by A J Hackwith
Rami frowned. “I thought you were to rest—”
“And I shall. But first, I just have one small errand.” And Hero forced his aching feet to walk straight and true, out of the Library.
23
CLAIRE
The story and the storyteller are never far apart, in my experience. Authors and their books maintain a relationship that is the best and the worst of us.
Once a book is out in the world, the author pretends to let go. Stories, after all, are for the people who need to hear them. We have to let go of a story, give up the reins, when we ask it to be read. We pretend it’s like making any other product, bread for the hungry or coats for the cold. But what no author admits is that it’s not like that at all. Stories are not made of flour or wool. Stories, real stories, are made with a sliver of yourself.
The purpose for stories is what readers will make of them. But the reason, the desperate need, is a splinter in the author alone. A good story gets under your skin, because that’s where all good stories start.
Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1313 CE
IT WAS A HABIT of the Library to keep count of days in a mortal fashion. Hell had nothing so simple or precious as sunrises and sunsets, but it felt late when Claire finally looked up from her reading. She’d found a dusty historical in the back of Andras’s cluttered shelves. Some sixteenth-century creation that appeared to confuse demonic summonses and keys of Solomon and faerie poppets, of all things, into one volume of nonsense. However, it must have had a grain of truth, powerful truth, to end up down in the Arcane Wing. Claire had set herself about finding it, on the off chance it related to the ink.
Reading garbled conspiracy theories by long-dead Scotsmen; this was how far Claire had fallen. But the ink held no answers, Walter had no answers, and the Library shunned her. As tragic as it was, this was the best lead she had in the time left.
The shimmer of blue itched above the curve of her arm. It had thinned to no more than a width of fine yarn, and frayed to scratchy, twitching threads. Claire rubbed an idle hand over it, but it did nothing to quell the itch or the hourglass running empty in her mind. The border on her skin was growing more distinct, ink-stained skin south of the line chill, with a dry clamminess that its northern counterpart didn’t have.
The wing was quiet, and grit had worked its way behind her eyeballs. She rubbed over her face furiously before startling as the door gave a labored groan. Hero appeared hesitantly in the gap, looking slyer—or perhaps shyer—than usual.
“Warden? Are you about?”
“Where else would I be?” Claire called, and glanced once at the page to mentally mark the place she’d left off. Hero was nothing if not a reliable distraction.
Hero closed the door behind him, pulling another creak from the hinges, which made every one of Bird’s feathers puff as she cracked open one beady eye. Claire fluttered her hand, forcing Bird off the table and clearing a space as Hero approached at a slower pace than normal. He favored the instep of his right leg and tried to hide it with a lazy stroll.
He paused to trade one sour look for another with Bird, then precisely pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table from the raven. “Another book? I would have thought you’d read everything in here three times over already.”
“Some books give up more on closer read,” Claire said, not bothering to explain her desperation as she carefully closed the old book on her lap. “How’s the foot?”
“Handsomely turned, as always,” Hero scoffed, and wiggled his ankle, mostly hiding his grimace. “It did no lasting harm.”
Meaning, Claire read with familiarity, he was injured and in pain but willing to ignore such problems until they went away. She nodded, having no room to speak on the denial of injuries. She allowed a streak of her usual reserve back into her voice. “I hope Brevity talked some sense into you.”
“Brevity . . . yes . . .” Hero paused, fishing his gaze around the room before shrugging off a not-quite-response. “Surely you know that would be a lost cause.”
“Entirely.” Claire put her book down and crossed her arms. “So, what do you want?”
“Want?” Hero’s theatrics were so familiar that when he put a hand to his chest, a disconcerting warmth rose through Claire’s. “Perhaps this is simply a social call to express gratitude.”
“If you thanked me every time I stitched you or your book up, I’d never be rid of you.”
“Said as if you wouldn’t miss me terribly.”
An answering smile pulled at Claire’s mouth, though she stifled it. A smug expression told her Hero had picked it up anyway. “Said as a hypothetical because yet again here you are. But not to thank me.”
Hero, reliably, appeared to change the subject. His gaze drifted to the thin cotton gloves on Claire’s hands. A shadowy wash of black and a thin line of blue were just visible below her right elbow. “I didn’t have time to ask earlier. How is it holding up?”
Claire followed his gaze, and the back of her knuckles itched. She tugged at the long cuff of her glove carefully until the stain was covered. “Unremarkable, if you’d believe it. A tight feeling, now and then, like the skin is chapped, but nothing that warrants complaint.”
Nothing physical, she silently amended. She did not mention the whispers, the dream of Beatrice, the filter of colors that filled every shadow. The cold slowly settling into her stained skin went unsaid. She definitely didn’t mention the phantom visit from the every-person. If Hero was allowed to play at health, then so was Claire. It only seemed fair.
“Fascinating.” Hero hummed to himself as he craned over the table as if Claire’s hand was some kind of intriguing bug. But a small nit of worry was a strange fit between his brows. “It’s growing, though.”
