The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel)

by Genevieve Cogman

  Without his active guidance, his men all reacted on instinct, turning towards this new threat. Irene saw them raising their guns towards the balcony and could only pray that Catherine—for who else could that have been?—had the sense to stay down.

  Time for her own plan. “Books, hit the men!” she shouted at the top of her voice in tones intended to carry through the building. She dropped to the floor, covering her head with her arms.

  She might not be able to see, but she could hear the crashing and shouts as every book within range of her voice threw itself at a man. The crossfire on the ground floor was particularly heavy, and several volumes ricocheted painfully off her. It was only when the noise stopped that she lowered her arms and looked around.

  Nobody was moving. Well, nobody except for her. Good. Irene headed for Lord Guantes, who lay sprawled motionless, and rolled him over onto his front. She used his elegant silk scarf to tie his hands behind his back. “Catherine, come on down!” she called.

  She heard the girl’s footsteps on the stairs as she went through Lord Guantes’s pockets. He had a bulging wallet, which she tucked into her coat for later investigation. More interestingly, he also carried a highly ornate pocket-watch that made her fingers tingle when she touched it.

  “I know you said I was supposed to hide,” Catherine said, her steps slowing as she approached, “but I couldn’t just . . . keep my head down.”

  “Well done—you did a good job,” Irene answered. It would have been totally unfair to complain that Lord Guantes had fallen for her string of lies and Catherine had messed it all up.

  “I saw he was trying to do the thing to you.” Catherine waved her fingers dramatically, suggesting magical influence. “I had to help.”

  “I appreciate it. You provided the perfect distraction. Even though I’m not sure whether your archetypal librarian would have done the same . . .”

  “I think there may be lots of different types of librarian,” Catherine said thoughtfully. She had the air of someone who’d seen a whole new range of possibilities and found she liked them more than she’d expected. “There’s the sharing librarian, and the motherly librarian, and the spinster librarian, and the archivist librarian, and the adventurous librarian like you—there’s nothing that says I can’t be a murderous librarian.”

  “True enough,” Irene had to admit.

  “And I only dropped one book. Not every single book within earshot.”

  Irene didn’t need the reminder. She was feeling guilty enough about what she’d done to those books. “Point taken,” she said shortly. “Let’s just agree that you hit him where it hurts and leave it at that.”

  “Er . . . is he dead?”

  “He’s breathing but unconscious. There may be a skull fracture—I can’t tell. At any rate, he’s not a threat for the moment.”

  Irene steeled herself and flipped open the pocket-watch, half expecting some backlash. Instead of the usual mechanisms, it contained a needle, rather like that of a compass. This was centred above a circular piece of paper, inscribed with Irene’s own name in the Language. There were much smaller markings all around the rim—she couldn’t guess their purpose. The needle pointed directly at Irene.

  “Let’s test this,” she said, passing it to Catherine and rubbing her fingers against her skirt to banish that odd tingling. She took a few steps to the right, circling the Fae, and could see the needle swivelling to track her.

  “This looks useful,” Catherine said with unwanted enthusiasm. “Can I keep it?”

  “No,” Irene said, hastily taking it back. That was her name in the Language. Which meant—another Librarian must have supplied it. But who? And how? Her fears mocked her. Did she honestly expect the person who wrote this to sign their name on the back?

  Of course, it never hurt to check.

  She worked a fingernail under the piece of paper, easing it away from its metal backing and up towards the needle until she could see its back. There was something scribbled on the other side—in English, not the Language. She tilted it for a better view.

  Triumph abruptly turned to a cold terror that clamped around her heart and dried up her throat. Ray, the writing read.

  “Irene?” Catherine was right next to her, grabbing at her elbow. “Are you okay? Did it do something to you?”

  Breathe, Irene told herself. Breathe and get through this one moment at a time. “It says ‘Ray,’” she told Catherine, her voice the only sound in the silent Collection. “That was the name my parents gave me. A nickname. A private name. There’s only one person, besides them, who’d know it.”

  Alberich.

  Now Lord Guantes’s words from their previous encounter made sense—he’d mentioned “the man behind the Professor,” who wanted her personally. An enemy she’d thwarted twice now, both times nearly at the cost of her and her friends’ lives. And now she was holding this token of his malice, a way for Lord Guantes to track her down . . .

  Irene bit her lip hard. Panic could come later. She had to get a grip on herself—and on the situation. “We’ll hand Lord Guantes over to Vale and the police,” she said, tucking the compass into an inner pocket, “and then—”

  Someone outside knocked firmly on the library’s exterior door.

  Irene realized that the building’s interior, strewn with books and bodies, might attract undue attention. “I’ll get that,” she ordered. “Stay back for the moment.”

  The short vestibule leading to the main doors would appear comparatively normal: there had been no men in the vicinity, so no one for the books there to target. She carefully slid open the small Judas window to look onto the street.

  Lady Guantes was standing there, backed by a dozen more men. “Miss Winters,” she said briskly. “My husband is in there. Will you bring him out to me, or shall I come in and get him?”

