The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  For Uriel, humans were cut flowers for a lover’s bouquet, nothing more.

  A superficial sweep turned up little but week-old newspapers and sour milk, and a laptop buried beneath a tilting cliff of paper. He understood these sleek devices were the nexus of modern human lives, the modern confessional, but it would not give up its secrets for him. Luckily, he was less interested in Avery’s secrets than in Hell’s. There were more traditional ways to track nonhuman artifacts. He crossed the apartment to open the sliding door that led to a shriveled excuse for a balcony, then carded his fingers through his feathered coat until he found an appropriate sacrifice. Wincing as it came free, he shielded the feather from the wind in the cup of his palm.

  Uriel had said that the scrap came from a book created for Lucifer’s realm. Rami did not know this cartoonish “devil” that terrorized modern imagination, but he knew Lucifer. He was a selfish angel and likely an even more selfish demon. If something of his was missing, his servants might have already been dispatched to retrieve it. They would have a head start, possibly in this very city, would possibly even have the book already. If Rami could intercept them, he could keep a powerful tool out of evil’s hands and end this before any harm could be done.

  Rami withdrew a silver compass from his pocket and brought it up to the feather he sheltered in his hand. He bent, muttering a few sparse words until a faint white light hummed between compass and feather. As with ink seeping from quill shaft to tip, the feather slowly changed into a deep, pitiless black. Tainted, like the quarry he sought.

  Rami let the feather flutter off the balcony, then retreated inside to watch the compass in his hands. The next time the demons moved, to or from this city, he’d have them. He just had to wait.

  Rami was good at waiting.

  6

  LETO

  Books and stories are the creations of imagination, and that power is just for humans. Take it from me. Gods can will a realm into being, and muses can try to edge things along, but only a mortal can imagine a different way for the story to go. How cool is that? Humans are freaking terrifying. I love it!

  Apprentice Librarian Brevity, 2014 CE

  “BALLS,” CLAIRE MUTTERED.

  As soon as the hero collapsed, the librarian instructed Leto to hoist his legs. It was a waddling walk to drag the prone man farther into the alley where no passing tourists would notice. Despite being surprisingly light, the hero was tall, with long arms and legs that Leto found impossible to corral. Leto grimaced as they hit another trash can that boomed loudly in the darkness.

  Brevity, hand full of book rather than hero, kept pace with something close to a nervous dance. She flashed Leto a reassuring smile. “Cheer up. At least she’s not cursing His High—”

  “Lucifer’s frilly, satin balls,” Claire grunted as they deposited the hero against a stack of stained cardboard boxes with a shove.

  “Never mind,” Brevity said.

  Leto flinched. Despite his growing increasingly used to Claire’s colorful wording, each blasphemy still sent a tremor of unease through him. He set the hero’s feet down gently on a box. The character’s haughty face was still pale. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “For now, I reckon.” The muse cast glances back to the alley entrance, and pedestrian traffic was slowing as the afternoon waned.

  Brevity crouched over the hero and poked at his shoulder. “Tearing out your own pages is one thing; they can be reattached. But his pages were destroyed. Anything that was on them is gone forever. Places, plot . . . or characters. You can do a lot with restoration, and boss is one of the best, but you can’t reinvent things out of whole cloth.”

  “Which is why it’s time to stop dallying and get him back to the Library.” Claire dusted off her hands. “When you arrive, make him comfortable, then be sure to send a message to the muse cache. I’ll have to work on him myself, and I’ll need fresh parchment and binder.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re not . . . ?”

  “One more piece of business. I’ll be fine. Leto’s been extremely helpful so far. Isn’t that right?”

  Leto jerked his head up. “Uh, sure. I mean, I hope so. We aren’t going back now?” The hum of the city streets made his skin itch, and the whole adventure had left his human form disconcertingly . . . sweaty.

  “Brev will take the hero and book back,” Claire said, as if to a small child. “We have a quick stop before we use our ghostlights.”

