by A J Hackwith
It was almost peaceful, if you didn’t know what you were looking at.
She’d been reading a book, pretending to read a book. There was a reason people read in corners. It was a room made of one. Spine curved, arms bracketed, and the remaining walls made of the reassuring weight of a book. A self-constructed universe, for as long as you needed it. Or as long as the story lasted.
Brevity isolated that thought with a meditative mood, which meant she noticed the troubled storm-cloud presence at the door before seeing him. “Rami?” Brevity unburied herself a little from the blanket. “What are you doing up here?”
“Claire and Hero are fine,” Rami reassured her, answering the unspoken question. He crossed the carpeted expanse of the lobby with that plodding kind of silence he used to mask his nature. Brevity couldn’t help but notice the books didn’t reach toward him. In fact, they withdrew a little, as if sensing the former angel’s purpose. “I left them asleep on the couch, though I’m fairly certain Hero was faking exhaustion merely to pin Claire in place. I came to see how you’re doing.”
There was reproach in his gentle tone. He was a natural sheepdog, with his need to keep them together. There were differences—Brevity knew something unique had knit between those three—but still, Brevity was firmly part of his flock. He didn’t approve of her coming back up to the Unwritten Wing alone instead of recuperating with the others.
She didn’t know quite how to explain that she needed it. Needed to be here. Needed to see, knowing what she knew now. She tilted her head back to eye the ceiling. It was about the only place not loaded with books and colors. “I feel like a three-day-old turd.”
The honesty was precisely calibrated for the grimace that appeared on Rami’s face. “All the more reason you should rest. There’s no lingering . . . ?”
His voice trailed off to an effective arrow that drew Brevity’s gaze back down to her lap. Her left arm had emerged out of the blankets enough to see it. She could almost still make out where the inspiration gilt had rested for years, leaving a paler cornflower line against her blue skin. But scrawled over the top was a new jagged line of pure black, rimmed by bone white skin. Brevity resisted the urge to touch it. It was faintly raised, like a scar. If Brevity paid too much attention to it, she could almost swear she felt it run with a pulse that was just slightly out of sync with her own.
She tucked her arm under the blanket again. “Whatever ink is left in that seems happy where it is.”
“The ink needed something to anchor to. It was the only solution I could think of,” Rami said apologetically.
“It was the best of our crappy options.” Brevity turned her attention back to the ceiling again. Had there always been a parquet inlay behind the arching beams? She could swear that was new. “It’s not like I hadn’t stolen it to begin with.”
“You cherished it, though. And you gave it up to save Claire.” He paused. “You gave up a lot.”
There were no cobwebs in the dark corners of the ceiling. That disappointed Brevity for some reason. Didn’t seem right to have a place this big and old without some spiders. Maybe if she thought about it hard enough the Library would let her have a spider or two.
“The muses were never going to take me back,” she said after a pause.
“But Probity would have.”
In anyone else, it would have been a cruel statement. But Rami had a way of lobbing the truth around without malice. He didn’t dance; he wasn’t discreet. Gifts of silence were for Claire; glib words were for Hero. Rami was for ripping the bandage off clean and acknowledging the wound with air and sunlight.
That didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Brevity chewed on her lip. “I wanted it. I wanted her to be right. I wanted . . .”
Rami let the sentence lie, unfinished, for a moment. A steadying weight came down as he touched her shoulder. “I know a little something of what it means to give up the idea of one home for the sake of another. I know what you did. And if you ever need to talk, I will listen.”
“I . . .” Brevity finally dragged her gaze away from the ceiling. There was no expectation in Rami’s serious face, just presence. Sometimes, simply being here was all the truth needed. Brevity nodded. “I’ll remember that. Not now, but . . . All the sacrifices, I’m not sure it mattered. What did it do but prolong things? Even the inspiration I had.” She made a vague gesture without looking at her arm again. “I gave it up, and now it’s back, and something else.”
Saying it almost made it worse. It was easier to imagine the black slivers racing up her forearm as something new, foreign. A bezoar to absorb the poison of the ink. Thinking of it too much made Brevity queasy, but of course, that was why Rami was there.
“Just as well. Muses can’t absorb humanity. That’s why the ink overwrote your companions instead.”
There was compassion in Rami’s voice, but an unflinching kind. Determined to see this through. Brevity rubbed her eyes and tried not to imagine she could see contorted black figures on the insides of her eyelids. “At least Claire was able to reverse Verve in the end.”
“I wish I could have done more.” Rami shook his head. “I have no idea how Claire survived that. There were too many, even for me. I could only release the bits of souls that were ready to let go.”
“Where do they go when they ‘let go’?” Brevity was fighting the urge to look back at the stacks, see if the books were listening. “If books and humans are made of the same soul stuff, where does a released book go? Did they all really just stay in the Dust Wing? Or go to Heaven? To their authors? Not all of them were dead yet.”
“I’m not wise enough to say. Perhaps where all stories go when they end. Claire might know.”
“Claire doesn’t know.” Saying it aloud felt like a betrayal, but it was true. She saw it the moment guilt crashed down across Claire’s face at the realization. She’d been making amends for her harsh treatment of characters like Hero, but realizing she’d been the jailer of unwilling souls . . .
But she hadn’t known, and as a result Brevity hadn’t known. Claire could be forgiven because of her lack of education—her mentor hadn’t shared everything in time—but Brevity? Brevity was a muse. She had ferried story stuff to and from humanity for decades. How could she not have realized what she was carrying?
Stories were made of soul stuff, fragmented and spurred from their human authors. Humans could create because they could birth little pieces of their souls to do it. Books existed in the afterlife, because the afterlife was a place of immutable things, including souls.
