by A J Hackwith
Praise for
The Library of the Unwritten
“This book is so much fun, and you should be reading it. Trust me. Stories about story are some of my favorite kinds. This book definitely makes the list. I am so glad I read this.”
—Seanan McGuire, author of In an Absent Dream
“A muse, an undead librarian, a demon, and a ghost walk into Valhalla. . . . What follows is a delightful and poignant fantasy adventure that delivers a metric ton of found-family feels and reminds us that the hardest stories to face can be the ones we tell about ourselves.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kit Rocha
“The Library of the Unwritten is a tiered dark chocolate cake of a book. The read is rich and robust, the prose has layers upon layers, and the characters melt like ganache upon the tongue. A saturated, decadent treat. An unforgettable, crave-worthy experience. A book lovers’ book; a supreme and masterful concoction that makes fresh fiction out of dusty Dante and boring Bible bits. An erudite and engaging pleasure cruise through Hell. A new voice rises in the jewel-toned arena of Valente, Gaiman, and Funke. A baroquely imagined and totally unexpected original take on such well-worn topics as Hell, libraries, and the difference between what never was and what never will be. Put coins over your eyes and climb aboard with your library card in hand; this book will take you where you need to go. With a masterful sense of the canon that is and the canon that never was, Hackwith has presented the world with a flashing, flaming jewel of a book. It’s as unforgettable as your first taste of chocolate or your first glimpse of Hell. Unmissable and unforgettable; prepare to read the Unwritten.”
—Philip K. Dick Award–winning author Meg Elison
“The Library of the Unwritten is a story about stories: ones we tell ourselves, the ones we tell others, and the ones buried so deep we hope no one ever finds them. Hackwith has artfully penned a love letter to books and readers alike and filled it with lush, gorgeous prose; delightfully real characters; a nonstop, twisty, and heart-wrenching plot; and an explosive ending that gave me chills.”
—K. A. Doore, author of The Perfect Assassin
“A delightful romp through Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, which reveals itself in layers: an exploration of the nuances of belief, a demonstration of the power of the bonds that connect us, and a love letter to everybody who has ever heard the call of their own story.”
—Caitlin Starling, author of The Luminous Dead
“The Library of the Unwritten is like Good Omens meets Jim Hines’s Ex Libris series, a must-read for any book lover. If you love the smell of freshly printed books, the comfort of walking along tall shelves filled with new adventures, or the feeling of returning to an old favorite read, then grab The Library of the Unwritten and join Claire’s dimension-hopping team for a Hellishly good time. Hackwith has penned a tale filled with unforgettable characters fighting with the power of creativity against a stunning array of foes from across the multiverse. The Library of the Unwritten rocks!”
—Michael R. Underwood, author of the Stabby Award finalist Genrenauts series
“The only book I’ve ever read that made the writing process look like fun. A delight for readers and writers alike!”
—Hugo Award finalist Elsa Sjunneson-Henry
“A wry, high-flying, heartfelt fantasy, told with sublime prose and sheer joy even at its darkest moments (and there are many). I want this entire series on my shelf yesterday.”
—Tyler Hayes, author of The Imaginary Corpse
ACE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2019 by A. J. Hackwith
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hackwith, A. J., author.
Title: The library of the unwritten / A. J. Hackwith.
Description: First edition. | New York : Ace, 2019. | Series: Hell’s library ; 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2019012345| ISBN 9781984806376 (paperback) | ISBN 9781984806383 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Contemporary. | FICTION / Fantasy / General. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A254 L53 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012345
First Edition: October 2019
Cover art: image of book page by Ryan Jorgensen/Arcangel; image of arm by Samantha Pugsley/Arcangel
Cover design by Faceout Studio/Jeff Miller
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Levi
CONTENTS
Praise for The Library of the Unwritten
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
CLAIRE
Stories want to change, and it is a librarian’s job to preserve them; that’s the natural order of things. The Unwritten Wing of the Library, for all its infinite magic and mystery, is in some ways a futile project. No story, written or unwritten, is static. Left abandoned too long and given the right stimulation, a book goes wrong in the head. It is a story’s natural ambition to wake up and start telling itself to the world.
This, of course, is a buggered pain in the arse.
Librarian Fleur Michel, 1782 CE, Unwritten Wing,
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Librarian’s Log entry, Personal Ephemera and Errata
BOOKS RAN WHEN THEY grew restless, when they grew unruly, or when they grew real. Regardless of the reason, when books ran, it was a librarian’s duty to catch them.
