by A J Hackwith
Andras nodded and sauntered through the hall. Beatrice waited until the door shut again. “Not necessarily, you know.”
Claire had turned to confer with Hero, but she narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
Beatrice gripped her arms, as if anchoring herself. Her voice was quiet again. “You don’t have to find a way out. You could stay. As long as you wanted.”
You could stay. The words Beatrice said struck Claire in the chest. And then what she hadn’t said: with her.
And what they meant together: to leave Hell behind.
The prospect snagged her breath, and she had to work her lips a few times before the proper words beat out the longing ones. “Where’s the codex, Beatrice?”
“You could stay. That was always the plan, wasn’t it? To—”
Claire gritted her teeth against the words. “Where are the pages?”
“I’m not asking anything of you. You don’t have to be with me. You could stay anywhere in the city, and Hell couldn’t—”
Claire felt heat overwhelming her eyes, and she spun, instead focusing a furious scowl that startled Hero into taking a step back. He’d been silent through the entire exchange, a small miracle. Claire found it easy to ignore the muddled questions on his face. “It’s here somewhere. Watch her. I’m going to go fetch Leto and form a course of action.” She heard Beatrice make a sound of protest behind her. “If she tries anything, shoot her.”
Hero gave her an uncertain version of his standard cavalier smile. “As you say, warden.”
Beatrice tried another entreaty, but Claire spun and stormed toward the door.
24
BREVITY
I would never dishonor my elders, but there were times when I thought Fleur was a frivolous old woman. She held my leash, as I was her apprentice, and she made decisions that seemed so effortless—thoughtless—to me. I judged her for it. But I understand now. The leash gave me something to pull against. To argue. To form my own opinions, but never bear any of the risk of the choice. It’s easy to be brave on a leash.
Now the muses argue and whittle away at me. Demons salivate over books. The Arcanist questions my every judgment.
It’s hard to be brave alone.
Librarian Yoon Ji Han, 1799 CE
ALL WORKS ACCOUNTED FOR.
Brevity had run the inventory twice, just to be certain. Three times, to verify she was not hallucinating. It’d taken long enough that Aurora had retreated to the damsel suite to sleep. But the third inventory matched the first two. The blue ledger printed the results in neat, spidery ink that bloomed across the page: no oddities, and all unwritten books accounted for. There was Hero’s book, of course, which was listed tidily as “out on loan,” but all other books, paintings, and other uncreated art were secure in the Unwritten Wing.
Aurora had been insistent that there’d been someone in the stacks. Claire might have dismissed it as a figment of the damsel’s imagination, but Brevity knew imagination. It hadn’t been imagination that’d driven Aurora to speak, or the shelves to shiver. But it made no sense, someone creeping into the Library and not removing anything. The only ones that could enter the Library when it was closed were its current residents, books and artifacts, and those that took care of them.
Those that took care of them. The Arcane Wing’s pet Horrors, clawed hands drifting over shadowed gems. Brevity suppressed a shudder. She tried to think of any rationale around it, anything that would let her just shake the whole thing off and brew the herbal teas Claire hated and binge on the damsels’ baked goodies until the whole thing was settled.
It wasn’t what Claire would do. Claire would stare down a Horror and solve the whole mystery with the power of superior disdain. No, Brevity amended, perhaps she wouldn’t, because she’d never believe there was a mystery in the first place. Brevity wasn’t Claire, and never could be.
Brevity stood, head briefly turning toward the damsel suite. She spared a thought for Walter in his office. Someone would surely be willing to accompany her, give her a reason to be brave as she checked on Horrors. Brevity had always been better at being brave for others than for herself.
But the damsels couldn’t leave the Library. Walter had his own duties. And Claire had told Brevity to care for the wing.
Brevity stowed the ledger, abandoned her tea, and locked the doors behind her as she wound her way down to the Arcane Wing.
