by A J Hackwith
“I suppose I’m still figuring out what I hate.”
“Where’d you learn a word like ‘diabetes,’ anyway? I thought your book was more fantasy based. Don’t tell me Brev had you read a medical text.”
“Leto made a joke, and I made him explain it.” Hero’s eyes went distant before he swiftly shifted the topic away from that memory. “How do you think they’re doing?”
Not Leto. The Library. Brevity. Andras. “I can’t know until we get out of here,” Claire admitted. The cake felt less sweet, turning to mud on her tongue. “It’s been too long, but time between realms can do funny things. Brevity’s smart. I’m hoping the reason we’ve heard nothing is because she called up the wards. The Library’s not defenseless. But it’s more built to keep books in rather than keep anything out—”
“The irony is delicious,” Hero interjected.
“And Andras has the pages,” Claire finished with a scowl. “Those pages, that codex . . . if Lucifer made it, it’s a part of him. Like Hell itself. Even a portion of one could tear down a ward, and Andras has ten whole pages. I might be happy that the angels don’t have it, but Andras . . . I’m afraid what he wants to do is even worse.”
“You’ll just need to take it back, then.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure the Horrors will be happy to listen to a deposed librarian. Without any of her tools of office. Without a library.”
“You have a library. A library of one.” Hero tapped his chest and flashed her a carefully practiced thousand-watt smile, only slightly dimmed by the smear of sand in his hair. “I’ll have you know I’m worth a hundred of those boring old books.”
“And an arrogance to match the worth.” Claire tried to sound harsh and failed.
“It’s all part of my charm. I—” Hero stumbled, as if his foot had tripped on air. He gripped the stone wall with white knuckles as if he suddenly wasn’t sure of his feet.
“Hero?”
“Just a moment. I feel . . . peculiar,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Claire studied him, then felt her pulse stop in her throat. The color began bleeding from Hero’s bright, brassy bronze hair. It formed cool wisps before evaporating. She looked to the hand pressed against the wall and saw a band of symbols glowing on his wrist. It was bright crimson even as all his other colors were being drained out. Her gut clenched, and the cake fell from her fingers. “The IWL.”
“The what?” Hero followed her gaze to the stamp on his wrist. Sweat began to bead on his temple, his face white with distress. “That can’t be. You’re the librarian.”
“Not necessarily. Not if Brevity’s done her job.”
“What? But that’s absurd—” He was fighting it, but Claire knew the pull of the Library always won. She saw the panic flare in his eyes as Hero came to the same conclusion. “Not yet, dammit!” He glared up at the air above them as if the Library’s interworld loan was something to be bargained with.
Claire felt her heart slowly turning to lead. The little parts of her that had been restored by sleep and food and banter, the illusion of hope—those bits were fading along with the peach of Hero’s skin and the blue of his worn coat.
“The Library needs you. It’s all right.” Her voice was eerily calm even in her own ears. She was a writer; she could lie for him.
“No. Wait. Hold on. Just try—maybe you’ll come with?” Hero snatched at her wrist and clamped down hard enough to pinch. His face was beginning to shimmer, just at the edges.
Claire forced her lips up, a halting smile. “Maybe.”
She was a better liar with words than with deeds, and she rarely smiled. It was no surprise that the alarm increased in Hero’s eyes. His grip on her wrist loosened but he refused to let go. “You can’t just—”
“Take care of them, Hero. You promised.”
Hero’s eyes widened. “Claire—”
The shimmer fell inward and absorbed him. There was a snap, a rush of air. It tingled over her skin, replacing the pressure of Hero’s hand with a lick of sharp static.
Silence. She became aware of the sound of harsh breathing. Sharp, staccato gasps of air. She realized it was hers.
The passage suddenly felt too dark, too small, and her vision wobbled. The cake was still splayed on the earth at her feet. She made to pick it up, but instead found the stone scraping harshly at her spine as she slid down the wall. She did not cry. Heat stung her eyes, and she stared sightlessly at the chocolate frosting smudging her fingers.
And Claire was alone.
35
BREVITY
Books change. We change. It’s time the system changed.
I will change it. For me. For the books. For our souls. The story can still be rewritten.
Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE
[Annotated at a much later date, with a heavy, bleak ink:]
We are subjects to our own natures. Books must be true to their stories, and whether we’re dead or alive, the role we’re given will win out. Accept your duty and find peace. Fighting against your nature is only madness. Learn from Librarian Poppaea’s tragedy, apprentice.
Ibukun of Ise, 991 CE
THE IWL WAS NOT a gentle process.
It did not ask, did not offer; it retrieved. So Brevity expected an annoyed book when she’d summoned him. She expected a haughty, insulted, snarky book.
Brevity had not expected a train wreck of grief and fury.
Hero had barely materialized from the summons when he gave a half-inhuman snarl, he spun, and Brevity found herself against the opposite shelves with a hand at her collar.
His eyes were narrowed, and his face wore an unfamiliar expression of pain. “You had no right!”
This was not how an IWL request went when Claire did it. Brevity bit down on her frustration and summoned as much authority as she could with books between her shoulder blades. “I am a librarian, and you are under—” But Hero cut her off, with more growl than words.
“You left her.”
That trembly feeling threatened in her chest again, alarm laced with panic, but Brevity held on. “The boss will be fine. She always is. We, on the other hand, are in trouble.”
Hero finally took note of the thundering beneath his feet. It’d only gotten worse, now accompanied by a distant warning creak. He released his grip and stepped back. Not all of the anger drained from his face, but his shoulders thrummed with new tension. “You may be correct. But Claire’s trapped. You need to send me back.”