The twisty annex of Assyrian romances, full of jagged words and shadowed hearts broken on unforgiving clay tablets, had a tendency to turn around even experienced curators. The librarian, Claire, cornered the book there. The book had chosen to take form as the character of a pale, coltish girl, and her breathing was nearly as ragged as Claire’s was from the run. Claire forced her shaking hands still as she approached. The book was young, and so was its character, back pressed into the bookcase, dandelion-fluff hair fluttering around thin shoulders. Muddy jeans, superhero tee, a whimper like dried reeds. “Please. I can’t—I don’t want to go back.”
Damn. Claire preferred them angry. Angry was simpler. “The Library has rules.”
A flicker of color swung around the corner. Her assistant, Brevity, skidded to a stop just short of the book. Her apple-round cheeks, usually a shade of robin’s-egg blue, were tinged purple from the run. Seafoam green bangs puffed above her eyes, and she mumbled an apology as she handed Claire a slender bit of steel wrapped in cloth.
Claire stowed the tool in her pocket, where it would stay, she hoped. She considered the cowering figure in front of her.
There were two parts to any unwritten book. Its words—the twisting, changing text on the page—and its story. Most of the time, the two parts were united in the books filling the Unwritten Wing’s stacks, but now and then a book woke up. Felt it had a purpose beyond words on a page. Then the story made itself into one of its characters and went walking.
As the head librarian of Hell’s Unwritten Wing, Claire had the job of keeping stories on their pages.
The girl—No, the character, the book, Claire corrected herself—tried again. “You don’t get it. In the woods—I saw what it did. . . .”
Claire glanced down at the book in her hands and read the gold stamp on the spine. The font was blocky and modern, clearly signaling this was a younger book despite the thick leather hide of the cover. It read: DEAD HOT SUMMER. Her stomach soured; this job had ruined her taste for the horror genre entirely. “Be that as it may, you have nothing to worry about. It’s just a story—you are just a story, and until you’re written—”
“I won’t make trouble,” the character said. “I just—”
“You’re not human.” The words snapped out before Claire could censor them. The girl reacted as if she’d been slapped, and curled into the shelves.
Claire took a measured breath between gritted teeth. “You can’t be scared. You’re not human—let’s not pretend otherwise. You’re a very cunning approximation, but you’re simply a manifestation, a character. A book playing at human . . . But you’re not. And books belong on shelves.”
Brevity cleared her throat. “She is scared, boss. If you want me to, I can sit with her. Maybe we can put her in the damsel suite—”
“Absolutely not. Her author is still alive.”
The character zeroed in on the more sympathetic target. She took a step toward Brevity. “I just don’t want to die in there.”
“Stop.” Claire flipped open the leather cover and thrust it toward the character. “This is only wasting time. Back to the pages.”
She looked uncertainly at her book. “I don’t know how.”
“Touch the pages. Remember where your story starts. ‘Once upon a time . . . ’ or what have you.” Claire slid a hand into her pocket, fingers finding metal. “Alternately, stories always return to their pages when damaged. If you require assistance?”
The scalpel was cool in her palm. It was normally used in repairing and rebinding old books, but a practiced hand could send a rogue character back to its pages.
Claire had plenty of practice.
“I’ll try.” The girl’s hand trembled as she flattened a small palm against the open pages. Her brow wrinkled.
A chill of quiet ticked over Claire’s skin. The books weighing down nearby shelves twitched sleepily. A muffled murmur drifted in the air. The wooden shelves towering overhead pulsed with movement, old leather spines shuffling against the bronze rails. Dust shivered in a spill of lamplight.
Brevity shifted uneasily next to her. An awake book was a noisy thing. Returning it, even noisier.
They couldn’t waste time. The girl startled when Claire took a quiet step toward her. “I’ve almost got it!”
“It’s all right.” Claire spoke through a tight throat, but her tone was gentle. She could be gentle when it was efficient. “Try again.”
The unwritten girl turned her attention back to the pages. It was an act of contemplation, and Claire could sense the weaving of realities. The girl was a character; she was a story, a book. She might feel like something even more, but Claire couldn’t afford to consider that. She placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Then she slid the scalpel between the character’s ribs.
Brevity swallowed a squeak. Claire stepped back as the unwritten girl fell. She made small, shocked gulps for air, twisted on the carpet, then began to fade. Within a minute, nothing was left but a small smudge of ink on the floor.
