Navigating the stacks of a sentient library, as well as their simmering attraction to each other, a librarian witch and a monster hunter team up to save a mystical world from destruction.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Monster Hunter’s Librarian by Lauren Connolly, which releases on November 17th 2026.
As the newest hire at the Endless Library, Bells Mortevue finally has access to magic again and a chance to prove that the daughter of criminal necromancers can be trusted with power—even if it’s solely used to seek and sort books upon infinite shelves.
Except a certain monster hunter refuses to let Bells do her job.
Rhett Waltham doesn’t want help. Not when revealing the truth of his research would be a death sentence for his ailing human father. Preparing to risk his own life in a dangerous competition to save his dad, Rhett does not have time for a curious, tantalizing librarian witch who asks too many questions.
It’s clear the Library disagrees, as the sentient space itself forces the two together. Bells warms to the grumpy hunter as she slowly earns his trust, though she starts to suspect a sickness is stirring within the walls of the mystical dimension. And when a deadly magic threatens to consume the entire Library—and the monster hunter’s librarian—Rhett won’t let either of them go without a fight.
EXCERPT
One
The Librarian
If the library approves of you, it will let you in.
I reread the cryptic line on the piece of parchment clutched in my sweaty fingers, the last sentence hand-scrawled on my job acceptance letter.
“Potential acceptance,” I correct myself as I tuck the letter into the pocket of my skirt, trying not to let my hopes creep too high. But they are vines determinedly reaching toward the sun after climbing up a solid brick wall for years.
One decision made by a mystical dimension could change the trajectory of my entire life. These next moments will determine if I continue to spend my days among humans or if I finally reconnect with my magical origins.
I stand in the fiction section of Poeville, Pennsylvania’s only public library and try not to fiddle with my bow tie more than I already have. I’ve always thought of the accessory as part of my signature look. My roommate, Vale, claims the ties are my nervous fidget spinners.
I forgave her description of my wardrobe because Vale also happens to be my best friend. She was the one to assure me that Poeville Public Library should have plenty of natural magic to fuel a portal to my destination. Though it was mandated twenty years ago that I be cut off from all things magic, Vale-a Guardian-touched of the Wanderer line-has no concern when it comes to doling out info when I ask. I try not to take advantage of her lawbreaking generosity, but I figured today was a valid reason to request guidance.
“One of the common ways to make a portal involves utilizing a place of power,” Vale had explained as she examined my acceptance letter. “A building full of knowledge, like a library, tends to attract magic.”
So here I am, at a human library, hoping that for the first time in my life I might be able to travel to a magical one.
After smoothing my fingers over the silk of my bow tie one last time, I drop my hand to the pocket without the letter. The one where I stowed a sharp little pocketknife, the blade gifted to me by the last witch in my family to have magic.
Would Aunt Wisteria approve of me taking this job?
She was a hard woman to read, so even now I can’t say.
I don’t pull out the blade just yet, not wanting to scare the normal humans who are here simply seeking their next favorite read.
This library is merely a stop. A doorway to my true destination.
Unless I’m found wanting.
And that self-doubt has me mentally reviewing the letter a crow had delivered Thursday morning. Although delivered seems too gentle of a term to describe how the loudly cawing bird had plummeted through my car’s moonroof while I was in a coffee shop drive-through trying to buy my first pumpkin spice latte of the season. Amid a flurry of frantically flapping wings, a cascade of loose black feathers, and a chorus of shrieks from the barista, the crow had deposited a fancy envelope on my dashboard and abruptly departed the same way it entered. Only after I’d caught my breath and sucked down half of my seasonal beverage did I manage to tear open the missive and read the contents.
Since then, I have memorized every word.
Dear Belladonna Mortevue,
I am pleased to potentially offer you a position at the Endless Library. Your résumé was impressive, and I believe you would be a good fit among our staff.
The last step in the hiring process is an in-person interview conducted by the library.
Next Monday at eight a.m., please arrive at your local public library. On the shelves, locate a well-used, well-loved book.
Offer the book your blood, and request to be admitted.
If the library approves of you, it will let you in.
Sincerely,
Senior Librarian Selina Brynwill
Assured that I haven’t forgotten anything, I duck into an empty aisle and wipe my damp hands on my favorite black A-line skirt. Black is always a good choice when I know I’m going to experience nervous sweat.
