A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Leto appeared ready to pounce at the opening. “I hated myself so much I hurt innocent people and it sucked . I’m… I’m not doing that again. How about you?”

They were approaching the processing desk. Rami slowed as he saw his replacement noticing him. The cherub was an eager sort and tipped his head respectfully. Rami’s eyes slid past the desk to the guards at the Gate, then to the high tower, where he knew Uriel’s office was.

Leto was bound for Heaven, but Uriel would detain him first for information. And what would Uriel do to a spirited, distinctly uncooperative soul like Leto?

Chances were that Rami wouldn’t even be able to get them into Hell. His old access had likely long since been revoked. Even if he did… Heaven was invading Hell anyway.

That was all he was doing, Rami reasoned, even as a different decision began to take root. He pushed it aside and tugged Leto around to head back down the hill, away from the eyes of judgmental guards and eager upstarts.

“You’re purified, and I’m not rescuing you again. If I agree to this, there are going to be some ground rules.”

CLAIRE WALKED.

After Hero had left she’d stayed there for a time, staring at the walls, not quite seeing anything while the shadows lengthened. She didn’t know how much time she’d lost. Even with the ruthless sun progressing in the sky, time had a way of shifting and skittering out of her grasp.

Her body ached from the cold stone. In her chest there was a troublesome hollowness that grew and crowded her heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. But Claire won the argument with her body, and one foot in front of another, she walked.

She kept taking lefts. It seemed pointless to change their plan now… her plan now. Claire trailed one hand along the wall to keep her path straight and her mind from drifting.

She had all the time in the world to drift now. It was hard not to follow the thoughts. Brevity would not have resorted to the IWL unless something dire had happened. Andras had the pages, and Andras wanted the Library. There was a faint hope that Hero could assist and they could hold out long enough.

Long enough for what, though? Claire was lost in a dead-end world. Beatrice and Leto were gone. But what bothered her most was that Andras could have gone this far without Hell noticing. It wasn’t possible. Lucifer and all his generals were too powerful, too paranoid for that. Either Andras had bested all of them in his scheming or… Lucifer had allowed it. The Library had become part of the game.

Claire had always been aware that the Library and its books were pawns. Andras himself had taught her enough about the intrigues and deadly maneuvers the demons made in Hell’s court, but she’d never imagined the Library was a pawn Lucifer paid attention to.

Andras had paid attention. Claire knew there was more to the Library than her literary ghosts. Some demons came to read, either out of curiosity or to understand the genuine magic of human imagination. But she also knew there were demons that ate dreams instead, consumed them and extracted pleasure and power from the destruction. Obviously, the Library was kept apart from the rest of Hell for just that reason.

Lucifer had to know. He had to know about Andras’s goal. There were too many coincidences. Perhaps he planned to sweep in when they were all dead and start over. She’d read the histories. She knew Lucifer had used purges to quell uprisings in his realm before. She knew she wasn’t the first librarian.

She knew hers wasn’t the first Library in Hell.

But the books. The books couldn’t be purged. They most definitely could not be parceled up, doled out, and fed to the vile underbelly of Hell. She had to get back. Get back, get in control, somehow find a way to destroy a demon with the power of the words of Hell’s god, the Arcane Wing, and a legion of Horrors at his command. Just getting out of this blighted place would be a feat.

An exit, naturally, presented itself the next time she turned a corner and faced another dead end.

She was just about to let out a groan when she saw the arch. Wedged in the corner where two stone walls met, lost nearly in shadow, stood a darkened doorway. It was roughly the same shape and build as the one they’d encountered up the stairs, only the light was more muted. Lamplight, not sunlight.

“Oh, is it my turn now?” Claire muttered, wary of a trap. She brought her nose as near to the surface as she dared.

Lamplight and leather. Her breath snagged in her throat when she recognized it. Beatrice’s office was much as they’d left it, stacked with an aftermath of shuffled books and used teacups. Claire caught herself leaning forward, listening for footsteps. Even on this side of the arch, she could make out the distant sound of the Mdina streets that filtered in through the open window. It was night, the only light spilling from the desk lamp on Beatrice’s desk. Claire could just make out several bottles and plastic bags that hadn’t been there before. Hope clotted in her throat. If Beatrice had survived, she could be just out of frame. Stepping away to care for her injuries, or her book.

Her book. If the struggle with the Hellhounds had damaged her book, she’d need repairs. If it was damaged and poorly repaired, it could fall apart, stranding Beatrice outside her book or, worse, trapping her inside— Oh, no. Claire’s hand clapped at her side, where her bag of tools should have been. Her skin was tingling and somehow the arch had moved a breath away from her nose.

Claire jerked herself back and clamped one hand on top of the other. Heat stung her eyes. Bea. The thought was enough to twist a sharp pain through the numb despair in her chest. Her book could be just on the other side, hurt from ensuring their escape, dying, needing help.

She knew—she knew if she went through, if she found Beatrice, Hellhounds or not, she would not go back. One step and she could rest. One step and she could be accepted , loved, cared for. One step and all the rest of it could end.

She’d rejected the idea before, but it washed over her again in a way that she was too tired, too grieving to resist. The idea was strong: to rest, to stop, neither to run nor face her past.

Her eyes burned again from the powerful attraction of it. She’d felt the power of an easy escape before. When she’d said the god words that had banished Gregor.

So she said a different word instead.

“Fuck.”

The heels of her hands dug roughly into her eyes as she stumbled back. She ground them in until she saw stars. She screamed. “Fuck!”

She’d been looking for an exit, thinking of those left behind, and the labyrinth had presented her with what she desired. Like it had with Hero. But this wasn’t a temptation built on happiness; it was one built on despair. “Not again. I won’t. Not—”

A wordless rage tore at her throat. She flung one sneaker at the arch. The shoe sailed through the air before passing harmlessly through a shimmer of lamplight and disappearing. Not as satisfying as she needed. Claire let out a growl and flung the other shoe after for good measure.

The rage drained out of her just as quickly as it had come. “Sorry, Bea,” she muttered, then frowned down at her feet. “And now I’m barefoot again. Bloody fantastic.”