A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

They were deep in the bowels of the stacks, and the sounds of fighting were muted. The smoke had disappeared. Hopefully that meant Brevity had the fire damage under control. Claire edged around the demon. “Rubbish. You planned all this. I know what you did to Leto.”

Matthew. Claire cradled his real name in her chest, pressed under her heart. She wouldn’t forget it. She’d forgotten many things, but she would not forget Leto.

Andras tilted his head. He backed up a step and Claire followed, not willing to let him run again. “Finally put that together, did you? Frankly, I’d hoped you two would have that reunion sooner. You always were adopting strays, pup. I gave you a real one.”

“You killed him, and you think I should be grateful ?” Incredulity gave way to fury. Andras raised his blade in warning.

“The boy killed himself. I just greased the rails as a gift to you. I hoped having him around would make you happy. Soften you, make you more open to new opportunities. I needed you. I knew the codex was out there, but that damned city was warded. I needed a tracker, and a stubborn one. We could have worked together.”

Claire’s lip curled, though the disgust felt reserved for herself. So many deaths at her feet. Leto, the damsels and demons. Beatrice? No. Claire shook her head. “How in the world did I ever consider you a friend?”

Andras sounded sad. “You used me just as much. It’s what friends do.”

Andras hadn’t moved. He wasn’t retreating, but he wasn’t pressing his obvious advantage either. Claire frowned, risking a glance from him to the shelves and back. He traced her suspicion and his smile grew. He rested a possessive hand on a shelf. “Since we’re in the business of reunions today…”

Claire narrowed her eyes; then ice raced down her spine. The name was stamped in small gilded letters on the spines of the books under his fingers: CLAIRE JUNIPER HADLEY.

Her books.

She hadn’t realized they were so deep in the Library.

Her books were not part of the main collection. After what had happened with Beatrice, she’d gathered up all the unwritten books bearing her name and archived them in the most obscure corner of the Library, tucked them between books whose authors had died thousands of years ago. She’d told herself it wasn’t for herself but for the books. Beyond her temptation, surrounded by ancient and satisfactorily sleeping books. She allowed herself to pretend it was merely a side benefit that she never had to be reminded of her past failures.

Even now the temptation was still there. Her hands itched, ached to reach out to touch, to thumb over the pages. She might have forgotten so much of her past life, but her stories—the stories never faded. Unspent words stayed, like ink in the blood. She felt cold and hot at once, hollow with the ghosts she carried.

Andras watched her reaction with growing pity. “I always do my research. It took some time for my men to find where you’d tucked them. I thought I taught you better, Claire. The first rule of the game is a simple one: never keep a secret that can be used against you.”

Claire’s mouth felt dry. She dragged her eyes away from the shelves. “Funny words for a creature that does nothing but lie.”

“Two different beasts: deception and secrets. Deceptions are when you lie to others; secrets are when you lie to yourself.” Andras made an impatient motion, waving his blade over the shelves. “We could debate virtues all day, but I know you, pup. Shame to let such an impressive collection of books go to waste.”

The blade spun in his hand, and the black tip brushed against a green-bound book. It left a smear of ink: Hero’s blood. It gleamed wet for a moment before the ink ignited. Claire flinched and bit back a cry as black flames flared and the book fell to ash.

“Step down, Librarian,” Andras said.

There was a nib of leather in the ashes, a fleck of gold. Claire tried to turn away, but her gaze locked on a scrap of shadow drifting from the shelf. It was a portion of paper, entirely turned to ash but held together, for a breath of a moment, as if it hadn’t forgotten how to be a page. Darker striations of ash marched across the middle—the ink . She could almost make out a snippet of a paragraph, and the laconic, cold voice of the historian told her, from the back of her mind, that she would be the last soul to read these words. A sob hiccuped in her throat, and the puff of air was enough: the ash page dissolved between her outstretched fingers.

The destruction of a book was a shame, but the grief that suffocated her all at once wasn’t for a book. It was for people: like Hero, like Beatrice. God, she’d been every kind of fool. Her voice felt ash-choked. “I buried them because I wanted to forget them. Why would I care what you do?”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Andras turned a prospective gaze over Claire’s collection. “Which book do you think that was, now? A random adventure, a romance? Your one moment of genius? I’ve already met your idea of a hero—quite crude, by the way. So terse, so unlikable. Better that woman never got written. But I’m sure in one of these you dreamed up your ideal love too. Do you think you memorialized your beloved family somewhere, since you couldn’t be bothered to remember yourself? Is there a story there for your daughter? Perhaps this one.”

At a word, another book folded into char and soot.

“Just as well.” Andras tutted. “They obviously didn’t try to remember you.”

It wasn’t her forgotten daughter he was destroying, and Andras knew it. Her daughter was a human who had lived and grown old. Andras was killing the lives trapped between pages here, innocent lives. Lives that relied on the Library for protection.

“You can’t win, Andras.” Claire’s voice trembled. She breathed through her nose and it felt like screaming.

“Oh?” The blade paused in Andras’s hand. He tapped his bottom lip. “Do you think you’ll just wish me away, like you did Gregor? I’m a demon. Hell is my very nature. Your ‘words’ won’t work on me.”

“I won’t need them to stop you.” Claire swallowed. The fear stuck beneath her collarbone. “Your Horrors will be eliminated by Arlid’s ravens. I’ve turned your own wing’s collection against you. Lucifer is never going to grant you your title again after such a defeat. What can you hope to gain with this? You’re never a sadist without reason.”

“Call it a morbid curiosity to see just how much of your past you’ll ascribe to the fire. That’s what I liked best about you, Claire. You were so selfish , so human.” Andras’s gold gaze was bright as a coin and twice as greedy, but it wasn’t cold. It simmered with regret, which was worse. Claire caught the moment when he steeled himself for an act. “Did you ever wonder why I call you pup?”

“I assumed fatherly affection, but that’s obviously wrong.”

“When I found you, you were a whining puppy. Broken, grieving your silly books. Like a kicked dog. Would have rolled over and played dead for anyone. I took you in. I kept you safe.” His words curled, tipping over into a snarl. “You owe your station to me. You owe me this. I know you kept the scrap. Smart girl, but you burned that up getting in here, didn’t you? I admit I had to do a bit of the same. Tragedy, but I…” He patted one pocket. “I had just enough to spare. With the Uwritten Wing in hand, I can trade the rest of these for enough power to challenge Lucifer himself, if I so desire.”

“You can burn the Library, but you won’t possess it,” Claire said, and she blinked, realizing the truth of it. It gave her the strength to raise her chin. “Brevity and I will resist you with everything.”