The Second Librarian was, indeed, Haruki Murakami. Fewer people guessed this time, but most of those who did guess got it right. Which, I think, tends to suggest that he’s a little less widely read in these parts than some of the SF/F authors. In any event, the Third Librarian is up and he’s coming in hot.
The library was on fire, and it was probably my fault.
Smoke curled around the muzzle of my .45 as I racked the slide. Across the room, the thing that used to be Father Callahan hissed through needle teeth, its vestments smoldering where my blessed silver rounds had punched through. The wound stank of sulfur and rotting parchment.
“You should’ve stayed dead, padre,” I growled.
The demon laughed—a sound like a chainsaw cutting through bone. “This place was dead long before I got here, hunter. Those books? They’re the last prayers of forgotten gods. And she’s the one who collects them.”
A gunshot roared behind me. The demon’s head snapped back, but it kept standing.
“Dammit, Reilly!” Jess shouted, ejecting a spent shell from her sawed-off. “I told you holy water buckshot works better!”
Before I could reply, the ceiling exploded.
Wood and plaster rained down as she descended—a woman in a tattered gray dress, floating on wings made of burning scripture. Her eyes were voids. Her smile was worse.
“Ah,” said the Librarian of Forgotten Sundays. “You’ve brought me new books.”
She pointed at us.
The shelves screamed.
If you know, you know.