by A J Hackwith
“You’re . . . unexpected. I understand you were sent by His Grinchiness?”
He licked his lips. “Yes, but . . . you can’t . . . you can’t call him that. His Highness, I mean. There’s a message. I got the brief here.” The demon held it out, eager to be rid of it. Claire didn’t move, so he added, “It says a book is missing. I’m supposed to tell you . . . it’s . . . ah, one of yours.”
Claire stilled. “In what way?”
“Because it’s unwritten? Early twenty-first-century unauthor, still living.”
Ah. The tension crept off Claire’s shoulders. “Stolen or lost?”
The demon pawed through the folder before withdrawing a small stack of printouts. “They suspect runaway. No recent checkouts or invocation alarms . . . whatever that means.”
She grunted. “It means my day is shot. A runaway.”
A bewildered look spread across the demon’s face. “Is that . . . ?”
Claire waved a vague hand. “It means an unwritten book woke up, manifested as a character, and somehow slipped the Library’s wards. A neat trick that I will be keen to interrogate out of it later. It is likely headed to Earth. There’s nothing stronger than an unwritten book’s fascination with its author. But a book that finds its author often comes back damaged, and the author comes out . . . worse.”
“I’ll pack the scalpels,” Brevity said, and received a dark look. Claire rubbed her temple, a fruitless gesture to forestall the coming headache, then shot out her hand.
“Just give the report here.” She released her hold on the open book, and it happily snapped shut, barely missing her fingertips.
The demon deposited the paperwork in her palm and quickly hopped out of reach. The books stacked on her desk complained with growls that ruffled their pages.
“The author’s alive? Where?” Brevity asked.
He shrugged. “A place called Seattle.”
Claire groaned as she squinted at the paperwork. “It’s always the Americans.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
NAMES WERE A NECESSARY nicety even Claire had to tolerate. The demon introduced himself with a very clumsy bow; this small bit of etiquette helped him to relax and stop sweating acid everywhere. Claire frowned at his name. “Leto. Like the Greek myth?”
The skinny demon ducked his head. “Like from the sci-fi novel.”
“So, you’re a demon of . . . ?”
“Entropy.”
“They sent a demon of entropy to a library wing full of irreplaceable artifacts?” Claire stared at Leto and then shook her head, muttering, “I will kill him. Positively kill him.”
Leto twitched. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . how, ah, how can you talk about His Highness like that?”
“Simple,” Claire said. “The Library exists in Hell; it doesn’t serve it. He’s not my Highness.”
Leto paled, and she dismissed it with a wave. “It’s a long story. Don’t worry yourself. I still follow orders. This is Brevity, muse and my assistant in the Unwritten Wing.”
“Former muse. I flunked out.” Brevity made a face and offered her hand.
If Leto was a scarecrow teenager in appearance, Brevity was of the sprite variety. Her hair was spiky and short and a dainty shade of sea glass. Beneath the cuffs of a multicolored jumper, propane blue tattoos flowed over paler cornflower skin in a shifting series of script that almost appeared readable, at least until one tried to focus on it.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Leto shook her hand shyly, taking care to keep his fingers back from the ripple of tattoo.
“Hey! A demon with manners. I like this one,” Brevity said.
“Many demons are perfectly polite to me,” Claire pointed out.
“No, many demons are intimidated by the Library, boss. There’s a difference,” Brevity said as Claire pulled out a drawer in search of tools.
The mundane tools of a librarian’s trade included notebooks and writing implements, and the less usual: inks that glimmered, stamps that bit, wriggling wax, and twine. All of them went into a bag that Claire slung across her chest. Pen and paper went into the hidden pockets of her muddled, many-tiered skirts. She’d been buried in some frippery that was dour even for her time, all buttons and layers. She’d chopped the skirt at the knee long ago for easy movement, but Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea.