Only books died in Hell. Everyone else had to live with their choices.
“Couldn’t we have given her another minute? It’s awfully hard to feel like the good guys when we do that.” Brevity took the book after Claire snapped it closed.
“There’s no good or bad, Brev. There’s just the Library. The story is back where it belongs.” Claire couldn’t keep the resignation from her voice. She cleaned off and stashed the scalpel back in her many-pocketed skirts.
“Yeah, but she seemed so scared. She was just—”
“Characters aren’t human, Brev. You always should remember that as a librarian. They’ll convince themselves they’re people, but if you allow them to convince you, then . . .” Claire trailed off, dismissing the rest of that thought with a twitch of her shoulders. “Shelve her and make a note to check her status next inventory. What kept you so long, anyway?”
“Oh!” Brevity fluttered a hand, and Claire was struck by the eerie similarities between her assistant and the book they’d just put to rest. Brevity was shorter than the character had been, and her riot of cornflower blue skin and bright eyes was vibrant with life—not scared, not pleading—but her gaze kept drifting back to the dull leather cover in her hands. “There’s a messenger for you.”
“Messenger?”
Brevity shrugged. “From the big guy. I tried to get more, but he’s wound pretty tight. Swore he can’t leave until he talks to you.”
“How . . . unorthodox.” Claire turned down the row of towering shelves. “Let’s see what His Crankiness wants.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
WHEN THEY EMERGED FROM the depths of the Unwritten Wing’s stacks, Claire found the demon sweating holes into her rug. It was a particularly fine rug, peacock blue and intricately dreamed by an artist of the Ottoman Empire. Dreamed but never made, which made it all the more irreplaceable.
The scent of rotten eggs curdled the Library’s pleasant smell of sleeping books and tea, scalding her nose. A bead of sweat fell from the nervous demon’s cuff and hit the carpet with a hiss. Claire closed her eyes for a count of five. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”
The demon jumped and twisted around. He was scrawny, all bones and amber skin in a cheap oversized suit. He appeared human, or at least human adjacent, as most demons did, save for the pinpricks of ears that poked up through an oil slick of springy black curls. He bit his lip, managing to look skeletal and innocent at the same time, and he held a thin purple folder in front of him like a shield. “Ms. Claire, of the . . . Is this the Library?”
“That generally is where librarians are found.” Claire sat down
at her desk. She eyed the repair work she’d started, while Brevity returned to sorting books on a cart. “You’re in the Unwritten Wing. You may read, or you may leave.”
“Oh, I’m not here to—” The demon twitched. Claire tracked his movements out of the corner of her eye, giving the text in front of her only cursory attention. The books stacked on the corner of the desk gave a lazy growl, and the demon sidestepped quickly away. His nervous gaze landed on her hands. “Is . . . is that blood?”
Claire glanced down at the hand that had held the scalpel. She wiped her fingers on her skirts and returned to her work. “Ink.”
The book open on the desk was one of the young ones, one that still had a chance of being written by its author someday. Brevity had misfiled it with a particularly crotchety series of old unwritten novels. Whaling stories, if Claire remembered right. The impressionable young book now had all sorts of rubbish jumbled in its still-sprouting narrative. Five-paragraph descriptions of food, meditations on masculinity and the sea, complete nonsense for an unwritten tale about teenage witches in love. If its author began to write while it was in this state, she would never attempt another book. It was Claire’s job to keep the books ready for their authors in the best possible state. Tidy. Stories were never tidy, but it was important to keep up appearances.
When she didn’t look up again, the demon coughed and shook loose another bead of sweat. It hit the rug with a dull hiss.
Claire winced. She pressed her scalpel flat against the book. “You’re damaging my rug.”
The demon looked down at his feet. He stepped off the rug awkwardly, found himself on an even more complex rug, and shuffled again.
He’d be at that all day, and Claire would be at repairs all night. She reluctantly turned from the book she was working on, pressing one elbow on it to keep it from creeping off. A slow, deep frown pulled on her face as she gave him a better once-over.
Young, Claire assessed—the young seemed determined to plague her today. A junior demon, though young demons didn’t venture to the Library often. Most of Hell’s residents got reading privileges only after decades of clawing for power. He fidgeted under her scrutiny and combed through his wiry, ragged hair. It made her want to find him a brush. Suspicion tinged with familiarity tugged at her. No demon felt quite right, but there was something exceptionally off about hellspawn with anxiety. Claire raised a brow at Brevity, but her assistant just shrugged.
