A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

She was here now, but even her mounting anxiety wanted her to do something. Her hands trembled as she dug through the drawers and came up with a small silver box. Brevity squinted at the words inside, cursing Claire’s cramped handwriting. Eventually, she sorted out three squares of translucent vellum, one violet, one red, one black. Dreams. Blood. Ink. The fibers burned her fingers, and Brevity forced herself to focus on the pain as she uncovered the flame of a gas lamp. One paper, then another, went up in a shriek of smoke as Brevity mumbled the written commands. Her voice was hoarse, words dragged over broken glass, but the Library understood her anyway. The air tightened, then snapped in a hiss of anise and ash. One, two, three wards, sealing off the Unwritten Wing from the rest of existence once again.

The air took on an unnatural silence, the taste of Hell fading from the roof of Brevity’s mouth. She fell back against the desk, thinking for a moment she could summon up a feeling of silliness, of shame. If the silliness came, that would mean she was wrong about the shadows, wrong about the fear. It would still be a failure, having run back here instead of investigating further, but at least that would mean that she hadn’t lost her chance to summon help in the face of an actual threat. Claire could get back and scold her for sealing the Library, and they could laugh about it. Brevity could take her scolding and make it into a joke and—

Dust fluttered from the shelves. The papers on Claire’s desk rippled as if an errant breeze had shivered by. Brevity’s breath stuttered, clenching when a barely audible boom vibrated. Far away, like a soft finger plucking strings. Nails dragging along glass. An outer ward, being probed by a curious hand, too weak to knock properly. Whoever it was should give up, go away, realize the Library was closed and—

The next shudder reached in between her ribs, jostling her chest as the whole wing creaked. Again, increasing in frequency and strength until it was a war drum. Because that’s what it was, not a knock, not an idle curiosity of a passing demon. Someone was knocking, and would keep knocking until it was granted entrance. Brevity’s resolve shriveled in her chest, strangling her breath along with it, and she sank to the floor alone.

MDINA DIDN’T SEEM TO be a natural habitat for the young. Bored teenagers and young children peppered the steady stream of tourists at the entrance, but the farther Leto wandered into the city, taking narrow stone-walled alleys at random, the fewer people his own age he saw.

Fewer people in general, really. The buildings and streets were built out of that same worn island stone. Thick flagstones swallowed his footsteps as he took corners without a destination in mind. Stern signs hung at residential intersections, declaring that the city residents took the name Silent City seriously. As long as he was quiet, no one questioned what a bleary-eyed American teenager was doing so far from the tour buses.

It was probably fortunate, as his head felt like an oil slick just waiting for a light. Thoughts black and toxic, coiled with hurt. He’d felt these black thoughts invade before, more often when he was his full demon self in Hell, but this didn’t feel like an artificial nastiness. When he had felt the demon thoughts before, they’d been like a computer virus, infecting and corrupting but originating externally. The anger simmering in his chest now, he couldn’t understand, but it felt natural, close to the skin.

The winding alley dumped out into a small courtyard. The fountain at the center hadn’t held water for a while, but the sun-warmed stones felt nice under his fingers. He slumped against them and closed his eyes to breathe. The farther he got into the city, farther away from the echoing Hellhound howls, the less fear gripped him, leaving him with just the thoughts he brought with him.

Lashing out at Claire had been more instinct than choice, but feeding off her shame had been unforgivable. Claire had been kind to him, more than she needed to. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but then he’d been glad he had , because he was just so angry . It was a living thing, boiling in his gut. He was so tired of being disappointed, being hurt. And this cut deeper, somehow. He knew, logically, that everyone in Hell was there because of their own failings. He knew Claire wasn’t just an unwritten author, and she could be hard and merciless.

But there was sin and there was betrayal . The idea of betraying someone who trusted you—images flashed through his head: a death for lack of well-placed trust…

Leto gripped his head to stop the throb. It was unforgivable. The worst sin. It welled, a searing and familiar hurt, and he immediately wanted to hurt anyone who’d do such a thing. To make them suffer, as they deserved to.

That’d be what a demon would do, wouldn’t it?

He’d pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes hard enough to feel his pulse. Light flared and the pain was real, despite his temporary form. Leto wasn’t sure which was the real him anymore, the demon or the human. He wondered if he’d have to choose at some point, and which was the better choice.

“Easy there. Those eyes are expensive to replace.” Claire’s soft voice nearly sent him tumbling into the empty fountain.

She stood at the other side of the stone ring, diminished somehow. Her shoulders were hunched and her arms wrapped around her, pale knuckled, holding on or holding in. It was a fragile pose, human. Irrationally, that made anger lance back up Leto’s throat. He turned away. “I bet you could stitch me up just like your books. Demons are easy enough to replace.”

“You’re not a demon.”

“And you’re not a liar.” Leto hated the bitterness in his own voice.

Claire sighed. He could feel her looking around, gauging the emptiness of the square before speaking. “Leto, listen, you shouldn’t run off—”

“Or what?” He was being petulant, but he didn’t care. He reached for what he instinctively knew would hurt. “You’ll banish me too?”

“Those words only work in Hell,” Claire snapped before grimacing. “What I mean is… No. Leto, I would never—”

“Never? Sure, go on—tell me everything you’d never do as a dead person. You’ve been so good at keeping your word so far.” His hand wound a fist over his chest to quell the clenching feeling. It was irrational, this black bleak feeling lodged in his lungs. He didn’t want to wield it, especially not at Claire again, but it felt like the infection had reached his tongue. He hurt. “What’s gonna happen now? Are you going to turn against us too? I bet you could figure out some way to sell us out, trap us here, hide your secret.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s not as if— I never lied to you. I just didn’t—” Claire stopped, and from the look that crossed her face, Leto didn’t need to say anything to crucify her. She was doing it to herself.

“I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, Leto,” Claire said softly. “I deserve everything you’re feeling. But we’re stuck here together, for now, and contrary to what you think, I would never leave you behind. So if you want to sit here forever and hate me, that’s okay. Or if you never want to speak to me again—”