100 Yellow Doors

august 30th, 2019, 10:33 a.m.

Libraries were weird places for Julien.

He remembered many a night spent in the libraries in Mexico City soon after he was turned, wandering through the towering shelves, like dark, book-lined corridors, pulling out any book that even vaguely mentioned the word "vampire" and poring over it until his eyes were sore. He'd been in denial then—No way, he had thought, that I am this thing, this creature...

Julien shuddered now, just thinking about that faded version of himself, that cowering young man, so afraid of what he'd become. Maybe, though, not much had changed at all.

This library, however, was unlike the dark, candlelit ones in nineteenth century Mexico. The Library of Congress was part library, part office building, part museum, and it was overflowing with tourists. Potbellied fathers with fanny packs and disposable cameras, the pockets of their cargo pants brimming with snacks for the children that pranced around them. Wary mothers with maps held up to their noses. Two teenagers sitting on a bench by the main desk, laughing at something on their cell phones.

He never really got used to it: this many people in one space. Keeping his head down, saliva building in his mouth—no, he practically had to shout to himself—he strutted up to the desk, showing the pass that had been emailed to him. "I have an interview?" he said to the woman in the chair, who squinted down her nose at the words on the paper.

Her expression cleared into understanding. "Right," she said, picking up the phone beside her. "If you'll give me a moment?"

Julien nodded, leaning his arm against the desk, eyeing the main hall in front of him: it was marble, blinding white as it reflected the morning sun, all pillars and grand staircases and gilded ceilings and tapestries. From what felt like every direction there was a hubbub of voices; Julien could hardly hear himself think.

"Mr. Morales, right?"

He turned; the woman was smiling, however thin-lipped."Yes."

"Mr. Caulfield is on his way down."

"I—Caulfield?"

"Is this my next victim?" came a familiar voice from Julien's shoulder: a silvery, friendly sound, much too jovial for Julien's taste. A scowl forming on his face, Julien turned.

His eyes met Beck Caulfield's, and neither one of them seemed particularly elated to see the other.

The smile on Beck's face evaporated. "When they said Morales, I was really hoping it wasn't you."

"Right back at you, Caulfield."

The receptionist piped up, clearing her throat. "Excuse me, but is everything okay?"

"Fine," said the two men at once.

There was a brief moment of strained silence.

Beck adjusted his plaid sport coat, nodding his head towards a winding hallway behind him. God, even his outfit was annoying; he looked like a suffering poet, with his brown plaid and leather shoes and even a goddamn bowtie. Julien was going to gouge his own eyes out.

"This way," said Beck with a wave of his hand, but Julien shook his head, nodding Beck forth. Like Julien was going to turn his back on Beck. Not that Beck was at all threatening, the poor thing, but regardless, Julien just didn't trust him.

The hall was ill-lit, the overheads a dullish yellow. Julien had to squint to read the names on the bronze plaques beside the doors as they passed them—old money names, mostly: Rockefeller and Blackshire and Alderidge.

"We're close," said Beck then, and Julien looked up, suddenly noticing that something about the man was...off. The lilt to his walk was stifled, his shoulders ever so slightly dropped. This, Julien realized, was the walk of a worrying man.