The monstrous doors of the Arcane Wing should have been barred and locked, since that was what Claire and Andras had agreed, which would give Brevity the nice excuse that, hey, at least she’d checked.
But the doors were not barred and locked. Aftrer Brevity skipped down the last steps, she skidded to a stop on the dusty hardwood, just short of the reaching shadows cast by the wide double doors of the Arcane Wing. Which stood open.
She wound seafoam hair around her finger and gave it an anxious tug as she took a step over the threshold. The Arcane Wing felt much as it always had, a slithering, hostile composition of shadow and steel. The air was weighted with cold, clinical things, dust and formaldehyde, rubies and neglect. The Arcane Wing had never been a bright place, but even the domed work lights were dimmed, throwing the cavernous space into thick eddies of gloom. Brevity hesitated in the island of light created by the hallway, not quite prepared to dive in.
“H-hullo? Is anyone—” Her voice and courage failed as the ravens unleashed a series of shrieks from the rookery. Otherwise, the Arcane Wing was silent. She didn’t have to venture far in to be certain of it: no demons, no Horrors, nothing. It should have been reassuring, not having to face the monsters she went looking for, and Brevity’s shoulders disengaged from hugging her ears until the thought occurred to her: If they’re not here, then they’re somewhere else.
The breath stopped in Brevity’s throat, and her leg muscles seized.
It was the unknown that did it. It was an easy mistake to make, thinking fear was the ultimate domain of demons. They looked the part. Or mortals, they had such fleeting things to lose. But humans were constantly changing, and demons were creatures of certainty. The truth was no one, no one, knew fear like muses. Fear was an operation of the imagination, the ability to see an empty space and imagine. Imagine what might be there, the possibilities filling in what reality left blank. To be afraid was an exercise of self-inspired suffering, and Brevity wore inspiration in her skin.
It burned now, the edge of the blue tattoo writhing against the fine bones of her wrist and hungry to be peeled loose. In Brevity’s mind, black sickle claws raked over gems and artifacts one moment, her skin the next. Plucking the soft strings of her veins, shredding her. In her mind, the Horrors reached out so surely from the dark she could hear them. It didn’t matter that they weren’t there, couldn’t be there. If she released the inspiration gilt in her skin, pure potential, it would make it real.
A raven shriek brought her back to her senses. Her hand hovered halfway over her wrist. Brevity didn’t try to calm the shuddering heart in her chest, didn’t try to fight the panic that washed over her. She knew from experience that was no good. Instead, she released it, turned her back on the unseen claws, and ran.
She should go to Walter. She would go to Walter. She would be safe with Walter, and she would send a message to Claire on Earth, and Claire could come back and deal with it, and Brevity could be brave for someone else again. That’s what she needed to do. She just needed to navigate down the hallways, avoid the Horrors and her own fear long enough to make it to the transport office and summon Claire. She could do it.
She didn’t remember throwing open the doors of the Unwritten Wing, but she must have locked them behind her. Her knees hit an unwritten rug, and the disappointment she felt was a distant, muted thing. She was devoting too much effort to trying to stop her short, rabbit-quick breath.
Of course, she hadn’t made it to Walter. Of course, she’d not warned Claire, h
ad run instead to cower and hide. Muses could imagine anything, inspire anything in an author, but for themselves? All Brevity gave herself was fear.
She was here now, but even her mounting anxiety wanted her to do something. Her hands trembled as she dug through the drawers and came up with a small silver box. Brevity squinted at the words inside, cursing Claire’s cramped handwriting. Eventually, she sorted out three squares of translucent vellum, one violet, one red, one black. Dreams. Blood. Ink. The fibers burned her fingers, and Brevity forced herself to focus on the pain as she uncovered the flame of a gas lamp. One paper, then another, went up in a shriek of smoke as Brevity mumbled the written commands. Her voice was hoarse, words dragged over broken glass, but the Library understood her anyway. The air tightened, then snapped in a hiss of anise and ash. One, two, three wards, sealing off the Unwritten Wing from the rest of existence once again.
