A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

The mockery slid off the Watcher’s stony face without effect. “You will have to try harder to enrage me, I’m afraid. Hand over the book.”

“Seeing as I have no idea what book you’re referring to, you’re going to have to be more specific.” Taunt failed, Claire reached for placating. “Honest, I really don’t know what you’re after.”

“Don’t waste my time. The book. You didn’t get all of it, did you?”

Leto’s mind conjured the hero’s unwritten book with fangs of jagged missing pages. Leto swallowed hard, and Claire turned guarded. “There might have been an accident. What concern would that be for a Watcher like you?”

The man’s hard lips took on a smug demeanor for the first time. The blade in his hand didn’t waver as he withdrew a small clear bag from his coat pocket. Inside fluttered a scrap of paper, a corner ripped from some larger piece. As his eyes landed on it, Leto thought he heard a faint hiss, quiet words he could almost make out.

“Because I got there first.” The man gave a hard smile.

The whispers swam Leto in vertigo. He shook his head to clear it. “Is the author okay?”

The Watcher paused. “What?”

“The—”

“Hush, Leto.” Claire cut him off. She frowned at the paper in the man’s grasp. “If those are the pages, that belongs to the Library, Watcher.”

The Watcher straightened his sword. “It belongs to Heaven, as everything does. Now, I will have the rest of the book from you.”

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck. It’s already been sent back to the Library. But if you want to come by during visitors’ hou—”

“Liar!” A voice like thunder sent the hairs on Leto’s neck on end. Claire flinched as if she’d been shocked. The Watcher had cleared the space in a moment and rested his sword at Claire’s breast. “I am Ramiel. Soldier of the First Host, the Thunder of God. I’ll have the truth.”

Light shuddered just beneath the blade’s surface, though Leto swore Ramiel hadn’t moved. Leto twitched, and Claire shook her head ever so slightly.

“Ramiel…” Claire breathed, and for the first time Leto heard fear in her voice. “I wasn’t aware fallen angels had such a passion for literature.” Leto blinked at the word. Angel.

“Will you hand over the book, Librarian?” Ramiel’s shoulder inched down as his lips pressed into a pale line. The clear bag with the parchment dangled from his free hand at his side. Leto found himself listening for the whispers. He wasn’t sure if he wanted more to pick out the words or to block his ears. “I will not ask again. I know you are neutral. You were once human. I have no quarrel with your duties. But I must return with the book.”

The pause was charged, air before a storm. When Claire spoke, her voice was calm again. “Leto, dear. Remember to blow out your ghostlight.” She spoke without breaking her gaze from the angel. “Unfortunately, my duties extend to every book in my care. I cannot help you.”

“A pity. I wish it were otherwise.” A shutter came over Ramiel’s gaze, eyes guarded. His sword arm trembled. The air felt on the edge of cracking, and then Leto knew.

He didn’t know what a Watcher was; he didn’t know what a Watcher did. Didn’t know about fallen angels or books in Hell. Leto barely knew himself. But if he was human, then everything human in him—every teenage, powerless, frustrated human fiber—knew what angry men in power did when denied something they felt they were owed. Leto darted forward and grabbed desperately at the nearest thing in reach: the bag dangling from the angel’s fingers.

He’d intended merely to create a distraction, but the reaction was immediate and violent. Ramiel grunted, jerking his sword away from Claire’s chest. His arm swung back, and Leto flinched against the railing, waiting for the blow.

Instead, Claire’s arm crashed against Leto’s chest. They careened backward and pitched against the wood.

“Deep breath!” she ordered as the world spun. The railing dug into his back and then they toppled over the edge of the pier. The Watcher’s startled face tilted out of view, sword faltering as a free hand reached out. And then they hit the black cold water.

Ice spasmed through his nerves and the water closed over him. A brackish taste flooded the back of his mouth before he remembered to clench his throat shut. Diffuse light bled away as they sank into the bay. Claire’s hand clamped tighter onto his chest as another hand pawed for the pocket that held his ghostlight. Leto got the idea and managed to pull the tiny lighter out with a free hand.

His lungs burned. It was too dark to see, and his movements were turning thick and sluggish from the icy Puget Sound waters. Claire’s hand fumbled on top of his, and she thumbed the switch. The ghostlight flared, sparking light into the dark water with an impossible blue flame.

A trickle of bubbles breathed against his cheek as Claire mouthed something. He could not hear them, but he caught the last words as they bloomed quiet in the center of his head, like a half-remembered poem.

“…and I’ll drown my book.”

WHEN CLAIRE BLINKED, ENDLESS gnarls of red thread danced on the insides of her eyelids. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and drained the remains of her cold tea.

They’d landed back in Walter’s office, flopping about like fish, and bringing a hearty helping of the bay water with them. Walter had insisted on wrapping them both up in his jacket—it was big enough to practically engulf both Claire and Leto—and escort them personally back to the Library. The big gatekeeper tutted about the disgrace of such treatment the whole way.

The hero was still unconscious. Claire allowed Brevity to make a tolerable amount of fuss before retreating to the restorations room with the hero’s book, supplies, and the scrap that Leto had, miraculously, held on to during their escape. Despite the panic in his wide eyes, he’d demonstrated quick thinking; Claire was forced to revise her impression of the confused teenager.

She’d allowed Brevity in to deliver a hot pot of tea and a clean change of clothes before turning her attention to the process of restoring the book. If Claire was going to get answers as to why a fallen angel, let alone a Watcher, was interested in an unwritten fantasy novel, she would need to make sure the hero survived long enough to answer questions.

After hours of painstaking work, she was no longer afraid they were going to lose the book entirely. An unwritten story was fragile when damaged. Pushed too far, it could fall apart, like ice cream on a summer day melting away for lack of authorial intent. There had been no time to do it properly with a full rebinding, but Claire had held the book together with thread and paste. She breathed every curse she knew under her breath as she stitched blank sheets into the wounded front pages, carefully tying the savaged front matter together with tiny red binding threads. The new pages were strong, but it still might all be for nothing if it didn’t restore the story. She’d spent the last two hours trying to coax the words, first with soft assurances, then with orders, finally with the blunt end of her quill, nudging the trembling text to repopulate the blank pages.