It wasn’t as if she had proper hours to maintain. Claire squinted at a squat copper sundial, fueled by a steady if entirely unnatural light all its own, and scribbled a new line in the Library’s logbook. It was thick and ancient, crusted with age and the oils of a hundred librarian fingerprints. It also never ran out of paper. Claire flipped from her personal notes to the “Library Status” log and ended an entry with a flourish, and the lights in the hall began to flutter.
The Library is now closed. All materials must be returned to the shelves. A disembodied voice, clipped and dull, echoed through the hall. Claire tapped her foot as the voice continued. The Library is now closed. Patrons are reminded that any curses, charms, or dreams left behind are considered forfeit to the stacks. The Library is now closed.
There were not many patrons lounging around the reading area, but the few imps that were reading put down their books reluctantly and began to make their way to the exit, much to Leto’s slack-jawed amazement. Creatures of Hell, on general principle, took to following orders as well as one might expect. Which is to say, not at all and with liberal interpretation. Most of the Library’s regulars were powerless imps and bored foot soldiers, but one beefy incubus with horns, clad in little more than chitin and scar tissue, handed his book directly to Claire with a grunt.
Claire clucked her tongue. “No sulking. You know we don’t do lending. It’ll be here for you tomorrow, Furcas. Go on now.”
Leto managed to close his mouth before his sputter could ruin another rug. “That— Was that . . .”
“Intimidated. Told you,” Brevity said.
Once the remaining patrons disappeared out the great doors, Claire closed the log and swept toward the far wall. Leto clung to her heels, and Claire bit back a smile. The Library was fickle, eerie terrain, especially to demons.
From the main desk, the cavernous space ran back into shadows in all directions, and every available surface was layered with wood or parchment of varying ages. Rows of shelves filled with books ran high over their heads, and larger tomes crouched at the end of each row in quivering packs. Plush rugs of riotous color muffled the floor. Every visible wall space carried an oil canvas, with images in various states of completion. They governed themselves with their own regular rotation and changes. More paintings hung on a monstrous series of pivoting racks at the far back, draped in shadow like a leafy thicket.
Claire’s target was the far wall, a large section of buttery pale yellow drawers. Endless rows of drawers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The Library functioned on requirement, shifting and flowing to the needs of the books and librarians. Leto eyed it with anxiety, but Claire shoved the folder back into his hands. She began to scale a ladder clipped to a rail. “Author name and story title?”
“Ah . . .” Leto opened the file. “Author, McGowan. Amber Guinevere McGowan.”
Her foot stabbed out at the wooden wall, and the ladder coasted a few feet down the row of drawers. “McGowan. Right. God, middle name Guinevere? What were her parents thinking? No wonder she never became a writer.” Claire yanked a drawer open. “Title?”
“Uh, the missing title just says ‘Nightfall.’” Leto looked up as Claire let out a snort. “Something wrong?”
“I think every writer, written or unwritten, has some glorified adventure titled ‘Nightfall’ stuck in their head. Half the residents here were a ‘Nightfall’ at one point. Even unwritten stories eventually migrate to something more
original.” Claire danced her fingers over the drawer before snapping up a card. She slid the drawer closed and descended.
Her sneaker-clad feet hit the ground, and Claire headed for the exit. “Calling card says it’s definitely still in Seattle. Brev, you up for a field trip?”
Brevity’s gold eyes grew to saucers, and she stumbled forward in a little dance. Her voice wasn’t quite a squeal but flirted with the idea. “You mean upstairs?” she said breathily. “Always and forever, boss.”
2
LETO
This log is a curious thing. Previous volumes appear to date back to early Sumer. Yet I can read and understand every word. Books are a strange kind of magic in this Library.
The reading has been enlightening, no doubt. Though rambling and peppered with a plague of personalities, it chronicles the training and supplemental experiences of every librarian that has helmed the Unwritten Wing.
Ancient Egypt had her Book of the Dead, a scroll buried with loved ones to guide them and advise them on their behavior as they navigated the afterlife. I suppose that makes this our Book of the Dead Librarians. All the proper protocols for navigating but never escaping this place.
