A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

It wasn’t as if she had proper hours to maintain. Claire squinted at a squat copper sundial, fueled by a steady if entirely unnatural light all its own, and scribbled a new line in the Library’s logbook. It was thick and ancient, crusted with age and the oils of a hundred librarian fingerprints. It also never ran out of paper. Claire flipped from her personal notes to the “Library Status” log and ended an entry with a flourish, and the lights in the hall began to flutter.

The Library is now closed. All materials must be returned to the shelves. A disembodied voice, clipped and dull, echoed through the hall. Claire tapped her foot as the voice continued. The Library is now closed. Patrons are reminded that any curses, charms, or dreams left behind are considered forfeit to the stacks. The Library is now closed.

There were not many patrons lounging around the reading area, but the few imps that were reading put down their books reluctantly and began to make their way to the exit, much to Leto’s slack-jawed amazement. Creatures of Hell, on general principle, took to following orders as well as one might expect. Which is to say, not at all and with liberal interpretation. Most of the Library’s regulars were powerless imps and bored foot soldiers, but one beefy incubus with horns, clad in little more than chitin and scar tissue, handed his book directly to Claire with a grunt.

Claire clucked her tongue. “No sulking. You know we don’t do lending. It’ll be here for you tomorrow, Furcas. Go on now.”

Leto managed to close his mouth before his sputter could ruin another rug. “That— Was that…”

“Intimidated. Told you,” Brevity said.

Once the remaining patrons disappeared out the great doors, Claire closed the log and swept toward the far wall. Leto clung to her heels, and Claire bit back a smile. The Library was fickle, eerie terrain, especially to demons.

From the main desk, the cavernous space ran back into shadows in all directions, and every available surface was layered with wood or parchment of varying ages. Rows of shelves filled with books ran high over their heads, and larger tomes crouched at the end of each row in quivering packs. Plush rugs of riotous color muffled the floor. Every visible wall space carried an oil canvas, with images in various states of completion. They governed themselves with their own regular rotation and changes. More paintings hung on a monstrous series of pivoting racks at the far back, draped in shadow like a leafy thicket.

Claire’s target was the far wall, a large section of buttery pale yellow drawers. Endless rows of drawers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The Library functioned on requirement, shifting and flowing to the needs of the books and librarians. Leto eyed it with anxiety, but Claire shoved the folder back into his hands. She began to scale a ladder clipped to a rail. “Author name and story title?”

“Ah…” Leto opened the file. “Author, McGowan. Amber Guinevere McGowan.”

Her foot stabbed out at the wooden wall, and the ladder coasted a few feet down the row of drawers. “McGowan. Right. God, middle name Guinevere? What were her parents thinking? No wonder she never became a writer.” Claire yanked a drawer open. “Title?”

“Uh, the missing title just says ‘Nightfall.’” Leto looked up as Claire let out a snort. “Something wrong?”

“I think every writer, written or unwritten, has some glorified adventure titled ‘Nightfall’ stuck in their head. Half the residents here were a ‘Nightfall’ at one point. Even unwritten stories eventually migrate to something more original.” Claire danced her fingers over the drawer before snapping up a card. She slid the drawer closed and descended.

Her sneaker-clad feet hit the ground, and Claire headed for the exit. “Calling card says it’s definitely still in Seattle. Brev, you up for a field trip?”

Brevity’s gold eyes grew to saucers, and she stumbled forward in a little dance. Her voice wasn’t quite a squeal but flirted with the idea. “You mean upstairs?” she said breathily. “Always and forever, boss.”

HELL WAS A SERIES of hallways. An endless series of hallways, at least to a junior demon. They wound through passages Leto didn’t recognize, broad balconies, and whispering broom closets. They passed jagged stairs and alcoves with shadows like wounds, and finally a non-euclidean gargoyle that had a troubling habit of not quite staying in the viewer’s spatial perception. Leto averted his eyes from it at the start of a wince-inducing headache.

Each hall was lined with a narrow bay of windows. The first looked out upon wide fields of wildflowers, the next on a dark cavern with endless pools of starlight, the third, a lava-drenched plain. The conflicting light painted the hallway in a rainbow of bright and dark, yellow afternoons and blue twilights spilling over them as they passed.

Finally, the librarian took a sharp right into a narrow doorway that Leto would have missed. Its wooden arch was decorated with an icon for travel: a small set of interlocking wheels, marred with the claw marks of large birds. He followed the women down a steep set of stairs, watching Brevity’s light teal hair as it bounced like a brightly colored flag. They emptied out into a claustrophobic office, taller than it was wide.

Leto stumbled to a stop behind Brevity and turned in a slow circle. The office was tall, he realized, in order to accommodate the dizzying rows of shelves that reached from the floor up into the shadows of the ceiling. Unlabeled jars of various shapes lined each shelf, putting out a faint but steady colored glow that was the room’s only light.

Brevity grinned at Leto with ill-concealed amusement. “First time traveling?”

“Yes, er…” Leto shot her an alarmed look. “Rather, no. I’m not going with you, am I? I just deliver the paperwork.”

Brevity shrugged and turned to tap at a glass jar that swirled with plum and sickly orange mists. Leto stepped toward Claire. “Miss… eh, Head Librarian?”

“Not now, kiddo.” Claire slapped her hand on a dusty bell sitting on the counter. Instead of a simple chime, a trio of vibrations pinged hard out of the metal and made all the jars tremble on their shelves.

Leto most certainly was not a kid. Demons didn’t really have childhoods. Soul-shuddering inductions, nightmarish hazings, yes; childhood, no. Leto started to form his protest when a walking mountain in a tight tailored suit came trumbling out of the gloom behind the counter.

A pale head, the size and shape of a boulder, floated above a starched collar. Leto quailed. He retreated toward the door as he took in dark pits where the monster’s eyes should have been. The creature opened its mouth to reveal a row of jagged red edges that almost, but not quite, passed for teeth. Its voice rumbled in a timbre that shook the shelves around them.