A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness

witches and vampires for a public place. The undergraduate still had his earphones in, however, and all the other patrons were deep into their own thoughts or had their heads close to their lunch companions’.
    “I don’t know anything about the manuscript or what the witches did to it, Ms. Wilson. I don’t have it either,” I said hastily, in case she, too, thought I might have stolen it.
    “You must call me Agatha.” She focused on the pattern of the carpet. “The library has it now. Did they tell you to send it back?”
    Did she mean witches? Vampires? The librarians? I picked the likeliest culprits.
    “Witches?” I whispered.
    Agatha nodded, her eyes drifting around the room.
    “No. When I was done with it, I simply returned it to the stacks.”
    “Ah, the stacks,” Agatha said knowingly. “Everybody thinks the library is just a building, but it isn’t.”
    Once again I remembered the eerie constriction I’d felt after Sean had put the manuscript on the conveyor belt.
    “The library is whatever the witches want it to be,” she went on. “But the book doesn’t belong to you. Witches shouldn’t get to decide where it’s kept and who sees it.”
    “What’s so special about this manuscript?”
    “The book explains why we’re here,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of desperation. “It tells our story—beginning, middle, even the end. We daemons need to understand our place in the world. Our need is greater than that of the witches or vampires.” There was nothing addled about her now. She was like a camera that had been chronically out of focus until someone came by and twisted the lenses into alignment.
    “You know your place in the world,” I began. “There are four kinds of creatures—humans, daemons, vampires, and witches.”
    “And where do daemons come from? How are we made? Why are we here?” Her brown eyes snapped. “Do you know where your power comes from? Do you?”
    “No,” I whispered, shaking my head.
    “Nobody knows,” she said wistfully. “Every day we wonder. Humans thought daemons were guardian angels at first. Then they believed we were gods, bound to the earth and victims of our own passions. Humans hated us because we were different and abandoned their children if they turned out to be daemons. They accused us of possessing their souls and making them insane. Daemons are brilliant, but we’re not vicious—not like the vampires.” Her voice was clearly angry now, though it never lifted above a murmur. “We would never make someone insane. Even more than witches, we’re victims of human fear and envy.”
    “Witches have their share of nasty legends to contend with,” I said, thinking of the witch-hunts and the executions that followed.
    “Witches are born to witches. Vampires make other vampires. You have family stories and memories to comfort you when you’re lonely or confused. We have nothing but tales told to us by humans. It’s no wonder so many daemons are broken in spirit. Our only hope lies in brushing against other daemons one day and knowing we’re like them. My son was one of the lucky ones. Nathaniel had a daemon for a mother, someone who saw the signs and could help him understand.” She looked away for a moment, regaining her composure. When her eyes again met mine, they were sad. “Maybe the humans are right. Maybe we are possessed. I see things, Diana. Things I shouldn’t.”
    Daemons could be visionaries. No one knew if their visions were reliable, like the visions that witches had.
    “I see blood and fear. I see you,” she said, her eyes losing focus again. “Sometimes I see the vampire. He’s wanted this book for a very long time. Instead he’s found you. Curious.”
    “Why does Matthew Clairmont want the book?”
    Agatha shrugged. “Vampires and witches don’t share their thoughts with us. Not even your vampire tells us what he knows, though he’s fonder of daemons than most of his kind. So many secrets, and so many