Thousands of years of librarians have kept their advice in this book. Somewhere, somewhere, there’s got to be a solution for the problem I’m faced with.
Apprentice Librarian Claire Hadley, 1988 CE
HELL WAS A SERIES of hallways. An endless series of hallways, at least to a junior demon. They wound through passages Leto didn’t recognize, broad balconies, and whispering broom closets. They passed jagged stairs and alcoves with shadows like wounds, and finally a non-euclidean gargoyle that had a troubling habit of not quite staying in the viewer’s spatial perception. Leto averted his eyes from it at the start of a wince-inducing headache.
Each hall was lined with a narrow bay of windows. The first looked out upon wide fields of wildflowers, the next on a dark cavern with endless pools of starlight, the third, a lava-drenched plain. The conflicting light painted the hallway in a rainbow of bright and dark, yellow afternoons and blue twilights spilling over them as they passed.
Finally, the librarian took a sharp right into a narrow doorway that Leto would have missed. Its wooden arch was decorated with an icon for travel: a small set of interlocking wheels, marred with the claw marks of large birds. He followed the women down a steep set of stairs, watching Brevity’s light teal hair as it bounced like a brightly colored flag. They emptied out into a claustrophobic office, taller than it was wide.
Leto stumbled to a stop behind Brevity and turned in a slow circle. The office was tall, he realized, in order to accommodate the dizzying rows of shelves that reached from the floor up into the shadows of the ceiling. Unlabeled jars of various shapes lined each shelf, putting out a faint but steady colored glow that was the room’s only light.
Brevity grinned at Leto with ill-concealed amusement. “First time traveling?”
“Yes, er . . .” Leto shot her an alarmed look. “Rather, no. I’m not going with you, am I? I just deliver the paperwork.”
Brevity shrugged and turned to tap at a glass jar that swirled with plum and sickly orange mists. Leto stepped toward Claire. “Miss . . . eh, Head Librarian?”
“Not now, kiddo.” Claire slapped her hand on a dusty bell sitting on the counter. Instead of a simple chime, a trio of vibrations pinged hard out of the metal and made all the jars tremble on their shelves.
Leto most certainly was not a kid. Demons didn’t really have childhoods. Soul-shuddering inductions, nightmarish hazings, yes; childhood, no. Leto started to form his protest when a walking mountain in a tight tailored suit came trumbling out of the gloom behind the counter.
A pale head, the size and shape of a boulder, floated above a starched collar. Leto quailed. He retreated toward the door as he took in dark pits where the monster’s eyes should have been. The creature opened its mouth to reveal a row of jagged red edges that almost, but not quite, passed for teeth. Its voice rumbled in a timbre that shook the shelves around them.
“ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO—”
“Yes, yes, hope abandoned, Walter,” Claire cut in. “We need transport.”
The creature’s face fell, serrated teeth disappearing behind a quivering lip. He straightened his tie and blinked bottomless-pit eyes at the librarian. “Aww, miss! C’mon, let me do it proper-like. Ever since the Reformation, I never get mortals in here no more.”
“If you must, but do please be brief. And quieter.”
“Bully, ma’am. Thank you.” The giant straightened, and his shoulders nearly hit the rafters. He cleared his throat, opened his razor-filled mouth again, and launched into his speech.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! Beyond me lies the city of woe. Before me waits the sleep which ye earn. None shall pass unless the soul be light; none shall pass out of the dark. I am that which stands; I am that which waits and shall not falter; I am that which keeps the fates. Weigh now your soul or turn back to thine sleep.”
It struck Leto as a little flowery, but echoed in a howling baritone, it did the job. The jars trembled on their shelves, so that a hundred glass voices seemed to echo the words. The vibration reached in to jostle Leto’s organs unpleasantly.
