A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“Leto made a joke, and I made him explain it.” Hero’s eyes went distant before he swiftly shifted the topic away from that memory. “How do you think they’re doing?”

Not Leto. The Library. Brevity. Andras. “I can’t know until we get out of here,” Claire admitted. The cake felt less sweet, turning to mud on her tongue. “It’s been too long, but time between realms can do funny things. Brevity’s smart. I’m hoping the reason we’ve heard nothing is because she called up the wards. The Library’s not defenseless. But it’s more built to keep books in rather than keep anything out—”

“The irony is delicious,” Hero interjected.

“And Andras has the pages,” Claire finished with a scowl. “Those pages, that codex… if Lucifer made it, it’s a part of him. Like Hell itself. Even a portion of one could tear down a ward, and Andras has ten whole pages. I might be happy that the angels don’t have it, but Andras… I’m afraid what he wants to do is even worse.”

“You’ll just need to take it back, then.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sure the Horrors will be happy to listen to a deposed librarian. Without any of her tools of office. Without a library.”

“You have a library. A library of one.” Hero tapped his chest and flashed her a carefully practiced thousand-watt smile, only slightly dimmed by the smear of sand in his hair. “I’ll have you know I’m worth a hundred of those boring old books.”

“And an arrogance to match the worth.” Claire tried to sound harsh and failed.

“It’s all part of my charm. I—” Hero stumbled, as if his foot had tripped on air. He gripped the stone wall with white knuckles as if he suddenly wasn’t sure of his feet.

“Hero?”

“Just a moment. I feel… peculiar,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Claire studied him, then felt her pulse stop in her throat. The color began bleeding from Hero’s bright, brassy bronze hair. It formed cool wisps before evaporating. She looked to the hand pressed against the wall and saw a band of symbols glowing on his wrist. It was bright crimson even as all his other colors were being drained out. Her gut clenched, and the cake fell from her fingers. “The IWL.”

“The what?” Hero followed her gaze to the stamp on his wrist. Sweat began to bead on his temple, his face white with distress. “That can’t be. You’re the librarian.”

“Not necessarily. Not if Brevity’s done her job.”

“What? But that’s absurd—” He was fighting it, but Claire knew the pull of the Library always won. She saw the panic flare in his eyes as Hero came to the same conclusion. “Not yet, dammit!” He glared up at the air above them as if the Library’s interworld loan was something to be bargained with.

Claire felt her heart slowly turning to lead. The little parts of her that had been restored by sleep and food and banter, the illusion of hope—those bits were fading along with the peach of Hero’s skin and the blue of his worn coat.

“The Library needs you. It’s all right.” Her voice was eerily calm even in her own ears. She was a writer; she could lie for him.

“No. Wait. Hold on. Just try—maybe you’ll come with?” Hero snatched at her wrist and clamped down hard enough to pinch. His face was beginning to shimmer, just at the edges.

Claire forced her lips up, a halting smile. “Maybe.”

She was a better liar with words than with deeds, and she rarely smiled. It was no surprise that the alarm increased in Hero’s eyes. His grip on her wrist loosened but he refused to let go. “You can’t just—”

“Take care of them, Hero. You promised.”

Hero’s eyes widened. “Claire—”

The shimmer fell inward and absorbed him. There was a snap, a rush of air. It tingled over her skin, replacing the pressure of Hero’s hand with a lick of sharp static.

Silence. She became aware of the sound of harsh breathing. Sharp, staccato gasps of air. She realized it was hers.

The passage suddenly felt too dark, too small, and her vision wobbled. The cake was still splayed on the earth at her feet. She made to pick it up, but instead found the stone scraping harshly at her spine as she slid down the wall. She did not cry. Heat stung her eyes, and she stared sightlessly at the chocolate frosting smudging her fingers.

And Claire was alone.

THE IWL WAS NOT a gentle process.

It did not ask, did not offer; it retrieved . So Brevity expected an annoyed book when she’d summoned him. She expected a haughty, insulted, snarky book.

Brevity had not expected a train wreck of grief and fury.

Hero had barely materialized from the summons when he gave a half-inhuman snarl, he spun, and Brevity found herself against the opposite shelves with a hand at her collar.

His eyes were narrowed, and his face wore an unfamiliar expression of pain. “You had no right!”

This was not how an IWL request went when Claire did it. Brevity bit down on her frustration and summoned as much authority as she could with books between her shoulder blades. “I am a librarian, and you are under—” But Hero cut her off, with more growl than words.

“You left her .”

That trembly feeling threatened in her chest again, alarm laced with panic, but Brevity held on. “The boss will be fine. She always is. We, on the other hand, are in trouble .”

Hero finally took note of the thundering beneath his feet. It’d only gotten worse, now accompanied by a distant warning creak. He released his grip and stepped back. Not all of the anger drained from his face, but his shoulders thrummed with new tension. “You may be correct. But Claire’s trapped. You need to send me back.”

“What? What happened?” Brevity faltered and noted for the first time Hero’s state of disarray, the fine layer of dust and sand and regret. Her eyes widened, but the walls shuddered again, and she shook her head. “Explain on the way.”

By the time Hero had sketched a quick outline of what had occurred in Malta and beyond, Brevity had led him through the center of the Library. She paused to rescue fallen books and grab scabbards from armor displays, shoving them into Hero’s arms as he talked.

The little hope that she’d possessed began to drift as he got further into the story. When Hero recounted Leto’s sacrifice, the hope had guttered entirely. When Hero sank into his own concerns about Claire and the labyrinth, Brevity latched onto the one thing she didn’t need hope for.

“Boss will find a way. She’s a real librarian, not—” Brevity stopped, squeezing her eyes shut against where that thought was going. When she opened them, she could feel the certainty in her own voice. “Boss isn’t gonna be stopped by nothing.”

“You didn’t see that place.” Hero’s free hand jerked through his hair and betrayed his anxiety. “Just send me back, and I’ll relay the situation—”

“I can’t.”

Hero stopped, nearly dropping the stack of sheathed blades in his arms. “What?”