I held my breath and peered over the stranger's shoulder. A scatter of nineteenth-century foreign literature lay on the table — much more than I'd expected. Why search so frantically through those volumes? They weren't scholarly tomes, and we were hardly inside a university. Then again, what did I expect to find on the shelves of a private collection at a glamping site in the Moscow region? Programming manuals for dummies? Guides to gardening? With a fashionable name like "glamping," one might have expected self-help and pop psychology, simplified primers on astrophysics or neurobiology, books on architecture and art — none of which would have matched the trophy heads and heavy wooden furniture in the great hall.
I tried to read the top line of the page she had opened and made the mistake of looking too closely.
"Where was that quote?" the girl muttered irritably, then jerked back in a little flinch. "Oh!"
Her shoulder struck my chin with a dull bump; she gave a small cry, half from pain, half from surprise. She spun around as if to see what she'd hit. Her hand flew to the sore spot. She regarded me from head to toe with an expression of astonishment, as though she couldn't quite believe another person was standing before her. I raised my palms in a deliberately harmless gesture and pasted a smile on my face.
"Sorry to have startled you," I said, as if nothing were amiss. "You were so absorbed you probably didn't even notice me."
The stranger stared back with cold, grey eyes — eyes like a corpse's — as if my words slid past her without registering any meaning.
"I'm Lisa," I added, when the pause grew awkward. "My boyfriend and I only arrived here yesterday."
That small explanation seemed to soften her features.
"Sorry," she breathed, letting her shoulders fall. "I get like that when I bury myself in books." She offered her hand. "I'm Yesenia." My palm met hers — warm, firmer than I'd expected from a slender young woman — and under the emerald cardigan I could make out a lithe, fit silhouette; this girl clearly looked after herself.
"Interesting selection," I said, nodding toward the stack of books. She glanced at the chaotic pile on the table and fell silent for a beat.
"Studying foreign literature?" I asked.
"Yeah." She straightened a little and forced a smile, tucking a wavy strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm at the faculty of foreign philology. This last exam turned out to be harder than I thought, so the whole summer will be spent slogging through analyses and essays. I've asked a couple of lecturers for extra assignments to boost my grades."
"Grades are just numbers," I said, and Yeseniya gave a weary little laugh.
"Not if you need a scholarship," she replied, reaching for another book and opening it on the table.
"Touché," I managed, watching her flip through page after page. A conversation like this would hardly make a novel — certainly not one purporting to predict the future. A few exchanged phrases between two new acquaintances, each on her own path, absorbed in the everyday anxieties and obstacles ahead — it meant nothing. My brief appearance in Yeseniya's life would not alter her fate, nor hers mine; therefore it could hardly explain the strange text on my laptop. I needed something else, something decisive. I had to steer a different conversation, or perhaps pull the girl out of the library entirely. Do something that would have consequences.
A mischievous idea flickered through my mind. I could even see it play out in vivid color—then I brought myself up short. After all, I was a vampire: what would it cost me to sweep the girl toward the window and give her the fright of her life? Who would believe such madness without witnesses? Bare my fangs, hiss once or twice. For the girl it would be a spectacular, unforgettable event—something prophetic pages could hardly have missed. And yet I had promised myself, in all seriousness, to keep the paranormal as far from our holiday as possible. I could not imagine, much less write, such a scene.
"Want me to help?" I tried instead. "I know my way around foreign classics. I took a course in literary studies."
Yesenia regarded me with obvious skepticism.
"A course?"
I shrugged and allowed myself a patronizing smile. "Yes—a course. It's not the same as a university degree, of course, but I've got the basics of analysis, and a fair amount of exposure to biblical symbols and period contexts."
She bit her lip and hesitated, glancing at the pile of books as if looking for a polite way to refuse. I couldn't let her decline. I needed to lure her in, to steer this little story onto a different track.
"Say yes," I said, moving up to her at the table and picking up the nearest volume. "Not everyone gets the offer of help from a bestselling author."
"A bestselling author?" Her voice carried a hint of mockery, but I was used to people not taking me seriously until they heard the name.
"You heard of the novel The City Where No One Lies?" I asked.
Silence folded over the reading room. I could have sworn Yeseniya held her breath. Of course she'd heard of it. Anyone who loved books had seen it—displayed at shop windows, advertised on banners, talked about in magazines and on social media. That's the phenomenon of a bestseller: it fills every space and makes itself the subject of conversation in the streets, on the subway, and at boisterous evening gatherings.
"The author…?" I flicked my hand toward her, letting her supply the rest. She recovered from the shock with difficulty before answering.
"Lisa Orskaya." Her eyes went wide; she stared at me as if a radiant deity had deigned to appear among mortals, ready to hand out ornate sweets.
"That's right. It's me—Lisa." I set the book down and reached for a collection of Edgar Allan Poe. "So—what does the contest brief say? Let me have a look."