  Claire met Brevity’s concerned gaze, and some unspoken discussion occurred between the librarian and her assistant. After a moment, Brevity took hold of the hero by the collar. “I’ll take care of handsome here, sure thing.”

  The muse etched a figure on the dusty concrete faster than Leto could follow. He could have sworn the brick walls wobbled, just a moment, before he was distracted by a hissing pop. Brevity and the prone hero were gone in a swirl of dust and paper debris. A trace scent of cotton candy and ash hung in the air.

  Which left Leto alone with Hell’s librarian. He pulled his gaze away from the swirling air to find Claire scrutinizing him over her glasses. Her lips were cinched up like purse strings. Leto didn’t know her well enough to know what that meant, but he was sure it was nothing good. He again suffered the sense of being appraised for something he didn’t understand. Claire nodded and took off down the alley at a pace that required Leto to hurry to keep up.

  “Do you know the origin of ghostlights, Leto?” Claire asked after they had joined the evening foot traffic on the sidewalk. She guided him around the corner at a brisk pace, stopping occasionally to squint at street signs.

  “Not exactly.” It wasn’t much of an admission. He was a junior fiend at best. He hadn’t understood half of what he’d encountered today. They wandered downhill from the business buildings, away from tall towers, and toward squat ferry buildings and shops that lined the pier. Distracting smells and sights filtered his thoughts. They passed a famous chocolate shop, where buttery, sweet cocoa smells wafted out and drove away the briny smell of the bay. Leto didn’t stop to wonder how he knew the scent; he just did. He knew if they turned right, they’d run into a flock of taxicabs that swarmed around the Four Seasons and a crusty protester who always stood on that corner, waving a picture of the current president—didn’t matter who—with horns drawn on. No one knew what he was protesting.

  “The term comes from the theater. Or at least, from days when theaters were more popular. When a theater closed for the night, a single light was left on, usually just a bulb on a stand at the center of the stage. The stage always stayed lit. A ghostlight. It had a practical purpose, of course—that way the first one to enter didn’t accidentally fall into the orchestra pit.”

  “And the nonpractical?” Leto had seen enough today to understand that the nonpractical was usually more worrisome.

  “The theater ghosts, of course.” Claire smiled and eased to a more sensible stroll as they passed the first trickle of crowds lining up outside dockside restaurants and bars. “Theaters traditionally always closed for at least one day a week, leaving on the ghostlight, to appease the ghosts. To allow them one day on the stage to perform their acts. To live and love and hate and triumph on the stage like the living.”

  She slid him an unreadable smile as they slowed down at a new corner. “That part’s true. In the glow of a ghostlight, the dead all get one day. One day only.” Claire looked down the street. “Last time I was here, there was a long pier. Good view, outdoor patio across from a ferry. It should be around here somewhere. . . .”

  “Two blocks down,” Leto said automatically.

  Claire hummed. “Aren’t you handy?”

  They walked on, weaving through sidewalk crowds until the waterfront came into view. Far down the walk, Leto could just make out the lights of a Ferris wheel flickering on, painting the night’s low clouds with luminous pinks and greens. The quiet was amiable, until Claire let out a
sigh. “You’re a stubborn one.”

  Leto’s stomach dropped. “What?”

  “All during this fiasco you’ve been asking things! Gawking! Mr. Questions! Fussing over taxicab ethics, even.” Claire stopped at a railing and tugged at a lock of hair irritably. “But I try to introduce the one thing you’re supposed to question and suddenly you’re more gullible than a saint.”

  Leto shifted. “I’m not sure I— I’m sorry if I’ve—”

  “No, just stop.” She dragged a palm over her face. “I just finished explaining how ghostlights work. How they allow the souls of dead humans like me a day on Earth. So an obvious question might be . . . ?”

  “Yes, ah . . . Do they have something to do with the hero?” A trickle of sweat lined the back of Leto’s suit. He felt like he was failing a pop quiz.

  “No.” Claire crossed her arms and motioned to his pocket. “An obvious question to someone in your situation might be, ‘So why does a demon need a ghostlight at all?’”

