A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Claire straightened and tucked the notebook back into her bag.

“What—” Leto began.

“A story.” Claire watched the cab pull away. “I paid him in a story, his story. It’s all most souls want, really, so it’s easy for them to accept.”

It didn’t sit right with Leto. “But we cheated him. It’s a lie.”

“A lie. A dream. Good stories are both,” Claire dismissed. “Is it so bad? He’ll remember the story, turn it over carefully in the back of his mind, feel the edges of it like he would a lucky coin. A story will change him if he lets it. The shape and the spirit of it. Change how he acts, what dreams he chooses to believe in. We all need our stories; I just fed him a good one.”

“But he’s got bills to pay. His tally will come out wrong. The money—”

“It doesn’t do no harm.” Brevity nudged Leto. “Besides, don’t get boss started. If there’s one thing librarians know, it’s stories.”

“Still doesn’t seem right.” But Leto let it drop.

They were no longer in the gleaming tourist center of the city. All around them crowded old brick giants, thick buildings with drooping rows of narrow windows, papered with faded posters of all kinds. The main street maintained an infestation of shops, windows displaying discounted baubles or closeout-sale signs. There were fewer people down here, but there was enough foot traffic that no one seemed to pay their trio much mind.

Claire scowled at the calling card before handing it to Leto. “It’s getting vague. Keep an eye on that, and let’s look around.”

WHEN THE SCRIBBLES ON the calling card finally changed, they evolved into… nothing. An inky, irregular period filled the tiny card under the title information. Leto held the card out to Claire for her to see. She nodded and paused on the sidewalk, then began turning slowly in a circle. “It’s nearby.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Leto asked.

“A leather-bound book, like the rest of our collection. It’ll think it’s being sneaky, but it should stand out pretty clearly against modern-day paperbacks.” Claire frowned into store windows as they wandered a few yards up and down the sidewalk. “Or since it is awake and manifested, it could be a person.”

“A person?”

Claire frowned into a coffee shop window. “They look like anything, but you can tell by the… oh, hell and harpies.”

Both Brevity and Leto turned and peered over the librarian’s shoulder. The shop was a popular spot, filled with an assortment of creative and business folk jostling for table space and power outlets.

Leto didn’t see what had caused the librarian to utter increasingly dark and esoteric oaths under her breath until Brevity pointed. “There. We got ourselves a hero.”

Leto followed the girl’s finger to a table by the window where a young and attractive couple perched. The woman sipped at a tall glass while she flicked animated, slender hands around in her conversation with what Leto assumed, from the smitten look on the man’s face, was her boyfriend.

He was a composition of fine tailoring and good genes. He leaned conspiratorially over the table and offered the woman a practiced smile. The man’s fingertips rested artfully at his temple, where bronze hair ruffled in a nonexistent breeze. Leto was no judge of such things, for many reasons. But even he could tell in a moment that the hero was, frankly, perfect.

“Is the woman the author?” Claire had finally exhausted her cursing. “Brev, grab me the photo from the author profile.”

Brevity ruffled around in the librarian’s bag before flipping open the file. “Yeah, looks like Miss McGowan to me, boss.”

Leto suspected, from the stormy look that crossed Claire’s face, that the author’s presence was a very bad thing.

The librarian heaved a sigh. “Why couldn’t it have been a damsel? This is going to make things significantly more difficult. We need to corner it and keep the contact with the author to a minimum.”

“Wait—I thought we were here for a book,” Leto said.

“We are. He is the book.” Claire’s explanation was peevish as she scanned the shop. “When unwritten books get too wild, too loved, or just too hungry, they get it in their fool heads to be real. They leak into the world, usually in the form of one of their characters. They aren’t the most creative lot on their own. That guy is obviously the hero—did you see those cheekbones? All he’s missing is a sword and a white horse. That’s our character.”

“And he’s talking to his author?”

“Violating every rule unwritten works have. When I get that book back to the wing… Bugger. Why’d it have to be a hero?”

“What’s wrong with heroes?”

“Everything.”

“Boss ain’t exactly fond of characters that decide to wake up, ’specially heroes.” A thoughtful look flickered across Brevity’s face. “He’s just a representation of the story, of course. The physical book still exists. He can’t stray too far from the rest of his book, so it must be close.”

“Hopefully, Mr. Nightfall here is fool enough to keep it at hand, and we can wrap this up easy,” Claire said. “All right, a plan. Brevity, I’m going to need a distraction that gets the author’s attention.”

The former muse positively glowed. “Wild, public display of drama? That I can do. What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s keep this classic.” Claire turned to Leto with a smile that made him gulp. “Leto, time to earn your keep.”

THERE’S A FIRST QUESTION that anyone who lived a good life hears after they die. It’s a simple question. And it was Ramiel’s duty to ask it.

“Anything to declare?”

“What?” The soul was a thin man, his hairline meandering that border between middle-aged and elderly. He was confused, as they always were, wobbling slightly as he stood before the massive gates of Heaven’s inbound processing. The Gates, as they were called, stood as representation of Ramiel’s own personal angelic duty. And torment.

Rami pinched the thick nub of his stylus between his even thicker fingers and leveled his gaze at the man over the edge of the desk. He did not look at the line of souls stacked beyond him, a shimmering line of heads in every shape and color that twisted as far as he could see into the light.

He did not do a silent calculation of the amount of time the souls would take to process.

Did not feel a cramp in his calloused hands, joints much more accustomed to holding something colder and harder than a stylus.

Did not consider how many ledgers he had yet to fill with notes for judgment.

Instead, the angel took a slow breath and tried again. “Do you have anything to declare, sir? Secrets taken to the grave, yearnings never realized, visions, prophecies, perhaps?”

Rami did not anticipate much of an answer. Souls carried the baggage of their lives under their skin. Undeclared, unacknowledged, and therefore none of his concern. The rare soul ended up in front of him with some deathbed vision or prophecy. In which case, Rami dutifully recorded it for the judgment.