The librarian.

The Chase

It had been five weeks since the mysterious incidents. Desmond seemed to have finally given in to the call of duty. Being a librarian didn’t seem as ludicrous as he once thought it would be, especially when students hardly cared about books or studied anymore. Perhaps they had developed their own techniques for such necessities, now that there was AI and the comfort of other benefits that came with technology.

Desmond, however, enjoyed the company of books. He would open the library by 8 AM, after which the library workers would take over—arranging, rearranging, sweeping, dusting, cleaning, and making sure the library looked presentable. His duty, on the other hand, began immediately: inspecting books that might have started decaying or noting torn ones so they could be sent to the bookbinder for repairs. He was also assigned a library attendant—someone responsible for arranging the books, maintaining their order, and reporting back to him on their handling and security. Desmond couldn’t care less about micromanaging; the steward seemed jobless anyway.

The job, though it came with a pay, gave Desmond an open opportunity to explore books to his wildest and farthest desires. He always had a stack waiting for him to pounce on. Most days, he sat behind his furnished black desk, his eyes glued to his world of black and white.

His attendant, Miriam, on the other hand, was carried away by the temptations of technology and lived for its dreams. For his uniform, Desmond had chosen to design his own—a long dark overcoat with a hood, adorned with the emblem of the Guardian of Tome. Underneath, he wore a formal uniform: A white shirt and plain black pants. The school authorities could hardly intervene, given that his acceptance of the post itself was seen as a “heavenly contribution.”

---

It was on a Friday night. He had already tied up all loose ends and was preparing to go home. He dropped The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene on the table. He had considered taking it home—a privilege that applied only to him. All books in the library were subject to his observation and scrutiny, and taking one home was equivalent to conversion, punishable as a criminal act. Even staff and non-staff had to seek his permission before removing a book.

Miriam had left earlier; she had a date with some guy named Song, and Desmond welcomed the peace. He shut down all electronics and rearranged the furniture, since all other workers had left earlier that day. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he closed all the windows and locked the door.

That day, he decided to take the bus instead of his regular car—a change of pace he found leisurely. He strolled through the street, keeping his hood low over his head in a way that gave him an Assassin’s Creed look.

Stopping at a grocery store to get a beer, he noticed a man coming from the opposite direction. Probably in his forties, the man wore a parka with the hood hanging loosely, partly covering his hair and face. He carried a folded umbrella and walked briskly. Just across the road, Desmond spotted a black Mercedes with shaded windows, its engine running.

Turning into the grocery store, he gently twisted the knob and stepped inside, heading straight for the beer section. He picked up a can of Disciples, and as he was about to pay, he noticed another man—this one tall, with a smug face, wearing a shirt with a large, scary inscription: WELCOME TO TORONTO. He was pretending to browse a shelf, shuffling items with one hand.

“Here, sir,” the cashier said, handing Desmond his purchase with a grin.

He slid his card to the cashier, then turned to look at the “Toronto” man—but he had already moved to a new section, one that happened to be right in Desmond’s path to the exit.

“Sir, is something wrong?” the cashier asked, handing back his card.

“Don’t worry—just some stuff I need to settle.”

He walked toward the door and passed the man without incident. Outside, the Mercedes was now parked directly opposite the store, right outside the doors. Someone’s not afraid of parking fees, he thought. A man in a dark suit stepped out from the passenger side. Desmond turned toward home, but the man in the parka was now blocking the other side, his hands buried in his large coat pockets.

A hand gripped Desmond’s shoulder from behind.

“Mr. Oliver, if you don’t—”

Desmond grabbed the man’s finger and snapped it. The man screamed. Desmond twisted his arm, forcing the “Toronto” man to bend, then drove a knee into his body, breaking it with a crash. The noise was staggering. A punch sent Desmond crashing back into the grocery store door, knocking into a customer whose hands were full.

Turning, Desmond saw his other assailant—Mr. Parka, of course—lunging at him. Desmond opened the grocery store door just in time to slam it hard into the man’s incoming hand, pinning it against the wall. Parka howled in pain. Desmond backhanded him with his loafer, the blow smashing the man’s face into the wall, cracking his jaw.

