hugged carefully and protected by the petals so as not to let them break.
The sight alone is enough to leave me impressed and taken by some questions; even if I try not to let it transpire so easily, an incredulous, quick laugh, leaves me.
Dalia laughs kindly at my reaction and occupies her hands, grabbing some of the items and methodically positioning them on the table; when satisfied, she takes hold of the stones and, without moving her eyes from them, opens her mouth to talk.
"Do you prefer your tea bitter or sweet, detective? As of right now, I can only offer a simpler variety due to the lack of ingredients and the appropriate instruments, but I assure you, that reflects little on the quality."
"Well, if I have to choose, I'll go with sweet, please."
There was sure enough bitterness this week, from beginning to end, to last me for a whole month easily, so I'm not sure about adding any more to it.
"Perfect choice; I'll then treat myself to some sweetness as well; seasonally speaking, a great choice I can suggest is berry tea. Refreshing and tasty, more yet if taken cold, with some ice cubes."
Her spirit lifts a thousand percent, hard not to notice when taking into consideration how her voice loses any restraints to display contentment, being taken over almost immediately by melodic whistles as she lifts both stones—the love she has for it manages to drag a smile out of me.
She then stops and turns to face me, seemingly remembering something.
"Pardon me, detective; I almost forgot to ask if you even like the tea I suggested."
"Oh, no worries, I have zero problems with anything involving berries, especially if we are talking cake."
"I'll sure to keep that in mind then."
She comments quickly, losing no time in returning to the making of the tea; surely, she must have forgotten that she was going to tell me about her magic, but I'm not about to kill her fun.
Instead, I focus solely on observing the process as carefully as I can to learn from it.
She bashes the two together, at first confusing me deeply as nothing special seems to happen, but only a few seconds after it, I'm surprised by seeing the pale, greyish surface of the polished stone start to grow a hot red, and impressively, only on the part that was bashed against each other.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The stones grow in temperature only to a certain degree before they stop, a relief, as it doesn't get the chance to burn the wooden table; at the moment it happens, Dalia takes the vials with water in her hand, pops the cork lids using the hook cleverly lying atop it, and pours the liquid inside the mug.
Mixing both elements, she familiarly puts the hot stones underneath the mugs, serving as a primitive stove of sorts, which works great to heat the water; meanwhile, as she leaves them be for that to happen, I watch as she interacts with the stem from earlier.
I'm unable to hear what she says to it, but when the words are over, the thing slithers away from underneath the table to somewhere else, disappearing behind the bookshelves near us.
That, and the fact we apparently will have to wait anyway, allows me to ask one question to the tea witch beside me.
"I have a question that might sound dumb, but my curiosity is stronger than my pride: were you always capable of...you know, doing all of this kind of stuff? Like, were you born a witch and all?"
"Considering you know nothing of magic and my kind, your question is not dumb at all; and let me rephrase my master's words that once were directed to me, for you: no question is unworthy when in the search of gaining knowledge, ask, and ask proudly for so you're truly alive."
Assuming a more mature tone, she speaks so calmly that it affects down on me, helped by the ambiance; it lasts shortly, as in a blink it all shatters before my eyes, like the screen of my phone. "But, to be honest with you, that is a question I don't know the answer to."
Turning her eyes to the mug, she loses her gaze on the heating water, watching as the heat creates waves on the surface of the liquid; even not able to see it, I'm sure she looks at her reflection being distorted by the waves.
The grayness in them, for a moment, feels dull and ashen, a warning I have touched a sensitive subject; to my misfortune, it is a tiny bit too far gone to turn away now that the damage is done.
"For as long as I can remember, the memories that make me who I am are all fuzzy, if not simply inexistent. The oldest memory I'm able to reach is of waking up in my master's arm as the moon took the skies fully and a fire scorched the land mere meters from us. Her voice echoed like heavy silk, assuring me things would be okay; there was a time I dared ask her, but her silence was a powerful answer that it wasn't something she would like to discuss, no matter how many eternities, so I never did learn."
I lower my head in shame; a feeling of guilt grows as I try to remember a good reason why I asked in the first place, and the feeling only gets worse as I find none in the process.
"I'm sorry for asking such an insensitive question; I can't imagine how it must feel to not remember a part of your life."
"Your apologies are unnecessary, detective; it is fine. I can't be sad over something I can't remember, and besides, let me refresh your memory for a second. I asked you an insensitive question not long ago, mere days, I believe. So, at this moment, let's consider ourselves even; what do you think? I myself believe that the negative feelings will only get in the way of our research."
Her fingers feel warming, ever so gentle as she proudly comes to rest a reassuring hand on my shoulder, wiping away the guilt in me.
It is strange for me to watch how quickly she abandons any bad thought, instead choosing to be kind—that is one admirable quality.
