A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“Different? Like, compared to the Unwritten Wing or…” Leto trailed off as Claire shoved the door open.

The air was chilled and clotted with dust. The first impression Leto had, as he breathed in stale air, was of the shadowy neglect of an abandoned museum vault or perhaps a disreputable pawnshop. A cabinet of curiosities, Claire had said. It was an accurate description of the place. Dozens of dusty little boxes lined black wood shelves, punctuated by puddles of shadowy fabric, twisted figures in discolored ivory, a bowl rimmed with sharp teeth and filled with tiny seeds that sparkled like bloody rubies. Some artifacts were left in open air; others were inexplicably bound with chains behind glass. All were stacked and piled with no discernible logic. A staccato grackling noise came from the far wall, and the cold iron bars of a tall stack of cages filled with ravens cast menacing lines of shadow across the floor.

The Arcane Wing was smaller than the Unwritten Wing, and colder. Shadows stretched and reached farther than they should have. There was just enough light to define the shapes of the darkness, not drive it away. Sound pooled and dribbled in murmurs that sounded the way goose bumps felt. It was a palace to shadows and acid ambition.

Unfazed, Claire rapped on a scarred countertop with her knuckles. “Andy? You about?”

The black birds increased in volume as something thudded in the back recesses of the collection. “Is that a pup I hear? No one else is cheeky enough to use that name.” The voice was as rugged and distinguished as the gentleman that followed it.

A gentleman with demonic features: sharply pointed ears, and eyes an unnatural shade of liquid gold that set Leto on edge. Leto had the fleeting impression of a tiger caged and pacing. He shivered, blinked once; then the tiger shrank to a house cat. Andras was not an intimidating figure. He was a hair shorter than Leto, and he wore an old-fashioned evergreen doublet studded with glittering brooches and topped with a black satin sash. His hands were folded politely, burdened with silver rings. His hair was a short ruff of charcoal streaked with lines of gold. He glimmered and gleamed attentively in all the ways his wing glowered and gloomed.

“My dear librarian.” A smile sprang into place on Andras’s lips as he swept across the floor to greet them. Andras touched Claire’s cheek and turned it this way and that. His hand looked pale and faded against her teak skin. “You are working too hard, pup. You look thin.”

It was the first time Leto had seen anyone touch the prickly librarian—even Brevity seemed to respect Claire’s personal space. But the Arcanist swept in with familiarity, and to Leto’s great surprise, Claire simply shrugged off the hand. “A trip upstairs does that.”

“Of course. Dreadful place. I don’t know why you don’t just send your assistants.”

Claire chuckled. “Some of us prefer to do things ourselves.”

“Of course. I taught you no less; shame I don’t heed my own lessons. Speaking of assistants…” He turned his attention to Leto, and his gaze was sharp enough to bring a trickle of acidic sweat to Leto’s neck. Andras’s lip curled in a smile to reveal a pointed tooth as he studied him. Polite, but exacting as a scalpel. Leto felt dissected, and foolish to have ever believed himself to be a demon or any creature related to someone with that kind of keen gaze.

Claire nudged Leto forward with a grand wave. “Leto, meet Andras, Hell’s Arcanist and former Duke of the East Infernal Duchy. Andras, this is Leto, my… assistant, I suppose.”

Leto’s stomach did a swooping kind of flip at the introduction. It was a startling warmth, distracting him momentarily from the vague sense of dread that Andras imparted. “Uh, pleased to meet you, sir.”

“I haven’t seen you about before.” Andras gave Leto a shrewd squint. “What legion are you, son?”

Leto stuttered out of reflex, but Claire saved him. “He’s human. Made a demon down here for his penance.” She gave a not-unkind squeeze where she kept hold of Leto’s shoulder. “And he’s been instrumental in finding something that I believe you might have an interest in.”

“A human, now? Fancy that.” Andras tapped his lip. “I assumed you had business. You were never one for small talk. What can I do for you, my dear?”

Claire raised the bag that held the scrap and upended it with care on a nearby table. “I ran across something I was hoping you could identify.”

Andras brightened and wiped his fingertips on a pocket square before approaching the table. He snapped his fingers, and a globe of light appeared over his head, bobbing softly and reminding Leto of summer fireflies. “What gift do you have for me today?”

Claire made an impatient motion. “Do you recognize it? It seemed like something of yours.”

“It’s not an unwritten book—I can certainly verify that. It seems…” Andras stilled and flicked his gaze, suddenly sharp and suspicious, between them. “Where did you get this?”

“Leto palmed it off an angel that was trying to kill us. He said he was Ramiel, if you’re familiar with the tales. An entirely unpleasant man, absent manners, and present one very sharp sword. He seemed under the impression we had something of his.”

“Ramiel.” Andras was quiet for a long moment, hands hovering over the scrap. “He’s on the hunt for this?”

“And quite insistent that we knew what the hell he was talking about.” Claire frowned. “It is from a book?”

Andras had returned to staring at the scrap. “Intriguing.”

“Yes, so intriguing, in fact, I thought I’d visit my dear old friend because I was under the impression that he would assist more than ask questions,” Claire grumbled as the old demon didn’t look up. “Well?”

“Hmm.”

“Andras.” Claire rubbed her brow. “I’ve been bled, nearly skewered, and mostly drowned today. Words, please.”

The demon shook his head, and a thought moved across his expression. It was a thought with teeth, but then it was gone. Andras smiled again. “It’s… a very rare piece.”

“I gathered as much, considering it tried to blow my circuits when I touched it.” Leto let out a startled noise, but Claire waved him off. “What is it?”

“It has the markers of a piece that shouldn’t exist.” Andras’s eyes drifted back to the scrap. “The Codex Gigas. Have you heard of it?”

“Codex Gigas. The… giant book?”

“Apt translation, given the original book’s size, but it’s also known as ‘the Devil’s Bible.’”

Claire raised her brows. “You have my attention.”

Andras’s fingertips danced away from the bit of paper every time he attempted to touch it, as if it burned. “A curious piece of antiquary history, to hear the humans tell it. Some sordid drama about a medieval monk signing a deal with the devil to create a holy tome in a single night.”

“What nonsense.”

“Of course. No proper demon would bother with a trivial deal such as that.” Andras shrugged. “But there was a book created, and Lucifer claims ownership himself.”

Claire frowned. “Lucifer… wrote a book? Impossible. Demons don’t create books.”

“They don’t write books.” Andras held up a finger. His voice took on a teaching tone. “This wasn’t a story; it was an artifact . A container. It takes a lot of power to hold a realm like Hell as long as Lucifer has. Power burns out a god as much as a mortal. The oldest beings have been known to siphon off bits of themselves over the years, stash bits of themselves here and there. To remain sane. To hedge their bets. The more innocuous the piece, the better.” Andras made a vague gesture to the curios around them. “Something like that should be here, by all rights. But I suppose he didn’t trust my predecessors with it. Rather insulting that he thought Earth was safer.”