  CHAPTER 15

  An endless stream of borrowers today,” Irene muttered. The danger helped her to focus. Alberich was a huge—and terrifying—problem. But Lady Guantes was right in front of her and suddenly seemed an almost welcome distraction.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry—I didn’t think of you or your husband as regular library patrons, and yet here you both are.” Irene was deeply grateful for the solid door between them. Lady Guantes was not one to waste time gloating. She was a practical woman who believed in disposing of enemies on the spot with overwhelming force.

  Irene peered out of the corner of the Judas window, wanting to present as small a target as possible. Lady Guantes was dressed in the height of this London’s fashion. Her finery included hat and veil, midnight-blue velvet cape, and a matching silk dress. Her signature gloves were of exactly the same pattern as her husband’s. How sweet, Irene thought caustically. Her dark hair was coiled into a bun, and although she was smiling pleasantly, her eyes were cold. The men behind her were more varied than Lord Guantes’s strangely synchronised minions. One hefted a mysterious crate, and all of them seemed to be carrying potentially lethal weapons under their bulky overcoats. (Irene was guessing about the weapons’ lethal qualities, but given how the day was going, it seemed wildly optimistic to assume anything else.)

  Lady Guantes spread her hands self-deprecatingly. “Miss Winters, I’m unarmed. May I come in?”

  “Come on,” Irene said wearily. “That wouldn’t have worked the first time I met you. It’s certainly not going to work now.”

  “You’re sounding rather hostile,” Lady Guantes noted. “Have you been overstressed lately?”

  “Your husband’s assassination attempts have been quite stressful, yes. So the door remains closed.”

  “I do understand. But I have fresh intelligence which might just change your mind . . .” Lady Guantes seemed to come into focus suddenly, as though a camera lens had tightened its perspective around her, or a sunbeam had haloed her in light. “I’m prepared to declare
a temporary truce, Miss Winters: I’ll even give you my word.”

  Now, that was interesting. Lady Guantes would phrase any promise to her advantage, of course, but Irene had played that game before. And Fae promises were binding.

  “What’s going on?” Catherine called nervously.

  “Negotiations,” Irene answered. She turned back to the window. “All right. What are your terms?”

  “I’ll enter,” Lady Guantes said. “You’ll refrain from taking action against me. My men and I will refrain from action against you and your allies. After we’ve talked, you’ll return my husband, and my men and I will leave—rather than launching the attack we have planned. Then I will leave you and yours unmolested for the rest of the day. I swear this by my name and power.”

  Irene considered. It sounded reasonable—but then, Fae bargains always did. “What if you’ve already ordered your men to take action?”

  Lady Guantes sighed. “I suppose I should expect a linguist to be pedantic. I give you my word that, if you agree to this truce, my men will not be a threat to you or yours for the rest of today.” She paused. “Calling for the police to save you won’t work either. We’ve planned for that.”

  Irene’s brain whirled with options. But she and Catherine were completely outnumbered here. She took a deep breath. “I agree to your terms,” she said, “but give me a moment to disable the door alarm.”

  “One minute,” Lady Guantes said, tapping her watch.

  Irene slid the window shut and ran to where Catherine stood over the bound Lord Guantes—fortunately out of Lady Guantes’s line of sight. “Get behind the counter,” she said briefly, indicating the receptionists’ barrier along one wall. Irene scooped up one of the minions’ dropped guns as Catherine concealed herself, and then she hurried back. “I’m about to open the door,” she called.

  “I’m waiting,” Lady Guantes answered composedly.

  When she entered, she glanced at Irene’s gun with an air of mild disdain. “I thought you were above the need for such things.”

  “Needs must.” Irene frowned as the men began to follow Lady Guantes inside. “Wait. I’m not sure I want them in here too.”

  “Well, they can’t stand around on the street. People will talk. Either you trust me to be bound by my word and not attack you, or you don’t. Make up your mind.”

  Irene had a horrible feeling that she’d overlooked something crucial. But Lady Guantes was right—either she trusted the Fae, or she should have kept the door shut. “Very well,” she said, leading the way and feeling the back of her neck itch with every step.

  Irene came to a stop next to the unconscious Lord Guantes. “Do you want to check his condition?” she asked.

  “I can see that he’s breathing,” Lady Guantes replied. “Anything else can be handled by a doctor. Now, let’s talk like reasonable women.”

  “I’ll come to the point straight off, then,” Irene began. “These attacks against me and my allies are inconvenient. What would it take for you to call them off?”

  Lady Guantes smiled. “Your surrender to me. I would also require the surrender of the young dragon and the detective.”

  “So, death or . . . slavery?” Irene said. “That’s not much of a choice.” Lady Guantes’s choice of words had been very specific too. She’d only referred to herself in this bargain. There was no mention of Lord Guantes—or Alberich—neither of whom would be covered by any bargain made by Lady Guantes.

  “If you don’t surrender, a great many people could die.” The two of them faced each other over the body at their feet. “Even if you don’t care for the inhabitants of this world, your detective friend does. Perhaps I should make my offer to him? He’s the sort who would sacrifice himself for the things he cares about.”

  Irene raised an eyebrow. “And we wouldn’t, madam?”