“Is it? It must be too slow to even notice,” Claire evaded, not quite meeting Hero’s eyes. What Walter had said—or not wanted to say—was not reassuring. But there was no reason to worry the rest of them with fates that might or might not be inevitable. “I haven’t noticed a change. No cause for concern.”
“Is that so.” Hero’s eyes narrowed, and if he noticed how the thick blue-gold line around her arm had thinned from a wide band to a thin ribbon, he didn’t say so. “It’s an interesting experiment, at least—and I’ve come with a comparison study.”
He was attempting to sound aloof but hadn’t quite contained the way his fingers drummed on top of the table nervously as he did it. Claire’s stomach swooped at the proposal of another experiment, but it was obvious he was about to propose something important. “Really?” Claire put away her book and crossed her arms. “Well then, do continue, scholar Hero.”
“Simple. Considering how little we know about this ink, comparisons are in order.”
Claire rubbed her temple. “I’ve already tested the ink thoroughly, Hero.”
“Not compare the ink—compare the material. It certainly had an enthusiastic reaction before. So it only makes sense that we should try this mystery substance against as many materials as possible to discern its nature.”
“To discern its nature,” Claire repeated, amused. It wasn’t often that Hero tried to cover up his own concerns with anything other than grand arrogance. It was endearing, if endearment could be highly suspicious. “We’ve already tried it against paper and, inadvertently I’ll admit, librarian skin. What else do you propose?”
“My book. Try the ink on my book,” Hero said. “See if it can do what my own ink can’t.”
“What?” Claire recoiled, and all her humor fled her. “Have you taken leave of your senses? You saw what the ink does to a book!”
“To a logbook. An artifact solely of the Library, not an unwritten book that was meant to be made real.”
“I don’t see how that makes a difference.”
“And I don’t see how we have the time to debate it!” Hero had dropped his intellectual air. He braced
his arms over the table as if it was all that held him up. “I think it makes all the difference in the world. What is an unwritten book, Claire? What’s it made of? Where’s it come from? Where do I come from?”
“What a silly question. That’s—” Claire’s mouth started working before she could quite come up with an answer. He’d come to her for answers. Her insides churned. “Well, stories come from their authors, of course—”
“It’s more than that,” Hero interrupted, pushing away from the table. He raked a vicious hand through his hair. “I admit it; I took this recent investigation as an excuse to get out of the Library, but also to find answers. But all we came back with were more questions! Everyone talks about the books of the Library as some sacred thing. The books must be preserved. The books are immortal, the letter said, but why? None of the artifacts in the Arcane Wing are. We destroyed enough baubles fighting Andras to prove that. And why Hell? Why are we here, in this realm of all places?”
Claire felt lost in the torrent. It wasn’t just questions; it was the obvious agony of not knowing. Hero’s face echoed the blinding panic that had taken over her every moment since the ink had appeared. She couldn’t face it, so instead she looked down as she shook her head. “None of that has anything to do with this ink business—”
“It has everything to do with it.” Hero’s shoulders had wound up to his ears. “I can feel it. That ink is kin, Claire. Or as near to it as books get. You said yourself, you thought the ink had pulled back from hurting Rosia! I’m a character, as much as she is. I know it won’t reject me.”
“Like your own story did?”
Hero stopped, tight as a wound spring and trembling with a warning kind of tension. “Don’t.”
Once, Claire might have persisted. That Claire had hurt a lot of people. She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. But there’s no way, Hero. It’s too big a risk.”
“It’s the only risk that’s going to lead to answers. We need answers. We’re running out of time.” Certainty straightened Hero’s shoulders. “You can peer at that ink under a microscope all you want—and knowing you, you have. But you’re never going to understand it from the outside. Ink isn’t made for a bottle. It’s made for . . . me.”
“We don’t know that, Hero.”
“I do.” Hero took a small step. He hesitated only a moment before raising and placing his hands on Claire’s shoulders. “I can’t go back to my book. That’s all I know. And it’s going to slowly drive me mad not knowing if I ever will.”
A bramble of distress tangled in Claire’s throat. It felt like loss, and it felt like fear. “You’re really that determined to leave us? Leave the Library, I mean. What about Rami?”
Hero’s lip twitched as if he’d been stung. “Don’t you mean what about me, Claire?” He made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Jealous?”
A laugh, exhausted and inappropriate, bubbled past Claire’s messier emotions. Hero’s surprised blink only made her chuckle again, and feel infinitely tired. “No, not jealous, Hero. Selfishly sad, maybe. But not jealous. You heard me before. I can’t be to you what Rami is. Or what he could be if you allowed him.”
Hero looked caught between insult and vulnerability. His hands flinched back abruptly. “Ha, I don’t know what you’re even talking—”
“Yes, you do. And so does Rami. So be gentle with him.”
“I—” Hero stopped and studied the floor, the pale skin beneath his long lashes slowly turning as red as his cheeks. “That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what?”
Claire wavered, and Hero pressed on ahead. “This ink is the answer, Claire. I know it. You know it. Help me do this.”
Claire’s breath caught, then snagged on a question. “Why me?”