Someone else grabbed Desmond roughly from behind, yanking his hood off. Desmond hooked the man’s arm, elbowed him in the spine, and dropped him to the floor like a bag of sand. By now, a crowd of onlookers had gathered, phones drawn. Great.

He looked toward the car—more agents with clubs were pouring out. Things were about to get interesting.

He bolted. Behind him, he could hear the heavy knocking of their brogues on the pavement. Turning into an alleyway, he nearly collided with someone in a ragged jacket and a costume mask, holding a shiny dagger. Bounty hunters?

The masked man lunged. Desmond ducked, barely avoiding the blade. Another s***h came; Desmond bounced back. The club-wielders were closing in. The knife came again—this time Desmond sidestepped, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and stabbed him in the thigh with his own knife. The man screamed, taking a knee. He swung with his free hand, but Desmond kicked it aside and slammed his face to the ground.

The gang roared and charged. Desmond didn’t wait—he sprinted toward another street, only to find yet another opponent waiting with a club. The man raised it to strike, but Desmond jumped into the air, landing a front kick that snapped the man’s head back and smashed him to the ground.

He kept running, his coat whipping behind him, and emerged from the alley—only to see the Mercedes again. Two men in black suits and dark shades stepped out. One pointed a gun, but for some reason didn’t shoot. Stupido.

Desmond dived into him, smashing the man against the car and leaving a dent. They both fell, but the suited man had it worse. The second man raised his gun at Desmond’s head. Behind him, the sound of the club-wielders grew louder.

“You could have surre—”

Desmond cut him off with a low sidekick, tripping him. The man fell jaw-first onto Desmond’s waiting knee, breaking several teeth. Desmond shoved him aside and stood.

The driver opened his door, but Desmond slammed it into the driver’s exposed leg—once, twice, again—until the man slid out of the car, groaning.

The noise of his pursuers was now dangerously close. Desmond slid into the still-running car and sped off, clubs clattering against the vehicle as he escaped. All he cared about was keeping his head safe.

---

He abandoned the vehicle in an old shack he once knew to be deserted, then took a taxi home. It was a rainy night, and his mind was hazy. Who were those fuckers? Apparently, they were from the murder situation. Thanks to that little witch… but what do they want now? He hadn’t registered any complaints. Or had she? He had warned her against it, and now…

Suddenly, his mind flashed to a new thought: What if they got to her? He grabbed his first-aid box from the storeroom and went back into his bedroom. He took off his shirt but left his mask on, gently standing before the mirror as he applied Bacitracin ointment to the deep wound slashing across his back and through to his stomach — a result of the collision and impact.

Why should I even care what happens to her?

Just as he was applying the ointment, there was a knock. He quickly put his shirt back on and hurried to his bedside, opening the drawer to withdraw his Colt Python — the only gift his dad had ever given him, on his twelfth birthday. He gripped the revolver tightly, finger brushing the trigger.

He walked to the sitting room and peered through the peephole. There, drenched and miserable, stood Luna.

He opened the door. They stared at each other. She was visibly shaking.

“They came for me…” she whispered.

“You should take a warm bath. You can wear one of my shirts.”

She walked past him gently, and he returned to applying the ointment. The witch is here. Could this be any worse? A babysitter? What have I gotten myself into?

He took the needle and thread, holding them before the mirror. The horror. He had never tested a sharp object on himself… not even as a joke. The sound of the shower hitting the floor echoed through the room. Pain… pain… pain. I know pain.

He impaled the needle into his skin without blinking, a rush of agony flooding him. Right. There it is. He continued stitching gently, closing it at the end. Better than torching or branding.

He put away the kit and took the medical tape. He tried to apply it, but he could barely see the bloodied line behind him.

“Lemme help with that…”

Her voice came from behind, somehow sounding softer, almost soothing. He turned and saw her wearing only his favorite shirt — plain black, nothing special. Sometimes he wondered why he favored it above the rest of his closet. Maybe because it was the only thing his mother had left him.

“You don’t have to,” he tried to resist.

“I insist.”