"Okay, if you think that is good, then alright."
I wouldn't admit it to anyone, but when the feeling of her fingers goes away, I'm unable to not feel strangely disappointed by its parting; using the abilities earned due to my years as an officer, I'm able to not let it transpire, changing my focus hard to the file in hand. "I'll start with this file if you don't mind."
"Great, please do it; I'll finish our drinks and join you shortly. If you come across anything strange or interesting to or investigation, don't hold yourself from talking to me about it."
And, just like that, I'm lost in the many words of the file, meanwhile, trying to ignore the feeling of the returning stem slithering beneath the table; its weight enough to shake the long table when it comes to rest atop it.
Not looking makes me unable to see what it brought, but I can tell it delivers what appears to be the rest of the ingredients for Dalia, so she can finish the drinks. The scene feels familiarly normal yet alien for obvious reasons.
Time goes by like the wind, so quick that I'm left with only the promise of catching up with it, of course being one I won't ever see fulfilled.
If there's one thing I have to praise, it is Dalia's ability to make tea; she truly made something with just the right amount of sweetness to taste delicious without overloading our systems for an inevitable sugar crash. Still about her, she and I work tirelessly on each and every document, studying its contents as best as we can.
What I learned is that mostly they are recordings of strange cases from very different times.
One, for example, is from an investigation on a group of individuals in the nineties who were caught biting and cutting a prostitute's neck in an alley before they vanished in front of a rookie officer's eyes. When he left his patrol car and approached the criminals they were already gone. The other is a medical report from about five years ago, describing the gruesome death of a teenager boy whose body was hanged naked on display by a utility pole's wire in the middle of an intersection.
The body was totally dried of blood, and one eye was missing from the socket—poor thing, what a cruel end.
The file describes why the medic responsible for the report believes the eye was removed before the victim was dead and had nothing to do with the death itself, as it was clearly caused by the visible intrusion of two thin and pointed objects on his neck.
His belief is stated to be needles that were used to dry the boy of the blood, and, from what I learned, I'm one hundred percent sure that they are not needles. There isn't a connection to our killer, seeing that he dried our victims by the wrist with specialized equipment.
There isn't enough proof to connect any of those to our guy or to an organization of people like him, even if they share the same gruesome archetypes we can find in the murders from this week.
A heavy, exhausted sigh whispers away, parting my lips as I lean against the wooden chair's comfortable back; courageously, I pull out my phone to be greeted by the news: an hour and a half has passed since I last checked it.
I click my tongue as I digest the knowledge that soon I'll have to confront Julia again.
"Oh my, it has become quite late, hasn't it? Time really does escape from our grasp fast when we are lost in work." Dalia suddenly asks, glaring at the shattered screen and reading the time.
"Yeah; it sure would be nice to stay here and ignore the problems outside, but that isn't how things work, unfortunately." Rubbing my temples, I store the phone back into the coat's pocket and lock my eyes on the table surface, preparing myself mentally for the corridor of glares. "I still have to talk with Colette before meeting with your boss to finish my day; luckily it will all be quick."
"Then, by all means, go right ahead; I'll be working with these files for an hour or two more before finishing mine." She says while counting quietly the pile of files; just looking at it, I can tell her estimated time is wrong, and probably by a lot, but I choose not to comment.
Nodding as confirmation, I push the table to ease getting up, and in the middle of the way, Dalia continues talking—words that catch me by surprise. "Do you like books, detective? If so, is there any type you prefer?"
"Uhm, yeah, I do. I mean, I don't read very often due to work, but I find that reading fantasy stories from time to time helps with the stress."
"What a nice surprise!" Dalia exclaims; a genuine smile quickly takes away the surprise on her face. "Fantasy stories—I can't say I expected it, yet, that is the very nature of people and books. All mysteries to be unraveled. Well, if you permit me, I could take some books to you in your room later, when things have calmed down, so this way, it feels less boring to pass the time. That is, of course, if you believe it to be appropriated."
"Sure, I think that can be nice," I say, finding her request to be interesting, to say the least, and, well, I'll take any chance to escape those lifeless walls, even if only on a book's page.
"It is a promise then." Taking her mug, Dalia drinks the rest of her tea and exhales calmly before opening one of the files atop the table. "Oh, and before I forget, if you're going to look for Colette, try the training facility. She enjoys spending her time there, and, at this hour, I'm sure she is back from patrolling."
"Okay, thanks for the tea and the conversation; it was very good. See you later."
Saying my goodbyes, I start going towards the library's exit, hands in the coat's pocket, securely hugging it closer to me as I focus on breathing some courage.
When I get a single sniff of it, I take the chance immediately and leave; today's a strange day for sure, but now I can't tell anymore if it is a bad thing or not.
In any way, it is too soon to draw conclusions; after all, I still need to meet with one agent and their boss.
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