The air took on an unnatural silence, the taste of Hell fading from the roof of Brevity’s mouth. She fell back against the desk, thinking for a moment she could summon up a feeling of silliness, of shame. If the silliness came, that would mean she was wrong about the shadows, wrong about the fear. It would still be a failure, having run back here instead of investigating further, but at least that would mean that she hadn’t lost her chance to summon help in the face of an actual threat. Claire could get back and scold her for sealing the Library, and they could laugh about it. Brevity could take her scolding and make it into a joke and—
Dust fluttered from the shelves. The papers on Claire’s desk rippled as if an errant breeze had shivered by. Brevity’s breath stuttered, clenching when a barely audible boom vibrated. Far away, like a soft finger plucking strings. Nails dragging along glass. An outer ward, being probed by a curious hand, too weak to knock properly. Whoever it was should give up, go away, realize the Library was closed and—
The next shudder reached in between her ribs, jostling her chest as the whole wing creaked. Again, increasing in frequency and strength until it was a war drum. Because that’s what it was, not a knock, not an idle curiosity of a passing demon. Someone was knocking, and would keep knocking until it was granted entrance. Brevity’s resolve shriveled in her chest, strangling her breath along with it, and she sank to the floor alone.
25
LETO
I tried writing it down, my life, so I wouldn’t forget it. Where I was born. My parents. My friends, my loves. My husband, my child. But every time I try to write down something from my mortal life in the log, the words melt into the paper like watermarks. Gone as soon as the ink dries. The log is a record for librarians, not people. I can feel its judgment.
But what happens when the inevitable occurs? When the world forgets me, so I begin to forget myself? What do I become, when I am nothing but a librarian?
Apprentice Librarian Claire Hadley, 1986 CE
MDINA DIDN’T SEEM TO be a natural habitat for the young. Bored teenagers and young children peppered the steady stream of tourists at the entrance, but the farther Leto wandered into the city, taking narrow stone-walled alleys at random, the fewer people his own age he saw.
Fewer people in general, really. The buildings and streets were built out of that same worn island stone. Thick flagstones swallowed his footsteps as he took corners without a destination in mind. Stern signs hung at residential intersections, declaring that the city residents took the name Silent City seriously. As long as he was quiet, no one questioned what a bleary-eyed American teenager was doing so far from the tour buses.
It was probably fortunate, as his head felt like an oil slick just waiting for a light. Thoughts black and toxic, coiled with hurt. He’d felt these black thoughts invade before, more often when he was his full demon self in Hell, but this didn’t feel like an artificial nastiness. When he had felt the demon thoughts before, they’d been like a computer virus, infecting and corrupting but originating externally. The anger simmering in his chest now, he couldn’t understand, but it felt natural, close to the skin.
The winding alley dumped out into a small courtyard. The fountain at the center hadn’t held water for a while, but the sun-warmed stones felt nice under his fingers. He slumped against them and closed his eyes to breathe. The farther he got into the city, farther away from the echoing Hellhound howls, the less fear gripped him, leaving him with just the thoughts he brought with him.
Lashing out at Claire had been more instinct than choice, but feeding off her shame had been unforgivable. Claire had been kind to him, more than she needed to. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but then he’d been glad he had, because he was just so angry. It was a living thing, boiling in his gut. He was so tired of being disappointed, being hurt. And this cut deeper, somehow. He knew, logically, that everyone in Hell was there because of their own failings. He knew Claire wasn’t just an unwritten author, and she could be hard and merciless.
But there was sin and there was betrayal. The idea of betraying someone who trusted you—images flashed through his head: a death for lack of well-placed trust . . .
Leto gripped his head to stop the throb. It was unforgivable. The worst sin. It welled, a searing and familiar hurt, and he immediately wanted to hurt anyone who’d do such a thing. To make them suffer, as they deserved to.
