Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 172

**CLARENCE**

I approach the ruins of the library I’ve poured my heart and soul into for the last thirty years. 

There’s… Basically nothing left. Charred stone. Twisted metal. The faint smell of smoke that still clings to the air no matter how many times it rains. I step carefully over the rubble, though there’s little point… There’s nothing here to save. Not a single shelf stands. Not a single book survived. The library was my life. My income. My social life. My reason to get out of bed in the mornings. Now I’m just an old man with no job, no place to go, and no reason to bother getting up at all. Unlike so many others here, I don’t have a family. Not anymore. My wife passed away fifteen years ago, and I still miss her every day. We never had children, and that never bothered me. I wasn’t lonely, not when I had this place. Every evening, there were people who needed me. Students. Scholars. Strays. Supernaturals looking for lore. Mortals looking for comfort or escape in the form of a book. They’d come to me for help and advice no matter how cantankerous I got. I was useful. I had purpose. Now all I have is a confused, emotionally wounded gargoyle crashing on my couch… And a jar of ashes I took home because I couldn’t bear to leave them behind. I don’t even know why I’m here today. Maybe I thought I’d try again, see if there’s anything left to salvage. Or maybe I just couldn’t stand staying away. Taryn runs up to me the moment I get close enough, all sunlight and restless energy. I force a smile for her.

“Hi, Clarence!” She greets, bright as ever.

“Hello, Taryn. How are you today?” I ask politely. 

“I’m alright. Look, I wanted to talk to you about the books I have-” She starts. 

“It’s fine.” I interrupt. 

“It would only be one or two of them. I suppose you can just keep them. It’s not like you can return them now.” I say, fighting a sigh. She frowns and shakes her head. 

“No, that’s not what I meant. I actually have-”

“Taryn.” I cut in again, my tone sharper than I intended. 

“I know you mean well, but I really don’t want to talk about it.” I tell her firmly. She plants her hands on her hips, determined. 

“Look, I get it. But I really need to know what to do with all of these.” She blurts out, then turns and gestures, and my breath catches. It’s not a handful of books. It’s hundreds. Stacks upon stacks of them, reaching nearly to her shoulders.

“Huh? Where the hell did you get all those?” I ask, baffled. She shrugs. 

“People have been coming by to return their books. Mostly supernaturals. They didn’t know what to do with them all, so they’ve been bringing them to me.” She explains. I step closer, scanning the spines. Some are familiar, the old catalogue stamps burned but legible, others, not so much…

“Half of these aren’t even library books.” I murmur.

“Yeah, those are donations. Some of them left notes.” She says, grinning faintly, holding out a stack of papers. I expect they’ll be addressed to the library. But they’re not. Every single one has my name on it.

*Clarence, To help rebuild your collection.*

*Sorry for the late returns, I’ll see what else I can find!*

*Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Clarence.*

I can’t speak. I have to look away for a moment just to keep my composure.

“These are…” I trail off, voice thick. Taryn gives me a soft, sympathetic smile. 

“You should probably take them with you. My grove isn’t exactly waterproof, and it’d be a shame if they got damaged.” She says softly. I nod, clearing my throat and forcing myself upright. 

“Yes. Right. I’ll… Put them in my car for now. I have no idea what I’m going to do with them all, though.” I say thoughtfully. She pats my shoulder gently. 

“Maybe you should talk to Kacia about that. I think she has a few ideas.” She suggests. I glance back at the books, and, for the first time in weeks, I feel something spark in my chest. It’s small and fragile. But it’s hope.

