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WHEN I ENTERED
Armand Beasley's library that night for what would be the first and last
time, it inspired the awe I always felt in the presence of a gret mass of books. The
myriad shelves held a wealth of volumes, each with its subtle secrets and echoes of the
past, and I was humbled to realise that I would only ever know a minute fraction of
them in my liftetime.
But on that night I also got an inkling of the horrors books can hold, the spine-tingling
evil of any truly good thing gone bad. For under Beasley's gilded morocco spines and
original dust jackets lurked deadly secrets — one of which nearly sent me to
the great library in the sky.
Reprinted with permission
from Unbound
Copyright © 1997
by Julie Kaewert
Crimeline
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