Page 11 of Something Worth Keeping
The book he’d been reading - a historical analysis of folklore and mythology - was closed and placed on his desk. Julian peered at the spot where a bookmark was sticking out, certain that it was in the correct place.
It had to be the shadows. There was no other logical explanation for it. Somehow, the shadows had noticed him dozing off in his chair and had moved him to the bed.
They had touched him, actually lifted him, which was a remarkable accomplishment for something with no substance. They had even removed his outer clothes, leaving him in his T-shirt and boxers, so he would be comfortable while he slept.
“That’s very considerate,” Julian said to the morning light filtering through his curtains. “Most people would find it creepy, but my neck doesn’t hurt, so objectively that was the correct choice.”
The air in his apartment felt warmer, as though the shadows had lingered close while he slept. Julian wondered if the being from the alley - his shadow guardian, he’d started thinking of it - had watched him through the night. The thought should have triggered every self-preservation instinct. Instead, Julian felt oddly secure, like he’d been wrapped in something protective.
He made coffee and checked his phone. There were three texts from his mother about her plans for Thanksgiving dinner later in the month. She never expected him to attend, but she liked to keep him updated. Patricia had also messaged him, reminding him that his suspension was unpaid and he should “use the time to reflect on workplace conduct.”
Julian deleted Patricia’s message without responding - a child wouldn’t respond if sent to a naughty corner, and Julian felt that was how Patricia was treating him. He drank his coffee black while reviewing his notes from yesterday. He’d compiled seventeen pages on shadow entities, guardian mythology, and documented cases of beings that fed on corruption. The research pointed toward something ancient, something that existed in the spaces between documented reality.
There had been no information on why that something ancient would choose to leave him a token or tuck a mere mortal into bed instead of consuming him in an alley, but that was why Julian was learning. The logical conclusion was that the shadow being viewed Julian as significant in some way. The question was why.
Julian was midway through his second cup of coffee when he noticed the balcony door. It wasn’t open - he always locked it as soon as darkness fell - but he was sure he could make out a shape sitting on the small iron table that was outside. A shape that definitely hadn’t been there when he locked up.
He approached slowly, coffee mug still in hand, and stared through the glass. There was a book resting on the table. A leather-bound and what appeared to be aged book. Even frominside, Julian could see the quality of the binding, the way the morning light caught the gilt edges of the pages.
His breath stopped.That shouldn’t be out there.Setting down his coffee, he unlocked the door and stepped onto the balcony. The November air bit at his bare legs, and a part of Julian’s brain registered he probably should’ve put pants on, but his entire focus had narrowed to the book.
Despite the urge to do so, Julian didn’t touch it immediately. Instead, he crouched beside the table, examining it from every angle. The leather was Moroccan, dyed a deep burgundy that had faded beautifully over time. The spine showed careful restoration work - it was expertly done and probably completed in Europe.
There was no visible damage to the binding threads. The pages showedthe telltale signs of hand-laid paper, with uneven edges indicating pre-1800 production methods.
Julian’s hands were shaking as he finally lifted the book. The weight felt right - it was substantial but not overly heavy. He opened to the title page, and his heart stopped entirely.
Ars Notoria: The Notory Art of Solomon. London, 1657. First English edition.
“Oh, my gods.” Julian’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “This is the Fitzer translation.”
He knew the book. He had written a paper on it in graduate school. Fewer than a dozen complete copies existed in documented collections worldwide. The British Library had one. The Bodleian had another. Private collectors guarded the rest jealously.
And now, for some reason, one had appeared on Julian’s balcony.
He carried it inside with the care it deserved, setting it gently on his desk. His hands still shook as he examined the front matter, the printer’s mark, the marginalia in what looked like a seventeenth-century hand. Everything checked out. He wasn’t holding a reproduction or a clever fake, the book was real…priceless…and almost definitely stolen.
Julian sat back in his chair, staring at the book. The shadows had brought him a first-edition occult manuscript worth approximately two hundred thousand dollars, assuming a buyer could even find a seller willing to part with one.
“This has to be a lavish courtship gift,” Julian said aloud. “You brought me a courtship gift.”
The shadows in the corner of his room moved, responding to his voice. Not dramatically - just a slight shift, likea cat acknowledging its name. Julian’s lips twitched into something that might become a smile.
“Most people bring flowers,” he continued, addressing the shadows directly. “Or chocolate. You brought me a book that probably has three museums and a dozen private collectors searching for it.”
The shadows darkened, as if sheepish. Julian’s almost-smile grew.
“I’m not complaining. This is perfect, actually. Flowers die. Chocolate is empty calories. This...” He touched the book’s cover gently. “This is knowledge. This is history. This shows you were paying attention to me - the person most people ignore. That’s priceless in itself.”
He stood and walked to the corner where the shadows pooled the darkest, aware that normal people would be deathly afraid. But Juliandidn’t feel that way - he had nothing to fear. He felt seen.
“You’re still here, aren’t you? Not just watching from outside anymore. I already know you’ve been inside my apartment.”
The shadows shifted again, and Julian swore they conveyed something like guilt mixed with defiance. It reminded him of a cat he’d seen once, who’d been caught on his sister’s kitchen counter, but who had no intention of getting down.
“It’s fine,” Julian said. “I don’t actually mind. You moved me to bed last night. Tucked me in. That implies a level of care that contradicts predatory intent.”
He returned to his desk, running his fingers over the book’s cover. The leather was cool under his touch and impossibly smooth. Someone had loved this particular edition - it had been cared for across centuries. Andnow the shadows had stolen it for him.