“This story’s not over, is it?” She hadn’t intended it to come out as a whisper, but the Library seemed to swallow up her words like a hollow prophecy. She cringed and finally risked a glance at Rami.
The Watcher angel always looked tired, shabby and rubbed thin around the edges, like an old worry stone. His brow knit, then smoothed. Little quakes of thought. “There’s got to be a reason the Library has kept the nature of stories secret for so long. If the Library contains fragments of souls, it is always going to be at risk of being used by its host realm.”
“Andras knew.” The realization hit Brevity hard, making her pulse race. His sharp teeth and mocking mask of a gentleman’s face. The smothering smell of burning books. “Andras knew; he knew the Library could be used. That’s why he wanted it.”
“He might have suspected, putting the pieces together like we did.” Rami considered for a brief moment before appearing to shrug off the memory of the demon as violently as he deserved. “No secret lasts forever, not in the afterlife. We should prepare for what will come when the nature of books is a known fact.”
“Great. More demons.”
“Not just demons,” Rami said. “Souls are the weave of all the realms. I don’t think any host realm could withstand the temptation of a library right at their doorstep.”
Not just the Unwritten Wing, the Library
. Brevity thought of Bjorn, his cozy clutter of scrolls and sagas in Valhalla. Of the stately poems of Duat. The longing letters of Elysium. The mad dead of the Dust Wing. The dull ache of Brevity’s self-pity burned abruptly away to make room for the holy terror of it all. “The entire Library’s in danger.”
Her breath was already coming fast, but Rami’s hand was on her shoulder like an anchor. He handed her the teacup she’d forgotten. The strawberry tea had long gone cold, but a gulp of it was astringent enough to force her thoughts in line. “Not if we make our own plans.”
“Everything’s changed.” Brevity was already shaking her head. “We’ve all changed. Look at us! I’m infected, Claire’s haunted, Hero . . . Who knows what Hero is!” She’d bitten her nails; when had she bitten her nails? Brevity dug her hands into her hair instead. “Verve is out there, and now Probity has got to know too. What are we doing?”
The silence rattled around Brevity’s head, chasing her already racing thoughts. Rami’s hand came away from her shoulder. When she looked up, he had his arms crossed. It made the feathers on his coat fluff up in a vaguely intimidating gesture. “You’re changing. That’s what happens.”
“In stories?” Brevity finished weakly.
“In life.” Rami looked flummoxed for a moment. “Almighty heavens. I’m not a book, or a writer, or a muse. I’ve lived too long to see everything as a metaphor for a story, like the rest of you do. I don’t think in plot arcs or theatrical roles. Life—it goes on. Change happens. Secrets get out. Challenges appear. Decisions are forced. Whether we’re ready for them or not.”
“I vote not,” Brevity said into her lap.
“Then you will get ready. You are the librarian, after all,” Rami said firmly. He swept a hand out, gesturing, and Brevity forced herself to look again at the stacks. A spectrum streamed from the books, weaving a stained glass of light in the air above each aisle. Every color, individual, intermingled, alive. “You have an entire library of souls depending on you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As much as Hell’s Library is a series about stories, it’s also a series about finding your family in unlikely places. Family, I think, is one of the most powerful stories we tell ourselves. Necessary in Hell, and more necessary on earth. I think of acknowledgments as a story about the family I’ve found and made while writing these books. The story of us.
As ever, I need to start with gratitude for my agent, Caitlin McDonald, for being the best advocate a series could hope for. Also thank you to my editor, Miranda Hill, whose endless enthusiasm for Claire and the gang has made the publishing process go smoothly. I also want to thank editor Rebecca Brewer for her unflagging support and smart feedback on very early versions of this book. I’m grateful to the entire Ace team that I’ve had the honor to work with, including Alexis Nixon, Jessica Plummer, and Lauren Horvath.
Thank you to Jennifer Mace, who graciously allowed me to borrow her characters for a cameo appearance in the damsel suite. Mace books are particularly unruly, according to Claire. Please come and retrieve your murder children.
One of the fun things about this series is the ability to slide in sly or not-so-sly references to books and writers I personally adore. Sharp eyes might have caught jars in Walter’s office referencing the works of Seanan McGuire, Neil Gaiman, Valerie Valdes, C. L. Polk, Rachel Caine, Tyler Hayes, and more. Thank you, all, for the wonderful things you create. This book might not exist as it is in its current form if I hadn’t encountered your work.
Every step of the way was helped by the center of my chosen family. My partner, Levi, who is my favorite story. My sister, Kate, who I’d choose even without random chance. This book benefited greatly from early feedback from a really stellar crew; thank you to Tyler Hayes, Chris Wolfgang, and Rebecca Littlefield for your insights and support. I am also incredibly grateful to the various groups of word friends who lent moral support during this book’s creation: my Viable Paradise class, the Isle, and the friends at the Pub.
I had the privilege of starting a small Patreon during the editing stage of this book. I can’t express enough my gratitude to those who have chosen to support me there, month after month. Words and worlds don’t happen without you. Thank you, all of you, for making stories with me.
A. J. Hackwith is almost certainly not an ink witch in a hoodie. She’s a queer writer of fantasy and science fiction living in Seattle with her partner, her dog, and her ghosts. The Archive of the Forgotten is a sequel to A. J.’s first fantasy, The Library of the Unwritten. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise writers’ workshop and her work appears in Uncanny magazine and assorted anthologies. She has also written sci-fi romance as Ada Harper. You can find her on Twitter and in other dark corners of the internet.
CONNECT ONLINE
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