A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Hmm. Yes, it had definitely gone to Brevity’s head. Not that she could be faulted; if inspiration was the trade of muses, passion was their fuel.

After Claire had foisted her bag onto Brevity and followed Bjorn, Hero had announced he needed to drink, and Brevity followed under the guise of making sure he didn’t disappear with his book. That had been nearly an hour ago. Now Hell’s contingent took up a table at the far side of the hall and sat—human, demon, book, and muse—avoiding one another by contemplating their drinks. It struck Brevity that Claire had picked them all up, for one reason or another, like toy soldiers. Without her abrading presence, they fell apart.

Brevity, at the very least, could fix that. “Whatchya got?” she asked, perhaps a bit too loudly, pointing to Leto’s drink.

He nearly choked on his sip. “Cider. Hero found it for me.”

“From the kids’ table,” Hero supplied with a wink.

“Not sure Valhalla would have that,” Brevity said.

“With these savages, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was. Can’t you see it? Murderous children! Slaying toddlers for honor and other useless virtues…” Hero managed to get his bandage wet as his drink sloshed. He pulled a face. “At least there’s liquor.”

“No desire for honor?” Andras joined in, which surprised Brevity. In all the years she’d been in his acquaintance, the Arcanist had possessed excellent manners but also a low tolerance for small talk. Now he looked at Hero like he was a particularly novel new artifact.

“Honor is nothing but cold pity for the dead. Better not to fail at staying alive. Or avoid the conflict in the first place,” Hero said.

Andras’s eyes narrowed. “A rather unorthodox position for a hero to take.”

A tic appeared in Hero’s jaw and was just as quickly tucked away. “I’ll choose to interpret that as a compliment. There are plenty of ways to be… heroic.” His brow knit, and he frowned into his drink before changing the subject. “Does it bother you that we seem to be left waiting around like useless lapdogs?”

“I don’t know. You did get to star in that duel,” Leto offered, and Hero snorted.

“The next call we have for a sacrificial lamb, the honor’s all yours.”

“Could you have really died?” Leto asked, betraying more curiosity than he seemed ready to admit. Brevity had noted the way his eyes had brightened as he watched the fight, much more interested in the deadly slaughter between Hero and the giant than in Claire’s battle of words. He was a teenage boy, so some excitement might be expected, but she didn’t like the way Leto had finally seemed to perk up at violence and cruelty. Demon things, not human things, in Brevity’s opinion. Claire insisted Leto was human, but Brevity could see more. Leto was a human, but a hollowed-out human. Someone had scooped out his human life and filled him all up with darkness and demon stuff, like tar inside a candy shell. Brevity worried that unless they drained it out soon, the tar would stick. And that’d be a tragedy. Leto was sweet, and there was nothing more amazing than a human, in Brevity’s book.

“I mean, being a book or… a character from a book and all,” Leto finished weakly.

“I’m sorry—was my bruising not realistic enough for you? Prefer a little more ink on the sand? Did my wrist not crack in a convincing manner? Really, what more heroics do you expect of me?” Hero arched a brow. “Without a welcoming book that I can return to and escape damage, I am just as destructible as anyone else. More so, even, since I don’t have a soul like a human. I’ll crack and burn and fall to ash easy as anything.” Hero’s lip curled. “You saw for yourself—just because a book can be fixed doesn’t mean it can’t be ruined.”

He’d done that damage to himself, but Brevity wasn’t about to rouse his irritation by saying so. Leto tilted his head. “But it’s not as if any of us are mortal—”

“There are worse things done to a man than death,” Andras mused.

There was a tone in the way he said it, academic and contemplative of potential. Hero’s disdain turned toward a new target. “That sounds like a threat, Arcanist. But you’re the cheapest puzzle out of all of us, I think.”

Andras’s smile grew indulgent. He reclined in his seat. “Please, go on.”

Hero didn’t need the encouragement. “You’re a demon, and demons seek power. You’re a former duke, so I am guessing you never shied from ambition. Yet you’re dusting trinkets in the Library. The Arcane Wing—and the relationship with Claire—what’s it get you?”

The light of the longhouse had shifted as the celebrations had wound down, flickering torches and thick lanterns swaying under the jostling tremors of hundreds of Valhalla’s residents. The shadow that slid across Andras’s face could have been that, had it not pulled his features with it. Eyes darker, smile sharper, skin the color of old bone.

“Perhaps it gets me left alone,” Andras said before Brevity could attempt an intervention. “Most learn after a brief period of my acquaintance to leave me alone. In case you haven’t heard, I’m retired.”

“I was under the impression demons never retired,” Hero persisted.

“I was under the impression that heroes weren’t impertinent fools.”

“It appears we both exceed expectations,” Hero allowed. Brevity thought perhaps he would drop it, but of course not. “And what do you want with Claire?”

“The librarian and I have a long history. You should remember that. She trusts me much more than she trusts you,” Andras said, acid sweet. “Does that chafe, young hero?”

“Hardly.” Hero let out a dignified sniff. “I’d expect wardens to plot together.”

“D-don’t take it personal-like!” Brevity was too happy to latch onto the insecure underbelly of Hero’s words. Her stomach was already tied up in knots. Hero and Andras were frowning at each other, trading feints to reveal a hidden weakness. It struck Brevity as pointless—of course they all had secrets, regrets. It was what Hell was for. She stole Hero’s attention by slapping him on the back. “Boss is really a softy underneath. She didn’t care for me much either when I showed up.”

“That woman doesn’t have a caring bone in her body,” Hero said dismissively.

Brevity’s smile pulled tight. “It’s a mite more complicated than that.”

Understatement was something she’d learned from Claire. Brevity remembered cold tension, ashen skin, orders simmering with resentment, secrets tucked in the shadow of her eyes. The questions and library shelves Claire avoided. Muses were naturally drawn to humans, but Claire was an unwritten author. Brevity still caught her, now and then, staring at the inspiration on her skin, thoughts locked and far away.

Muses loved humans, authors doubly so, but the relationship with authors was always more complicated. Brevity had broken through Claire’s hostility, in the end, with aggressive friendliness. Humans couldn’t see like muses—they were practically blind, relying only on what things looked like on the outside. So Brevity had shaped her outside to what Claire needed. A cheerful teenage girl in need of guidance. Her apparent age, her personality, the way she talked. Muses had a knack for understanding what an author needed.

Claire had needed a friend. Maybe Claire still did.

“Give her time. She’ll warm up to ya. You’ll see,” Brevity insisted, and put her full force of will into believing it.

“Mmm, no doubt you’ll be eating out of the palm of her hand in time,” Andras said. “Characters are fools for authors.”

“She’s not my author.” Hero sounded positively horrified by the idea. “Your whole library can burn for all I care.”