That’d be what a demon would do, wouldn’t it?
He’d pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes hard enough to feel his pulse. Light flared and the pain was real, despite his temporary form. Leto wasn’t sure which was the real him anymore, the demon or the human. He wondered if he’d have to choose at some point, and which was the better choice.
“Easy there. Those eyes are expensive to replace.” Claire’s soft voice nearly sent him tumbling into the empty fountain.
She stood at the other side of the stone ring, diminished somehow. Her shoulders were hunched and her arms wrapped around her, pale knuckled, holding on or holding in. It was a fragile pose, human. Irrationally, that made anger lance back up Leto’s throat. He turned away. “I bet you could stitch me up just like your books. Demons are easy enough to replace.”
“You’re not a demon.”
“And you’re not a liar.” Leto hated the bitterness in his own voice.
Claire sighed. He could feel her looking around, gauging the emptiness of the square before speaking. “Leto, listen, you shouldn’t run off—”
“Or what?” He was being petulant, but he didn’t care. He reached for what he instinctively knew would hurt. “You’ll banish me too?”
“Those words only work in Hell,” Claire snapped before grimacing. “What I mean is . . . No. Leto, I would never—”
“Never? Sure, go on—tell me everything you’d never do as a dead person. You’ve been so good at keeping your word so far.” His hand wound a fist over his chest to quell the clenching feeling. It was irrational, this black bleak feeling lodged in his lungs. He didn’t want to wield it, especially not at Claire again, but it felt like the infection had reached his tongue. He hurt. “What’s gonna happen now? Are you going to turn against us too? I bet you could figure out some way to sell us out, trap us here, hide your secret.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s not as if— I never lied to you. I just didn’t—” Claire stopped, and from the look that crossed her face, Leto didn’t need to say anything to crucify her. She was doing it to herself.
“I’m not saying I don’t deserve it, Leto,” Claire said softly. “I deserve everything you’re feeling. But we’re stuck here together, for now, and contrary to what you think, I would never leave you behind. So if you want to sit here forever and hate me, that’s okay. Or if you never want to speak to me again—”
Something of the acidic feeling withered in Leto’s throat and turned to ash that left an awful feeling in his mouth. He heard the whispers from the raven road again. We never talk anymore.
“No,” Leto said instead. “I just . . . I followed you. Because you seem
ed . . . different, better. I didn’t know where else to go, and you seemed to care.”
“Seemed.” Claire repeated the word, half-rueful. She made a cautious approach around the fountain, slow and wary. And weary. Exhaustion bruised her eyes. “You can care and still cause harm. Feeling, caring, for someone else is the worst kind of weapon, in my experience. It allows you to do things you never thought you could do and things you never thought you would do. All for the love of someone else. It’s a trap I’d avoided on principle since Beatrice, up until recently.”
There was an earnestness, an entreaty, that softened her face when she looked at him. The librarian of Hell’s Library wasn’t ever soft, but Claire, occasionally, was. It was what eased the last of Leto’s anger. It drained out of him like an oil spill, leaving him suddenly hollow but stained feeling. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hold on to it or let it go. His shoulders slumped. His voice felt more lost than angry when he found it again. “How do I trust you?”
Claire sat down beside him and considered his question seriously. “I think it’d be disingenuous to ask you to. Let’s make a deal.”
Leto rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Adults only say ‘Let’s make a deal’ when they need something they can’t justify.”
Claire’s frown inched up into a smile at one side of her lips. “It appears your teenager memories are coming along nicely.”
Leto gave her a dull look. “That’s also insulting.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry. It’s been a long time since my—” Claire slouched her shoulder against his. It felt comforting. “You don’t have to trust me. Just work with me. Give me the chance to set right all the wrongs I’ve done here. I need to get back to the Library. There’s something off here, this whole situation. The codex, Beatrice just happening to be here, even you—”
“I already knew I wasn’t right.”
