A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Rami nodded. “I can. I got a measure of her soul in Valhalla. If she’s lost anywhere on Earth, I can find her.” It wasn’t hard to judge where the librarian and her hellspawn would have gone. They’d taken the mists, the burial roads, and there was only one place those went—though usually in the opposite direction.

“Do it,” Uriel had said, already turning away from the shore. “I have business to attend to.”

“Business?” Rami blinked. “What business could be more important than the codex?”

The Valhalla sun was setting. Soon the realm would resurrect its dead, beginning the whole dreadful cycle again. The light hit Uriel askew as she turned, brightening her cap of white hair but turning the rest of her features into jagged relief. Her smile was slivered with shadow. “An opportunity for the bigger picture. You think too small, Ramiel.”

IT TOOK TIME AND cost to trace a soul: a sacrifice of cold stars and the ashes from his own flight feathers. But in the end, when the knowledge surged through him, it felt familiar, like slipping into well-worn shoes, tracing the weave of lifelines to find the one dropped thread. As he took on the role he had been cast away from, it felt comfortable, and right, so right that it hurt when he released the power. Its departure left empty rivers in Rami, like indents on a violinist’s fingertips, useless when away from the strings.

But he had a location. He sent word and when he arrived in Malta, Uriel was already perched on a tumbled pile of sandstone outside the city. She paid no mind to the humans that occasionally filtered by below her, and though she was invisible to them, Rami was relieved she had moderated her appearance somewhat: a sparse cream-colored coat with a military cut instead of a robe, and her shining white hair dulled to a mortal blond. She’d shrunk a bit so she towered only a few spare inches over most humans. But the passing crowds still veered a wide berth around her. Nothing could hide her presence: she was the Face of God no matter what skin she wore, and right now that face was an intense, grit-teethed snarl.

Fists clenched at her sides as she stared at the entrance, as if she could bring the walls down with simply the force of her gaze. “They’re here?” she said as Rami stepped up and followed her eyes.

“Yes. The librarian’s soul is in Mdina.”

“With the demons ,” Uriel bit out. Rami assumed she meant the librarian and her companions. The way she growled it made cold form in his stomach.

He picked a careful reply as he tried to suss out what plan Uriel had in mind. “Well, I’m surprised you waited for me, then.”

“Not as if I had much of a choice.” Uriel finally dropped her gaze away from the walls and sighed. “It’s warded against us.”

Rami blinked. “What, the whole city?”

Uriel nodded. “I’d heard tell of it, but never had need to see it for myself. The entire city, warded. Something left over from one of the humans’ petty wars. Nothing not born of humankind—not angel or demon or claimed by another realm—gets in without invitation from its residents.”

Rami glanced at the thick sandstone walls with new interest. “Then how did the librarians get in?”

“That is a very good question,” Uriel said. “If the Creator were receptive, we could have found a way in through the churches.”

That startled Rami. “The Creator is removed from the faithful as well?” A stroke of unease stirred at the back of his thoughts. The state of a realm was tied—to belief, but also to the godhead that ruled it. If those two become disconnected… well, Rami wasn’t certain of the repercussions.

Uriel waved a hand as if to flick the irritation away. “It’s no matter. I’ve made arrangements. They will come to us.”

Rami frowned. “I very much doubt that. Why would they—”

“I have made arrangements. Second rule of demons: they always want something.” Uriel, smug and almost smiling, raised a brow at him. “They’ll come to us. I have it on good authority that they’ll have no other choice.”

SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE HAD A pot of Earl Grey on. Earl Grey with citrus , Claire corrected, detecting the lemon drifting through the air. Her favorite, when not mixed with the smell of death.

It soured her stomach. An old clock on the desk ticked, but otherwise there was no movement behind her, near the body. Claire clenched her fingers, which were absolutely not trembling, and pretended to sort through the stack of books by the window.

“May I ask why we just shot our only source of information for the pages of the codex?” Andras broke the silence, his voice mild.

“Come to think of it, why isn’t the well-armed guard outside rushing in at the sound of a gunshot?” Hero said.

“You need a body to need a bodyguard,” Claire mumbled under her breath. The help around here probably had strict instructions not to enter no matter what was heard.

“Is she dead?”

Leto’s panic finally brought Claire’s head around. The teenager looked even more pale than usual, if that was possible. He crouched over where the book collector lay, eyes wide as saucers as he extended a finger.

“Don’t touch, Leto. She’s… fine.” Claire scooped up a few books at random and gave them an underhand lob. “Flip through these. We’re looking for loose sheaves of very old paper.”

The books fell to the floor with a clatter—Leto had made no move to catch them. He turned a look of horror on Claire. It was earnest with a cutting edge. “Fine? You killed someone!”

“No, I didn’t. I—” Claire forced her jaw not to lock with tension. “Just start looking. Gentlemen, please. We don’t have much—”

She was cut off by a cry. Leto stumbled back, flinging himself away from the empty rug. An empty rug where, but a moment before, the prone body of the book collector had lain. A tacky pool of black blood and a slight impression in the crumpled carpet were the only indications left.

“…much time,” Claire finished.

“She disappeared.” Leto stumbled to his feet. “She just disappeared.”

“Disappeared rather like a character from an unwritten book.” Hero held an increasingly suspicious glint in his eye as he turned toward Claire. “Now, why would a body do that, warden?”

“As I said, we don’t have much time.” Claire moved toward the desk and studied the drawers. Locked, of course. She began rifling through the detritus for a key.

“Perhaps a very succinct explanation would speed things up,” Andras said.

She found the key resting in the bottom of a cup of pens. Exactly where she would have hidden it.

“Pup. Claire,” Andras prompted softly.

Claire’s lips thinned, and she let out a hard breath, staring at the key rather than at the others. It was dented; tarnish discolored the grooves between the teeth. “Because she is a character. That’s why I shot her. Characters retreat to their books when damaged—assuming they aren’t unable to do so like Hero here. It buys us time to find the codex pages while it’s busy recomposing itself.”