A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Brevity, hand full of book rather than hero, kept pace with something close to a nervous dance. She flashed Leto a reassuring smile. “Cheer up. At least she’s not cursing His High—”

“Lucifer’s frilly , satin balls,” Claire grunted as they deposited the hero against a stack of stained cardboard boxes with a shove.

“Never mind,” Brevity said.

Leto flinched. Despite his growing increasingly used to Claire’s colorful wording, each blasphemy still sent a tremor of unease through him. He set the hero’s feet down gently on a box. The character’s haughty face was still pale. “Is he going to be okay?”

“For now, I reckon.” The muse cast glances back to the alley entrance, and pedestrian traffic was slowing as the afternoon waned.

Brevity crouched over the hero and poked at his shoulder. “Tearing out your own pages is one thing; they can be reattached. But his pages were destroyed . Anything that was on them is gone forever. Places, plot… or characters. You can do a lot with restoration, and boss is one of the best, but you can’t reinvent things out of whole cloth.”

“Which is why it’s time to stop dallying and get him back to the Library.” Claire dusted off her hands. “When you arrive, make him comfortable, then be sure to send a message to the muse cache. I’ll have to work on him myself, and I’ll need fresh parchment and binder.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re not…?”

“One more piece of business. I’ll be fine. Leto’s been extremely helpful so far. Isn’t that right?”

Leto jerked his head up. “Uh, sure. I mean, I hope so. We aren’t going back now?” The hum of the city streets made his skin itch, and the whole adventure had left his human form disconcertingly… sweaty.

“Brev will take the hero and book back,” Claire said, as if to a small child. “We have a quick stop before we use our ghostlights.”

Claire met Brevity’s concerned gaze, and some unspoken discussion occurred between the librarian and her assistant. After a moment, Brevity took hold of the hero by the collar. “I’ll take care of handsome here, sure thing.”

The muse etched a figure on the dusty concrete faster than Leto could follow. He could have sworn the brick walls wobbled, just a moment, before he was distracted by a hissing pop . Brevity and the prone hero were gone in a swirl of dust and paper debris. A trace scent of cotton candy and ash hung in the air.

Which left Leto alone with Hell’s librarian. He pulled his gaze away from the swirling air to find Claire scrutinizing him over her glasses. Her lips were cinched up like purse strings. Leto didn’t know her well enough to know what that meant, but he was sure it was nothing good. He again suffered the sense of being appraised for something he didn’t understand. Claire nodded and took off down the alley at a pace that required Leto to hurry to keep up.

“Do you know the origin of ghostlights, Leto?” Claire asked after they had joined the evening foot traffic on the sidewalk. She guided him around the corner at a brisk pace, stopping occasionally to squint at street signs.

“Not exactly.” It wasn’t much of an admission. He was a junior fiend at best. He hadn’t understood half of what he’d encountered today. They wandered downhill from the business buildings, away from tall towers, and toward squat ferry buildings and shops that lined the pier. Distracting smells and sights filtered his thoughts. They passed a famous chocolate shop, where buttery, sweet cocoa smells wafted out and drove away the briny smell of the bay. Leto didn’t stop to wonder how he knew the scent; he just did. He knew if they turned right, they’d run into a flock of taxicabs that swarmed around the Four Seasons and a crusty protester who always stood on that corner, waving a picture of the current president—didn’t matter who—with horns drawn on. No one knew what he was protesting.

“The term comes from the theater. Or at least, from days when theaters were more popular. When a theater closed for the night, a single light was left on, usually just a bulb on a stand at the center of the stage. The stage always stayed lit. A ghostlight. It had a practical purpose, of course—that way the first one to enter didn’t accidentally fall into the orchestra pit.”

“And the nonpractical?” Leto had seen enough today to understand that the nonpractical was usually more worrisome.

“The theater ghosts, of course.” Claire smiled and eased to a more sensible stroll as they passed the first trickle of crowds lining up outside dockside restaurants and bars. “Theaters traditionally always closed for at least one day a week, leaving on the ghostlight, to appease the ghosts. To allow them one day on the stage to perform their acts. To live and love and hate and triumph on the stage like the living.”

She slid him an unreadable smile as they slowed down at a new corner. “That part’s true. In the glow of a ghostlight, the dead all get one day. One day only.” Claire looked down the street. “Last time I was here, there was a long pier. Good view, outdoor patio across from a ferry. It should be around here somewhere….”

“Two blocks down,” Leto said automatically.

Claire hummed. “Aren’t you handy?”

They walked on, weaving through sidewalk crowds until the waterfront came into view. Far down the walk, Leto could just make out the lights of a Ferris wheel flickering on, painting the night’s low clouds with luminous pinks and greens. The quiet was amiable, until Claire let out a sigh. “You’re a stubborn one.”

Leto’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“All during this fiasco you’ve been asking things! Gawking! Mr. Questions! Fussing over taxicab ethics, even.” Claire stopped at a railing and tugged at a lock of hair irritably. “But I try to introduce the one thing you’re supposed to question and suddenly you’re more gullible than a saint.”

Leto shifted. “I’m not sure I— I’m sorry if I’ve—”

“No, just stop.” She dragged a palm over her face. “I just finished explaining how ghostlights work. How they allow the souls of dead humans like me a day on Earth. So an obvious question might be…?”

“Yes, ah… Do they have something to do with the hero?” A trickle of sweat lined the back of Leto’s suit. He felt like he was failing a pop quiz.

“No.” Claire crossed her arms and motioned to his pocket. “An obvious question to someone in your situation might be, ‘So why does a demon need a ghostlight at all?’”

“Why does a demon need a ghostlight? Well, I thought…”

Leto tried to consider it—he did. The stern librarian’s approval had swiftly grown important to him. But even as he repeated the words, his mind kept trying to hitch off in a new direction. Surely there were better inquiries. Where was the hero now? How did Brevity pop in and out? How were they going to fix the book? Considering all those, his brain refused to waste time on a silly question about ghostlights. Demons didn’t deserve the luxury of learning. Leto deserved even less.

But Claire’s expectant look made him try. He’d grown to respect the librarians. He liked Brevity and Claire, prickly as she was, and the thought of disappointing her curdled his nerves. He slid his gaze out over the choppy water as he tried to focus. Surely there was a reason he needed a ghostlight. It was obvious.

Because he was new? Because of entropy? Because of the time of year? Because he was such a miserable excuse for a demon?

He felt his stomach tilt as he sorted through each possible reason and discarded it for lack of logic. He felt like he was being tipped over the top of a very tall, steep hill, adrenaline climbing into his throat. He couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t stop.