A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Bjorn’s eyes dropped to the bag on her hip. “You have to give up your books until you find it.”

Claire nearly snorted into her tea, and she set the mug down carefully. “I beg your pardon? Not more of this duel nonsense—”

“Not for a duel, Librarian. Until you locate your quarry, you have to leave your books. It won’t work otherwise.”

“The notes I brought are the only tools I’ll have in the mortal world. You’re asking us to continue on completely defenseless. With two violent representatives from Heaven at our backs.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to have to explain a bit more than that.”

“The voice of the book. The music—the song of the tale.” Bjorn paused with a glance toward Leto and Andras. “Every book has it—you know, the book’s way of talking, the words it uses, the rhythm of the speaker in your head as you read. Its voice. Each one a bit unique to the author and the tale. Before the written word, it was even more important. Every storyteller worth their salt knew how to create their own voice, mimic others, and find the beat that wove it.”

“Well, obviously not every storyteller.” Claire was droll. “You’re talking about an actual… narrative voice… of books. A sound. A song. That’s ridiculous.”

“Says the woman accompanied by a muse, two demons, and Prince Charming,” Andras added.

“I’ve been librarian for three decades and never heard of such a thing.”

“A whole three decades? Goodness.” Bjorn didn’t hide his disdain.

“It… makes sense,” Brevity said slowly, drawing Claire’s attention. She fidgeted, fussing with the cooling pot of tea before looking up. “Muses see more parts of a book than librarians do. They got these colors, these— Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if they got a song too.”

“Just so,” Bjorn said. “The Library wouldn’t have bothered with it much. Too many books, too many restless tales coming and going. I didn’t know about it till I got here. Things are… more sedate here.”

Hero snorted.

“You learned how to work with these ‘songs’ here in Valhalla,” Claire guessed. “And you think you know the voice, the… song… of the codex?”

“I don’t.” Bjorn gestured a knobby hand at her skirt pockets. “But if that paper will tell me, I know how to listen. Coupled with the calling card, we might be fixed to jigger a clear tune. A book of the realms won’t be sharing a song with any other book, so it should lead you right to what you’re seeking.”

Claire considered. “You still haven’t explained why I have to leave my books.”

“Too noisy! Too loud. You’re already going to be tryin’ to pick out a who-knows-how-old song out of a million stories in progress in the mortal world. There are ways of sorting that out—written stories, existing stories, simple enough to mute and filter out. But those unwritten books and personal notes in your bag, Librarian? Coupled with your own words? Unwritten stories are like ink in water. You’ll never follow the thread if you’re distracted.”

A disquiet began to creep up Claire’s back. She flicked an unsettled glance at the rest of the group, and Brevity shook her head emphatically. Abandoning her books was antithetical to every duty a librarian had. The only powers she had were with the tools of her office. Even trusting them in the care of another librarian felt… wrong.

Without them, she’d be more vulnerable. She’d be more… human. Claire dropped her gaze for the first time and studied the fraying edge of the bandage that wrapped around her left arm.

It all came back to finding the lost pages of the codex. Hero’s return to his book, Brevity’s training, Leto’s mystery, even her own duties as librarian of the Unwritten Wing, had all taken a backseat the moment she’d decided to close the Library and follow a raven out of Hell. She was responsible for those that followed after her, though.

It had changed the moment Andras painted a future where the Library could be destroyed for doing its duty. Where Heaven was willing to wage war for a secret. The archangel and the Watcher outside were nothing compared with what that would look like. And if she and Leto, as human souls, got caught outside Hell when their ghostlights went out, even worse things would be after them. She was risking all of them, in various ways.

Abandoning her books would open her to more risks. But it was the only clear path ahead for any of them.

“Teach me this ‘song’ of yours, and I’ll consider leaving my books. Consider it.” Claire paused. “Except one. Hero needs to keep his book nearby, for obvious reasons. Unless Hero believes he’s found his kin in Valhalla?”

Hero let out a mirthless laugh. “Stay with this bearded mayhem? I’d rather eat my sword.”

“See, he’s warmed right up to us. Like family, we are,” Brevity chirped.

Bjorn shuffled his feet, slanting a disgruntled gaze at Hero, before nodding. “It’ll be better if he can keep it quiet, but keep him at a distance when you’re listening, and it might work.”

Claire felt the gathered eyes shift back to her. It felt like a weight settled on her shoulders. She stood, slinging the bag from her grasp. She first dug out Hero’s book, newly replaced pages still gleaming glaring white next to their faded yellow cream brothers. She held it out to him with one hand. “You’re still in Special Collections, mind. Don’t make me regret this.”

“As always, your faith sustains me.” Hero found an inside coat pocket, and the book diminished slightly to fit.

Claire carried the bag over to Brevity and slung the strap over her assistant’s head before she could protest. “Hold these for now.”

Brevity’s nose crinkled as she took the bag. “What are you thinking, boss?”

“Just hold them. We’re not leaving quite yet,” Claire said, dodging the question. That part could wait. Rid of her possessions, she turned again to Bjorn. In her chest there was a lightness that was unexpected. Hollow, vulnerable, but it was done. The act of doing had a decisive power in itself. “Ready when you are, storyteller.”

Bjorn nodded and turned toward the bookcase near the fireplace. He shuffled the scrolls on the middle shelf for a moment before there was a thunk. The shelves melted into thin air to reveal a night full of stars behind it. “We’ll need to get away from my collection as well, if we’re going to be proper about it.”

VALHALLA WAS A CANDY jar to a muse. Brevity’s fingers traced the carved wood handle of her mug and she grinned into the fizzy drink, a little drunk on the feeling of it. Valhalla was as full of art and beauty as any afterlife, but what set it apart was passion . Strength and survival and unbridled passion, not anchored to a single song or story but lived. Knit in the blood flow. Salted in the sweat. Simmered in the saliva.