A month later, everything is so completely different. The ruins of the library are no longer silent. The wind no longer whistles through broken walls or stirs the ashes into ghosts of the past. Instead, the air hums with the sound of power tools, clanging metal, and shouted instructions. The ground trembles faintly beneath my feet every time one of the workers drops a beam into place. It’s chaos. Beautiful, blessed chaos. There are people everywhere, builders, surveyors, electricians, even a few fae contractors who, despite their unnerving magic and far-too-formal manner, seem to work faster than humanly possible. The faint scent of sawdust and wet earth mixes with the ever-present tang of smoke that still clings to the site. For the first time since the fire, this place feels alive again. I still can’t quite believe it. If someone had told me a month ago that this much progress could happen so quickly, I’d have laughed in their face. But apparently, bucketloads of money can open a lot of doors. Kacia, as it turns out, now has some very big buckets. And apparently, when you have bottomless resources and a stubborn half-fae noblewoman determined to make something right, miracles become project timelines. Kacia has turned this whole thing into a campaign. Not just rebuilding the library, but transforming it. The new building will be larger, stronger, a mix of glass, stone, and enchantments woven right into the walls. She’s even insisted on an entire top floor devoted solely to supernatural texts, sealed and disguised from mortal eyes. A library within a library. And then there’s the small attached building, listed in official paperwork as ‘groundskeeper housing’ and ‘security office,’ but we both know it’s meant for Vidar. She said it so casually, like it was nothing. That he deserves somewhere stable. That’s Kacia for you, always downplaying her kindness. She’s always been stuck between worlds, half human, half not. But now she is embracing it, in the most wonderful kinds of ways. Making space for everyone and using all her resources. But it’s not just her money that made this happen. Once word spread that the library was being rebuilt, something remarkable happened, the community responded. People from all corners of the city started donating. Letters arrived with envelopes full of cash, or book lists written in spidery handwriting, or little notes that simply said thank you. Old boxes of books showed up on my doorstep, some still smelling of damp and dust, others clearly treasured and carefully wrapped. Even the fae and demons got involved, which was alarming the first few times, I’ll admit. You don’t exactly expect to open your door and find a six-foot infernal holding a crate of ancient tomes like a lost delivery man. Still, they came. And with every delivery, the ache in my chest eased a little more. My living room is almost impassable now. There are towers of books stacked on every flat surface, my dining table, my couch, even the stairs. Some still have faint scorch marks, others are pristine. I keep tripping over donation boxes, and I couldn’t be happier about it. Since Kacia’s been spending half her time in the fae realm sorting out her new responsibilities, most of the day-to-day paperwork has fallen to me. And, to my mild surprise, I don’t mind. Her human friends, Mike and his wife Sarah, have been godsends. They handle phone calls, emails, and technology, all the modern chaos I can’t use without accidentally zapping it. I handle the letters, the accounts, the cataloguing. Somehow, between the three of us, it works. One of the biggest changes this time around is ownership. The library isn’t a public service anymore, it’s private. Kacia’s property. Which means WE get to decide how it runs, what gets displayed, and what gets protected. No more bureaucrats. No more red tape. She created a new bank account, converted a bunch of her fae gold and assets into proper human currency, and gave me control over it and the entire project. When I protested, she just looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Who else cares about this place as much as you do, Clarence? Who else could I trust to rebuild it?” She insisted. I tried to argue, but she just smiled in that infuriating way of hers, the one that reminds me so much of my late wife when she was teasing me, and that was that. So here I am. The sound of laughter draws my attention back to the site. One of the younger workers, barely twenty, all elbows and enthusiasm, has managed to charm a group of fae laborers into helping him lift a beam. For a fleeting moment, the scene feels… Right. Like all the old and new, mortal and magical, are working together for something that matters. I stand there with my hands in my pockets, watching as the sunlight breaks through the clouds, catching on the rising framework of the new library. The metal gleams in the sunlight. I’ve lived a long time surrounded by immortals, fae, demons, beings who’ll keep on walking the earth long after I’m gone. It’s never really bothered me. If anything, it’s made me cherish the time I do have. I thought I was finished, that losing the library meant losing my last reason to get up in the morning. But standing here, surrounded by noise and life and purpose again, I realise maybe I’m not done after all. There’s still something left for me to build. Still stories to collect and protect. Still people who care whether I show up tomorrow. And that, I think, is enough for me.