I reached for the backpack. The zipper rasped under my fingers, loud in the small room. Sketch’s gaze tracked every movement.

  “Okay,” I said. “Time to level up.”

  I curled my fingers around the smooth bundle. The butcher paper rasped against the canvas lining as I pulled it free. I set it on the quilt next to me.

  Up close, it looked even more like contraband. Plain brown wrap, thin string, corners squared off just so. YOUR EYES ONLY in tidy block letters across the top. I felt scolded and glanced at Sketch.

  Sketch shrugged as if reading my thoughts, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. I could feel his mind working as he scanned the words.

  “Very James Bond,” he breathed. “Or, like, Mission: Uncomfortable Freshman.” He glanced at me. “How should we open it? Scalpel? Tongs?”

  “You do it,” I said, suddenly weirdly nervous. “You’ve got steadier hands.”

  He snorted but climbed onto the far side of the bed, awkward in that way that usually had him choosing the floor instead. He folded himself cross?legged, careful to keep the package—and a good stretch of quilt—between us.

  “With great power,” he murmured, reaching for the string.

  The knot gave with a faint pop. He unwound the twine slowly, like the paper might explode if he rushed. The wrap crackled as he folded it back, the smell of new ink and a faint, older dust-wood note puffing into the air.

  Inside, four books lay stacked. All together they were as thick as my history brick, same height, but their covers were this ancient-looking embossed leather instead of glossy hardcover. Each one probably cost more than three months’ rent.

  I ran my thumb along a spine, half expecting it to crumble. Were they hand?written? Hand?copied? I felt like a criminal just looking at them.

  Sketch read the top title out loud. “Compendium of Northeastern American Species,” he said, reverent. “Volume One.”

  “Species,” I repeated. “Not ‘monsters.’ That’s…comforting.”

  He set it gently aside and read the next.

  “True History of the World, Part I,” he said. “That’s not ominous at all.”

  Below that: Connecting Mind and Body; Techniques to Release Your Inner Power. The title font looked more meditation app than hunting manual, even stamped into old leather.

  The last book broke the pattern. It was shiny and modern, a kid’s book with a bright, almost goofy cover—cartoony art, bold primary colors. A wide?eyed kid ran across the front with a flashlight; shadowy shapes loomed behind them. The title screamed in big block letters:

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  If You See These, Run.

  Sketch huffed out a laugh. “Of course the scariest one looks like it belongs in the elementary section.”

  I picked it up. The pages flipped under my thumb in bursts of color—Cyclops, Gorgon, trolls under bridges, things with too many teeth and not enough eyes. Each drawing had a big, friendly caption textbox underneath. It looked exactly like something you’d read to a nervous eight?year?old to make mythology “fun.”

  “Baby’s first nightmare fuel,” I said.

  “It’s a primer,” Sketch said, taking it back to look closer. “Start with stories they know, then…” He tapped the Compendium. “Graduate to the real stuff.”

  I reached for the top book—the Compendium—and opened it.

  The inside smelled different from my school texts. Less chemical, more…workshop. Ink and something like old wood and metal shavings.

  The layout was clean: each spread had a name at the top, a full?color illustration on one page and text on the other. The art was field-guide precise, like a birding manual had gotten drunk and wandered into horror.

  I opened the book at random and saw: Greenway Frill. The illustration showed a sleeker, better-lit version of the thing I’d seen in the alley—low to the ground, dark hide, that awful halo of orange-blue-yellow frill mid?flare.

  “It has a name,” I said softly.

  “You weren’t hallucinating,” Sketch said, equally soft. “You were under?catalogued.”

  The text block listed habitat (“urban alleys, damp green spaces”), behavior (“territorial, ambush predator”), scent markers (“metallic, peppery”), and sections with headings like Recommended Countermeasures and Disposal Protocol.

  My skin prickled.

  Another spread showed a little winged lizard almost identical to the one that had buzzed around the precinct light. Harbor Sprite, the caption read in neat serif font. The notes mentioned light fixation, diet (“insects, small toads”), and a warning box about electrical hazards.

  I flipped through more quickly—there was an Alley Crawler that looked like a nightmare centipede, a Runoff Slick that lived in storm drains, a Breakwater Watcher perched on rotting pilings, hunting prey with too-many eyes.

  My brain started to fuzz at the edges around entry twelve. There were more—dozens, maybe hundreds—but my eyes kept snagging on words like venomous and pack behavior and not recommended for solo engagement.

  Sketch’s hand hovered near the page, not quite touching. “I want to draw all of these,” he said, awe and greed tangled in his voice.

  Of course he did.

  I closed the book gently and set it back on the quilt.

  “Tempting,” I said. “But…one, this is supposed to be secret.” I tapped the carefully preserved YOUR EYES ONLY on the folded paper. “I don’t think Northbridge wants a civilian walking around with a DIY monster manual.”

  He winced, but nodded.

  “And two,” I added, “we made the notebook for what I actually see. Not stuff somebody else already catalogued. Otherwise it’s just…fan art.”

  “Hey,” he protested weakly. “Field?guide illustrations are a noble art form.”

  “I know,” I said, softer. “And you’d crush it. But if something happens and someone finds your book, it’s going to be a lot less scary if it’s just my weird sightings and not a greatest?hits collection from the forbidden textbook.”

  He sat back, chewing on that. “So,” he said slowly, “rule of thumb: I only draw what you’ve personally seen. No copying the Compendium. Even if the layouts are begging for it.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Besides, I have a feeling you’re going to fill those pages fast enough without cheating.”

  He glanced at the closed Compendium, then at me. “Challenge accepted,” he said.

  He left not long after that, still a little stunned and trying not to grin about it.