  “Why does a demon need a ghostlight? Well, I thought . . .”

  Leto tried to consider it—he did. The stern librarian’s approval had swiftly grown important to him. But even as he repeated the words, his mind kept trying to hitch off in a new direction. Surely there were better inquiries. Where was the hero now? How did Brevity pop in and out? How were they going to fix the book? Considering all those, his brain refused to waste time on a silly question about ghostlights. Demons didn’t deserve the luxury of learning. Leto deserved even less.

  But Claire’s expectant look made him try. He’d grown to respect the librarians. He liked Brevity and Claire, prickly as she was, and the thought of disappointing her curdled his nerves. He slid his gaze out over the choppy water as he tried to focus. Surely there was a reason he needed a ghostlight. It was obvious.

  Because he was new? Because of entropy? Because of the time of year? Because he was such a miserable excuse for a demon?

  He felt his stomach tilt as he sorted through each possible reason and discarded it for lack of logic. He felt like he was being tipped over the top of a very tall, steep hill, adrenaline climbing into his throat. He couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t stop.

  Like a roller coaster.

  Roller coaster. A term he hadn’t recognized when Claire said it right before the summons this morning. But he could picture it clearly now: the clattering metal track, the thick, foam pads that came down across his shoulders and always smelled vaguely of someone else’s sweat, someone else’s nerves. The flip in his gut as the roller coaster would start. The feeling of a hand grabbing his, belonging to someone soft and bright and all wonderful things at once. The smell of popcorn drifting up from below . . . human smells. Mortal feelings. Living memories.

  Leto did not notice his legs failing until his knees banged against the wooden railing harshly. Claire caught him under one arm, stopping his chin from meeting the wood. She supported his weight with a grunt. “Easy, now.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not a demon?” Leto’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I’m mortal.”

  “Well, technically no. You’re not mortal, not anymore. Bad term for it. Dead, eternal soul, and all. But you were human, once. Up here.” Claire hitched him to his feet and waited till Leto’s knees worked again. Then she drove him forward, off the sidewalk to the pier. “Onward, now. Walking helps.”

  Leto’s heart was trying to swim out from his chest, but he moved his legs woodenly. “I don’t understand.”

  “You explained it well enough before. When you die, you get what your soul’s debt demands. Like what you need to do to atone for what you’ve done, or to just forgive yourself, to heal, or find justice. It varies. My soul decided I needed to spend a century or two—god, I hope I don’t reach past that—as the keeper of the Unwritten Library in Hell. Lucky me. Yours . . . Evidently you needed to be an amnesiac demon. Rather melodramatic, that.”

  They started down the long pier. It was wide and ringed with cheery lights. Patio restaurants. People talking. Boats groaning. It threatened to overwhelm him. There was a light post at the end of the walkway, and Leto kept his eyes locked on that.

  “You don’t remember anything, even being up here?” Claire asked.

  Leto squeezed his eyes closed briefly, but it did no good. His memories only tasted of bitter anise and shadows. “I . . . know things. Stuff about here. This place. But I don’t remember how I know it.”

  Claire shrugged. “Well, it’s a unique sentence for a soul—that’s for sure. Must have been a hard end. Not many people see themselves as literal devils.”

  “I’m not—” Leto’s hand absently tugged at an ear that was still blunted rather than pointed, here in the human world. “But I remember being a demon!”

  “What do you remember? Being summoned for courier duty? What about before that? What did you do yesterday?”

  “Well, sure. I was doing . . . demony stuff.” Leto faltered. To tell the truth, before this assignment it was all a dark haze he couldn’t really put his finger on. He had a fleeting impression of a figure, someone powerful and terrifying, resting a hand decked with cold rings on his shoulder. He remembered a constellation of stars falling through his hands. Bitter chalk on his tongue. He knew things about being a demon, but specific memories skittered away from him when he reached for them. “How did you know?”

  “His Grouchiness doesn’t usually send a brand-new, full-fledged demon to deliver a file folder, first of all. We’re in a library of magical texts. Do you really think we deliver messages by hand?”