  “Oh, we’re both too practical. We’d far rather sacrifice others instead.” There was something dreadfully casual about her manner. For her, it wasn’t a question of whom she’d sacrifice or how many, but simply a case of organizing the logistics.

  “There will be extremely serious consequences—for you—if you pursue this vendetta. Kai and I have been nominated to oversee the dragon-Fae treaty. If you attack us, you’ll make very powerful enemies.”

  “You’re assuming I care about your patrons,” Lady Guantes said. “There are others out there who’d reward me handsomely for disrupting your treaty. On both sides.”

  Unfortunately true, Irene knew. “But are these risks really worth taking? When you could just as easily work with us, rather than against?”

  Lady Guantes looked briefly dumbfounded—and then she actually laughed. “Miss Winters, are you seriously trying to recruit me? To employ me?”

  “Look on it as a compliment,” Irene said. “It means I recognize your abilities.” She didn’t hold out much hope of Lady Guantes accepting, though—not if Alberich really was the Guanteses’ secretive patron.

  “I’m genuinely flattered. It doesn’t change anything—but I am flattered.”

  “But no?”

  “But no.”

  “Where do we go from here, then?” Irene pressed. “If you keep on doing this much damage, you’ll have the authorities after you.” A thought struck Irene. “I’d assumed Lord Guantes was the Professor. Should I be pointing the police towards you, instead?”

  Lady Guantes ignored Irene’s conjecture. “I can avoid the authorities for longer than you can avoid me. But maybe there is something else you could offer me, to avoid this . . . impasse.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Another Librarian. Alive, of course, and not in a condition to fight back.”

  Irene’s eyes widened. As if she’d hand over another Librarian—one of her own brothers and sisters—to whatever fate Lady Guantes might have in mind. And if Alberich was the Fae’s evil genius, why would he want a Librarian? She didn’t want to speculate about that. “No. Non-negotiable,” she said, and heard the ice in her voice.

  “Such a pity. It would have kept you safe.”

  “The answer, madam, is still no.”

  “Very well. Then our conversation is over.”

  “Aren’t you going to threaten me?” Irene asked.

  “Miss Winters, if you don’t already feel threatened, I’m not doing my job properly.”

  “Oh, I absolutely do,” Irene assured her. “Ultimately, though, is it worth all this effort to get revenge for me killing your husband? After all, he seems to have—survived somehow?”

  Lady Guantes considered, a pensive look on her face. “Some people would say it was worth it.”

  “Would you?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t. You’re correct about that, Miss Winters. You may congratulate yourself.”

  “Then what do you get out of all this?”

  Lady Guantes looked down at her unconscious husband. “I could say we’ll gain power, if we destabilize your precious treaty. And rewards from our patron, but ultimately . . . Would you believe that I’m doing all this for my husband’s sake?”

  Irene tried to parse that statement. “You’re pursuing revenge because Lord Guantes wants you to?” No, Lady Guantes made her own decisions. “Or—pursuing power to help him somehow?”

  Lady Guantes clicked her tongue. “Now that’s what I get for rattling on. My dear husband always said that was his speciality, and he was absolutely right.”

  A breath of ice crawled up Irene’s spine. “You used the past tense.”

  “You’re an observant woman, Miss Winters.” Lady Guantes slid a hand beneath her coat and brought out a small, sleek pistol. “You may wish to observe this.”

  Irene had seen a Fae try to break his word once before, with disastrous results. Lady Guantes was far too savvy to risk the same, so Irene refrained from fleeing for cover. “We have a sworn truce,” she said.
And only she would have spotted the catch in her voice.

  “Indeed we do.” Lady Guantes levelled the pistol instead at her husband’s unconscious body and fired. It was a neat, precise shot. He jerked, then went still again, and a pool of blood began to spread around him. His breath rattled in his throat, then stopped.

  Irene should have reacted—she knew she should be reacting—but sheer astonishment held her frozen. “You just killed . . . your husband,” she said. That was the last thing she’d thought Lady Guantes would ever do. Could ever do.

  “Which means he’s no longer your hostage, you can’t return him to me, and our truce is over. Now.”

  Her tone didn’t change, but her men took her order for the signal it was. The two at the front ran forward, pulling masks over their faces and glass bottles from their coats. Irene was confused until they smashed them to the ground beside her, releasing a wave of gas. Lady Guantes had moved back and was now pulling on a mask of her own.

  Irene couldn’t escape the fumes that came boiling up from the smashed glass, and the vapour moved faster than she could form the Language. Her whole body shook from coughing so violently that she couldn’t speak, and tears streamed from her burning eyes, blinding her. Her skin itched where the gas had touched it—hands, face, neck—and her nose was running as if she’d been hit by pneumonia and hay-fever together.

  Half her mind was raging at her for getting so close to an enemy who she knew was trying to kill her. The more practical part was focused on survival. She still had a gun in her hand. And as Lady Guantes had confirmed, the truce was over.

  Irene raised her weapon as she backed away, and fired. She couldn’t see where she was shooting, but Lady Guantes had been in front of her. She heard at least one shot ricochet off stone—but maybe the others hit something. She tried to remember how many bullets the gun held, and wished there were more.