Black is always a good fashion choice, period.
Scanning the shelves, I recognize the name of a historical romance author whose stories I would retreat into in between the academic texts I had to read for my master’s in library science. The spine sports deep creases, the pages yellow and soft with time.
Well-used.
Still, doubt sneaks in.
What if I pick the wrong book?
“If there was a right one, they would have told me.” I attempt to comfort myself.
What if I ask with the incorrect words?
“Be honest. Be sincere. Be confident,” I repeat the simple advice.
That was the counsel of Vale. As a wanderer, my friend is an adept portal-maker like the Guardian whose bloodline she descends from. Vale is also my only connection to magical society since my aunt passed away. Vale was the one who had delivered my résumé to the librarians without me knowing, confident I would earn a spot on the staff.
But what if she was wrong?
What if I, a magic-less witch, am simply not good enough to work at the Endless Library?
“Stop being a wimp and bleed on the book already,” I mutter. Those words of advice sound more like something my sister would say. But sometimes a bitchy shove in the right direction is what I need.
“Please,” I whisper to all three of the Guardians, “let this be the job I can keep.”
Because hell knows I’ve lost every other one I’ve ever had.
I flip through the pages, watching as dust motes drift into a beam of sunlight spilling in through a high window. After a quick skim of the passage I randomly chose, my anxiety eases slightly as I snort.
The duke is on his knees, and his mouth is . . . busy.
They did say well-loved. And this heroine is being loved very well.
Alone in my aisle, I quickly slip the blade from my pocket, and with a mumbled apology for the unsanitary nature of my actions, I slice a small wound in the side of my thumb.
A crimson drop wells and drips, staining the page.
I bring the book close to my face until my lips almost brush the ink and the blood, and in a hushed voice, I let every ounce of my longing fill my words.
“Hello, Endless Library. This is Belladonna Mortevue. But my friends call me Bells. You can call me Bells, too, if you like. You know, if you call librarians things. Do you? Sorry, never mind. Don’t answer that. Or do, if you’d like. I’m not here to tell you what to do.” Damn it, I’m messing this up. Pausing to suck in a calming breath, I straighten my thoughts and keep going in a less nonsensical manner. “I’m here for my interview. If you have any questions for me, please ask. I have a ton for you. I adore questions-too much some might say. But I think a librarian should love questions. And I want to help your patrons with theirs.” A life of seeking out answers to magical queries would be utter bliss. “If you give me a chance, I promise to work hard. I will appreciate this opportunity every single day. There is nothing more in the world I want than to be a librarian for you. Please”-my voice catches on that one word-“can I come in?”
The quiet weighs heavy after my desperate babbling. The cut on my thumb throbs. My breath sticks tight in my throat until my lungs ache. An ominous pressure builds behind my eyes as I wait to see if I am approved.
If I am enough.
Nothing changes about the book or the shelf in front of me.
Vale wasn’t able to say how I would enter the library. She’s only ever passed through the doorway from the Hidden Academy where she teaches portal-making to young wanderers. The cryptic letter gave no further directions. I assume if I’m approved, the access point is supposed to be self-explanatory.
There is no entrance for me.
I swallow hard against the stinging threat of tears.
Did I only have one chance?
This library has thousands of books. Could I go through every single one of them, making the same plea over and over until something happens? Bleed myself dry until I find the one drop of my essence that is acceptable?
If the library approves of you, it will let you in.
With shaking fingers, I tuck away my pocketknife and give in to the urge to straighten my bow tie once more. My cold fingers brush against a bit of rough skin that peeks above my collar. A reminder of why I have been cut off from this world. I breathe through the disappointment. Through the devastating knowledge that I am not enough.
Something shifts on the page. My blood absorbs into the fibers of the paper, disappearing as if I never left my mark.
I gasp, a dangerous hope filling the empty hole in my chest. Jerking my chin up, I study the shelf in front of me. Nothing different there. But then I turn my head to gaze down the aisle.
And I see a door.
The door does not match the rest of the public library. The furniture here might be outdated but is still from the last few decades. Meanwhile, the door is made of heavy, scarred wood and hangs in a medieval-style arch of stone. A brass knob sits directly in the center, reminding me of the entrance to hobbit homes. Not that hobbits are real. Or maybe they are-my knowledge of the magical world is sorely lacking.