She walked towards him, took the tape from his hands, and sat him on the bed.

“This one’s gonna leave one long, haunting scar,” she said with a small smile as she applied the tape gently.

He remained silent. She finished and pressed it firmly, making him wince. Her expression shifted to concern.

“Look at that… you can feel pain after all.”

He met her gaze with his brown eyes, wondering how this angel had come crashing into his silent, soulless world.

“You should take the bed… I’ll sleep on the—”

She touched his hand gently. He didn’t know how, but it melted his heart. He tried to move, but that single touch held him still, like Nameah in chains. She reached up and touched his masked face, tracing her fingers to his lips.

“I…” she began, but he could only watch. What’s she doing to me?

Her fingers moved to his ear, and instinctively he raised his hand to stop her. She stared into his eyes — her golden ember eyes tearing down all his walls and thresholds. He let go, letting her melt into his dark world.

She unstrapped the mask’s handler from his ear, letting it drop to the floor. She gasped softly. He wasn’t what she had imagined. He wasn’t rugged, scarred, or intimidating.

He was… beautiful. Too beautiful to be a man. His features were delicate enough to summon all the doves and butterflies in the world.

“You’re…” she started.

He felt the taunt coming and moved to leave, but she stopped him with a kiss. A slight soft one then withdrew. They stared into each other other eyes. Then she kissed him again burying her lips into his and just when he was just starting to draw in She released the kiss again. He felt hot and needy. she was taunting him. He lost his cool for once and grabbed her pulling her against him. She giggled excitedly and their lips collided in rough hot passion. He stood up pulling her after him. He wanted her...He needed her ...He owned her...I'm going crazy. She was everywhere in his mouth..Their tongues tussled and teased each other, savoring every taste that secretes from each other. She got a bit reckless and pushed him against a wall. The dim room was now filled with hungry mutters, murmuring... smacking.. sucking. He tried withdrawing but it was like he had filled her with hunger and now he needed to satisfy her need. She swept after him and nailed him against the wall loosening his shirt. He jerked out but she flung herself recklessly at him crashing both of them on the floor while clutching him tightly.

"I...." her voice trailed off as he shut them off with hungry kisses. He took off her shirt. She was bare underneath and crazily aroused. He grabbed hold of her and she buckled with his belt but he yanked her hair back and buried his lips into her neck. She left his pants and gasped, clutching at his back and scratched his wound. He winced and backed off.

"I'm sorry...I.." he pulled her again closer and slipped her n*****s into his lips sucking them gently. She gasped in desperation for more and moaned softly. He grabbed her other n****e and replaced his lips with his teeth toying with it and nibbling at it gently. She cried out reaching for his head and grasped it in haste..."I want you ...." she said silently. He caressed her more and she wrapped her legs around his waist tightly.. moaning... gritting and stifling with pleasure. He came back to kiss her deeply, wetly. She kicked off the rest of his pants off and he gently slid off his underwear. He couldn't imagine what's to happen next...he didn't want to. He looked at her and she raised her hip in wild anticipation

"f**k me" she mouthed. He drove himself into her and she released a gasp...or moan...or both. She clenched her body against him and tightened her legs around him. He went deeper. She probably didn't realized how long it was. She closed her eyes and lost her breath, He looked at and thrust into her completely. She flashed her eyes open and breathed out his name out

"Desmond!" He drew out and she heaved again. Then he let himself into her again. This time she bloodied his wound scratching him and gripping him tightly.

"I think...". He went deeper and slower this time but it did not solve the mystery of her need. Her Cravings, her needs, her pain yet want....Then he f****d her rapidly and she locked eyes with him . Wincing whenever he penetrated but not letting go. He removed himself from her and she looked at him.

"I didn't ask you to stop"

"I'm not.." He pulled her up and entered her a lot faster now. She jolted, her laps slapped against his waist.

"God..!" she managed to say. He f****d her steadily, increasing the speed and she lost her voice again. When she finally found her moan. He shut it with a kiss holding her down till she was so wet. He pulled out at the last second and cummed over her. He was too weary to clean her or himself. So they laid there in their mess... wrapped into each other.