Claire did not appear impressed. She propped her elbows on the counter, her back straight even in the middle of a bored recline. She tugged at one of her many braids, fussing with a stray bangle.
Brevity twisted her hands and risked a shy smile at the beast behind the counter. “I think that was awful terrifying, Mr. Walter. That trembly bit on the end is a nice touch.”
“Thank you, Miss Brevity. It took ages to get the acoustics just right.” The beast appeared to shrink and glow under the praise. He caught sight of Leto and leaned over with a dagger-filled grin that was something out of even a demon’s nightmares. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’re—”
Claire cleared her throat. “We’re here on business, Walter.”
The creature turned his sightless gaze back on the librarian. “Sorry, ma’am. How can I help you, Miss Claire?”
“We’re on an errand up top. I need one pass for Brevity here and two summoning candles for me and the boy.”
Leto bristled, forgetting his original protest about the trip. “I’m not a boy. I’m a demonic messenger of—”
“Yes, yes, two summoning candles for me and this most esteemed and powerful messenger of our fearless leader.” She raised her brows to Walter. “White should do. Don’t you think?”
Again, Walter leaned over the counter, peering above the librarian’s head to scrutinize Leto. Leto squirmed his toes and forced himself not to fidget and definitely not to meet the gaze of those bottomless black holes that threatened to swallow him up.
After a pause that did not seem at all short, Walter nodded. “White summoning should do ’bout right, Miss Claire. Coming right up. Miss Brevity, you’ve used summat like this before, yes?”
“Yep, I know the routine. Hauling the chief’s butt out of Hell is why she keeps me around.”
Claire cast her assistant a sour look as Walter thundered back into the halls behind the counter. “I do not get ‘hauled’ anywhere. You are merely fulfilling your duties, Brev.”
“You maybe want to summon yourself, then, boss?”
Leto glanced between the two women, a fresh layer of confusion coating his already stewing anxiety. “I don’t understand. Why does anyone need summoning? I thought you were going to Seattle.”
Claire turned as if suddenly remembering his presence. “You really are new, aren’t you? It’s because I’m human.”
At Leto’s blink, she gave a weak chuckle. “You assumed a mere demon could make sense of the tangled, unfinished dreams of humanity? Not likely. Too messy. Last demon assistant I had ran screaming after one full inventory. No, librarians are nearly always mortals, and nearly always unw
ritten authors themselves. Brev here being an exception worked out by the Muses Corps.”
“When they kicked me out,” Brevity muttered.
Leto nodded uncertainly. He had heard the rumors, of course. The whispers about the unwritten works by Hell’s librarian. Claire hadn’t held the position that long—thirty years was a blink in Hell’s terms—but she’d become a whispered name in demonic courts for the stories she’d left uncreated, filling the shelves, worlds unmade. The rumor said there was a whole annex of the Unwritten Wing that housed her works, under lock and key, never visited. Buried under the fog of some old and quite horrible scandal.
Of course, Leto thought, any good rumor always had a scandal.
“Right,” he said, attempting to recover, rubbing the back of his neck, and looking anywhere but at the stern woman. “I just . . . Well, shouldn’t you be doing your time to get out of here? Isn’t that the only reason mortals are here, to, y’know, work through their . . . their . . .”
“We all get the afterlife our soul requires. I’ve heard the sales pitch,” Claire supplied with an impatient cluck of her tongue. “This is mine. Lucky me. The trick they don’t tell you is that the longer you’re here, the harder it is to remember anywhere else.” She paused as Walter lumbered slowly back out of the gloom. “It’s quite inconvenient. As are these questions.”
“S’why boss needs a summons,” Brevity said. “Spirits and demons can come and go on business. But mortals can’t leave Hell if their souls haven’t freed them yet. But with a bit of ritual magic, library folk get a day pass.”
“A day, no more,” Claire said. “Not everyone gets access to a ghostlight, but since it’s part of the Library’s duties, King Crankypants has to make an exception.”