As I stare at the odd entryway, a man in worn clothes with a ragged backpack wanders past, taking no notice of the architectural addition.
Am I the only one who can see this?
Desperation has my hands fumbling as I reshelve the book, my head still angled to the side so I don’t lose sight of the portal. Because that’s what this has to be.
My first portal.
I hurry toward the door, my arms outstretched and my heart pounding. The knob is warm against the palm of my hand as I grasp it and twist.
For twenty years I have lived a life without magic.
Today, that changes.
I eagerly pull open the door, revealing a shimmering surface. The texture reminds me of water, only this is upright like a curtain and more black than blue.
Without hesitation, I slip into the unknown.
Traveling between dimensions, it turns out, is quite quick. One moment, I’m stepping out of a dust-scented, fluorescent-lit library in a small Pennsylvania town. The next, I’m stumbling into a vast hall fit for a fantasy castle that smells of book pages, pine wood polish, and melted candle wax.
I gasp, clutching my chest as I inhale the dreamlike experience and try not to cry from wonder.
There’s so much to absorb. Towering ceilings with stained-glass windows that allow in fractured light. Unearthly architecture that melds stone, wood, and tile as if the materials grew together to form this grand hall. Gargoyles hold candelabras and also allow water to spill from their gaping mouths into black granite basins while limestone grotesques with menacing grins perch above entries to other rooms.
Rooms with bookshelves.
As my mind attempts to catalog every detail, my attention drifts to the opposite end of the entrance, where a large archway stands, filled with a rippling surface similar to what I just passed though, only this one is a tangle of green and purple.
A dark silhouette appears in the portal, and as I watch, a man steps from the shimmering veil.
He pauses on the threshold, glancing around the space in a mirror of my actions. His crimson hair turns gold-tinged in the flickering candlelight. As I watch, transfixed, he glances my way.
Our stares meet and hold.
Two new arrivals.
A shiver brushes over my excited nerves, and I grin in what I assume will be shared joy at finding ourselves in such an enchanting place.
He doesn’t return my smile.
The man’s expression is stony. The hall stretches between us, but he’s close enough for me to see how his eyes narrow and his brow creases with a frown.
The stranger looks thoroughly disgruntled with not only his location, but also my overt giddiness.
How can anyone be grumpy here?
“Oh splendid,” says a voice next to me. The words have a kind lilt and ring with a thick southern drawl. “You must’ve picked a good book.”
I tear my focus away from the surly, red-haired stranger and find a short white woman with gray hair and a cheerful smile at my side.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s glowing.
“Welcome, Belladonna Mortevue, to the Endless Library.”
Two
The Hunter
Earlier the same day . . .
I knew asking my dad to drop me off at the portal station was a bad idea.
“Oh, Rhett. This reminds me of your first day of kindergarten.” Arnold Waltham’s voice sounds suspiciously watery. “Your backpack was bigger than you were.” Sure enough, the burly man starts blinking rapidly as moisture collects in the corners of his eyes.
“Don’t cry, Dad.” I clasp his shoulder, wondering if a hug will make this better or worse. “You do know that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man, right? And I’m going to the Wild Wood, not enrolling in the Hidden Academy.”
“Sure.” He sniffles. “But they’re right next to each other. And it’s your mother’s alma mater. And taking part in the Warrior Trials is a big deal.” He clears his throat. “If she was here . . .”
He trails off, and the hopelessness that seeps into his normally warm eyes guts me.
“She’s fine, Dad.” I opt for the hug and pull him in, still jarred by the fact that I can rest my chin on the top of his head, even though I’ve been taller than dad since I was fifteen. Arnold Waltham is a bear of a man with brawny shoulders and thick limbs, but he’s half a foot shorter than my six one height.
“Course she is,” he mumbles, hugging me back hard. “Know she goes quiet on hunts sometimes.”
I keep my breath steady to cover my own anxiety. Dad’s right that my mom will sometimes cut herself off from tech when she’s stalking a particularly wily wraith. But she’s never been out of contact for more than a week or two.
We’re approaching three.
And we’ve got an emergency.
Releasing my hold, I eye the long-sleeve shirt my dad is sporting to cover his bandages. With the temperature in San Antonio still reaching the eighties, the clothing choice has got to be uncomfortable.
Excerpted from The Monster Hunter’s Librarian by Lauren Connolly Copyright © 2026 by Lauren Connolly. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