Hero blinked. “Why? Well, of course you, since you have possession of the ink in question—”
“Do the others know about your idea? Does Rami?”
Hero was not quick enough to hide the guilt that wrung across his features.
Claire nodded. “You rotten creature, with your talk of feelings earlier. Yet you have snuck down here precisely when you knew our overprotective guardian angel would be out.”
“Hardly! As if I care one whit what that tedious man thinks of me. I simply was trying to avoid what would surely be an exhausting explanation of my logic and having to endure the subsequent dramatic objection and . . .” Hero stopped his huffing, cheeks a little flushed. “You said it yourself: he’s overprotective.”
“Right. And you look to me to play your villain, again.”
“You’ve never been my villain, Claire.” Hero risked a look at her. “I’ve been yours. I don’t want to be. I’m—I’m trying to help. Help me get us answers.”
“Help.” Her chair creaked as Claire leaned back with the full weight of her skepticism. “And what do you think he’s going to do when he finds out you went behind his back and I helped you?”
“Nothing,” Hero said as if stating the obvious. “He worships you.”
“He . . .” Claire’s stomach did a small revolution of wrongness, and she marveled at how it flipped around a small burst of warmth. “No, he doesn’t. He’s a literal divine being. That’s grotesque.”
“I’m not going to quibble about definitions with you. He admires you, then. With great depth of affection,” Hero conceded with a shrug of his shoulders.
Claire closed her eyes and groaned at the rafters. “Hell and harpies, no one is that stupid, even in Hell.”
“Absolutely no one at all,” Hero agreed, with a small curious smile that grew soft at the edges. “Will you help?”
The whole conversation had her off-kilter. Claire suspected that was Hero’s intent, but her resolve was crumbling all the same. “Promise me one thing: this isn’t you running away.”
Running away from the Library. From Rami. From her.
Hero shook his head. “It’s not.”
“Lying is not becoming, Hero.” Claire studied her hands. “Not that you care what I think.”
The floorboards creaked. “Don’t I? Lying is not becoming, Claire,” Hero repeated lowly. He waited until she raised her eyes, trading her a shy smile before plowing on in a rush. “I want to stay. I haven’t had a thought about running away or even returning to my story in ages. I want to stay more than anything. But . . . I need a choice. No one will believe—Rami and you won’t; the damsels won’t—no one will believe I am here to stay. None of that will ever really matter until I have a choice. I need to choose to stay here, warden. And I can’t do that with a book that rejects me.” Hero held her eyes steadily. “This is the opposite of running away. You have to believe me when I say that.”
She did. She hated it most when she understood him as completely as her own reflection. Each of them represented the greatest injustice of their lives to each other. Hero, the books Claire had never gotten to write, the failure that had punished her to Hell, and the betrayal that had left her alone. Likewise, Claire was the librarian who kept books quiet, and one of the human authors every book turned to like sunlight. It wasn’t easy, making peace with the wound inside your heart, but she and Hero had managed, in their own halting ways.
Help had been a foreign concept between them once. They’d started out hunter and hunted, librarian and book, but even after she and Hero had come to some kind of accord, what they’d done for each other had never been help. It’d been a simple alignment of priorities, happening to point their shared rage in the same direction, instead of at each other. It’d taken the deaths of hundreds, damsels and books, to cement their places at each other’s side. She couldn’t be to Hero what Rami was, but that didn’t make what they were any less important. What Hero was to her required a harder word than “friendship,” a word with teeth. Family. Hers.
He couldn’t be hers. But there it was: he was hers, and Brevity was hers and Rami was hers and
no matter how tightly Claire held on, she felt like she was losing them all. It made a kind of sense, an aching kind of sense, to try loosening her grip. Maybe she owed him that much.
Hero was staring at her. The emerald in his eyes was closer to malachite, dark and intense and gritty with a kind of vulnerability that obviously scared him. “Please, Claire,” he said again, softer.
Her resolve broke, and a rush of breath left her. “We can . . . try.” She bit her lip, almost snatching the words back before she shook her head resolutely. “Okay. We can try. I don’t believe this will work, but I’ll help.”
Hero took a sharp breath, snagged on the apex of surprise. He went pale with it before color flushed back into his cheeks. Claire was idly amazed at how much she’d learned the tells of Hero’s emotions. He nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Thank me.” Claire began to clear her work surface, adjusting the light. “You’ve already asked for help. And said ‘please.’ I don’t think my poor mortal heart can take it.” She risked a glance at him with a surprised smile. “Your adventure with Rami has changed you.”
Hero sniffed. “Change? Me? Never. I am constant as the sun.”
“And just as insufferable.” Claire patted the tabletop. “Get your book out and press back the pages like I showed you. I’ll go see if I can coax the ink into a nib. I still hold that this is the worst idea.”
She was halfway to the shelves when Hero muttered, barely audibly, “All our best options usually are.”
24
BREVITY
There’s been a political fracas here in Hell. Suddenly, the Arcanist is a new demon by the name of Andras. He is polite, generous with his time, and professional to a fault. I don’t like him.