  “Well. Now that you mention it . . .”

  Claire smiled. “And if you’re a demon of entropy, you’re the worst one I’ve seen, because you got torn up at the idea of shorting a taxi driver’s tips. And then Walter confirmed it when we set up transportation—only human souls need ghostlights. Even if he hadn’t, once we got up here, it was all the little things. Human things. Like the cute little blush when Brev kissed you.”

  “I did not!”

  “Ah, there it is again.”

  Leto buried his face in his hands, but they’d reached the end of the pier. They walked past an open patio where diners nibbled on overpriced oysters, and came to a stop at the railing. Claire nodded at the view. “You know, I had a view of the ocean when I was alive. Not here. England. Colder, harsher, different kind of pretty.”

  “Was it nice?”

  Claire considered. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. I suppose it would have been, had I noticed.”

  Leto hesitated. “What will happen when we go back?”

  Claire braced her elbows against the railing and faced him. “That’s largely up to your soul. You may remain a demon. You could try to speak to Boss Creepy if you want.”

  “No! No, that’s all right.” Leto shook his head so fast that Claire chuckled.

  “He’s not that bad. Well—he is, sometimes. But any good story is half exaggeration. It’s not that bad. Really, being—”

  Claire’s words cut off, and her expression went rigid as she stared past his shoulder. Before he could turn, a cold, sharp point presented itself between Leto’s shoulder blades. A voice, gritty and sounding of steel and stone, spoke low from behind him.

  “Stand down, demons.”

  “Speaking of exaggerations . . .” Claire had excellent posture. She had relaxed while leaning against the railing, softening as she talked of souls and eternity, enough that she seemed almost human. But she stood straight now, with a hard, chill gaze reserved for the voice behind him. Leto didn’t dare turn with something pressed against his spine, but the gaze told him enough.

  “We have no business with you, Watcher,” Claire said.

  Leto didn’t know what a Watcher was, but from the curl of Claire’s lip, it didn’t seem like a friendly thing. He’d never thought to ask what would happen to a soul that got stabbed while visiting Earth. I
n his human form, he doubted it was anything good.

  “But I have business with you,” the voice grated. “Identify yourselves, or you will be short one demonic servant.”

  “If you are as dull as you seem, it appears I must. You’re speaking to the head librarian of the Unwritten Wing. The boy you’re frightening is Leto, a human.” Claire held one hand clenched on her bag, as if shielding the trade tools within.

  “I know a demon when I see one. And you—a librarian.” The man breathed the word like a curse, like he was admitting something. “Of course. Then I am just in time.” He let up the blade from Leto’s back, though Leto wasn’t sure whether it was from relenting or that he was now focused on another target.

  Leto twisted as he backed up defensively. From the voice, he’d honestly expected something closer to Walter: looming and monstrous. But the man was not much taller than Leto himself, was thick shouldered and dark with strong features. Broad face, olive skin, and sharply angled brown eyes dark with threat. A strange trench coat hung to the ground, slate gray with an odd assortment of dark-colored feathers peeping out from under the epaulets and trailing down the back in a scattered pattern. A short sword clutched in one thick hand gleamed under the pier lights.

  Leto risked a glance at the evening crowds on the patio not too far off, but the eyes of the diners seemed to slide right over them as they gazed across the pier. No one saw the madman with a sword. Or Watcher, as Claire had called him. Whatever the man was, Leto wanted to be far away from him.

  Leto retreated, trying to move toward Claire, but the man flicked his gaze at him. “That’s far enough.” Dark eyes shifted back and the Watcher spoke low to Claire. “He would send you. I know what you’re here for. Hand over the book.”

  The corners of Claire’s lips tugged into a mocking smile, but Leto was close enough to see the new tension tighten her eyes. “Why, Watcher, patron checkouts are not my department. But if you want something to read, you only had to stop by during library hours. What are you after, some bodice ripper to liven up your dull, immortal exile?”