“What? What happened?” Brevity faltered and noted for the first time Hero’s state of disarray, the fine layer of dust and sand and regret. Her eyes widened, but the walls shuddered again, and she shook her head. “Explain on the way.”
By the time Hero had sketched a quick outline of what had occurred in Malta and beyond, Brevity had led him through the center of the Library. She paused to rescue fallen books and grab scabbards from armor displays, shoving them into Hero’s arms as he talked.
The little hope that she’d possessed began to drift as he got further into the story. When Hero recounted Leto’s sacrifice, the hope had guttered entirely. When Hero sank into his own concerns about Claire and the labyrinth, Brevity latched onto the one thing she didn’t need hope for.
“Boss will find a way. She’s a real librarian, not—” Brevity stopped, squeezing her eyes shut against where that thought was going. When she opened them, she could feel the certainty in her own voice. “Boss isn’t gonna be stopped by nothing.”
“You didn’t see that place.” Hero’s free hand jerked through his hair and betrayed his anxiety. “Just send me back, and I’ll relay the situation—”
“I can’t.”
Hero stopped, nearly dropping the stack of sheathed blades in his arms. “What?”
“I can’t send you back. If you were still in Valhalla, sure. But you said it was a forg
otten realm—I can’t send you back somewhere we don’t have a path to.”
“But you just—”
“An IWL is kind of a one-way trip. Besides, the Library is sealed and . . .” Brevity paused as another jolt rolled through and rained dust down on them from the stacks. “And I need you here.”
A muddle of decisions warred on Hero’s face, and for a moment Brevity wondered if she really would have to lock him up with his book. Then a frown tipped the scales, and he settled for a terse nod. “Andras?”
“Only makes sense, given what you said. The wards are hol—” Brevity staggered as the air was snapped from her lungs. Hero put out a hand to steady her as the lights shifted from white to purple and back again. Hero’s hand was probably the only thing that kept her from curling up on the floor. “Something just took the first ward down.”
“How many wards do we have?”
“Three. But the first ward is the dream ward. If that one went . . .” Brevity faltered. “They’re supposed to hold up to demons. What could . . . Oh no.” She turned and Hero had to tilt so she didn’t smack on the business end of the swords he held. “You said he’s got the codex pages. He’s using the pages as weapons.”
Hero blinked. “He can do that?”
“It’s the Devil’s Bible. Boss couldn’t even touch the pages. Who knows what he inked them with?” Brevity’s stomach sank. She said the words so she didn’t feel them too hard. “If he’s burning up pages to get in, the wards aren’t going to hold.”
Hero stopped. The floor shivered beneath them as the thundering took up again. His knuckles whitened and curled around the bundle of scabbards. “What do you need me to do?”
It was a question that appeared to cost him something to ask. It helped, just a little. Brevity drew her shoulders up. “Clone yourself, perhaps procure an ancient artifact of great power while you’re at it?” She gave him a game smile as she caught a hail of books that fell from the nearest shelf.
Hero stared. “How can you be so blithe in the face of imminent demise?”
All she needed was an audience. Brevity swallowed the lump in her throat. “Practice. Remember who I work for?” There was a particularly loud impact, and she shot an anxious glance down the aisle, where she could see the ward lights still floating above the desk. The second light was stuttering rapidly. “Not good. Let’s hurry and . . . I dunno, set up some blockades, maybe?”
“I assume there’s a plan?” Hero asked. “Because if it’s two against an army of demonic Horrors, I think I’d rather just take my chances on the regime change with the damsels.”
“Well, without being able to reach Walter, we’re kinda—” Brevity halted midstep, felt like an idiot, and let out a squeal. “Damsels. Oh, you’re brilliant!”
Hero managed a confused “Of course I am . . .” before following to see what he was brilliant about.
Brevity changed course, mentally scolding herself. She’d been so worried about filling Claire’s shoes, about being a librarian, running the Library as Claire would want, preserving the books as Claire would do—failing where Claire would have succeeded. She’d tried so hard to think and act like Claire, when the answer was staring her in the face.
She had been thinking like Claire. She’d been thinking of the damsels as books, things to preserve and curate.
Not people.
The glass-set door cracked as Brevity barged into the damsel suite. The occupants were gathered in uneasy clusters, likely already worried from what Charlotte and Aurora had reported. A dozen sets of pretty eyes narrowed as they took in Hero with his arms full of weapons.
Brevity could positively feel the blush that radiated as Hero shifted next to her. “Plan, muse?”
“Plan,” Brevity confirmed. She took a deep breath and dropped her face into something apologetic. She turned to the damsels and cleared her throat. “Hey, guys? I need a moment. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to need to restrict all of you to your books for your own safety. The Library is experiencing technical difficulties with our wards—mainly demons bent on destruction, see—and should the wards fall, it’d be best if you’re out of the way. So if you please can make your way to your books—”
“What?” a blond woman interrupted. She wore a leather catsuit that frankly defied the laws of physics and anatomy. She looked like a spy or, rather, some spy’s poorly written sidekick. She must have been new if she was still wearing that thing.
“I know this is very sudden, ladies.” Brevity kept her voice slow and calm. “Hero and I will do our very best, but it’s likely that you’ll experience a change of management in the near future. Andras is determined to possess your books and he has Horrors—”
She was drowned out by a swell of murmurs from the damsels. Charlotte, appearing to have her puritan sensibilities insulted more by the disorder than by the news, let out a sharp whistle to silence the group. She turned to Brevity. “What does a demon want with us?”
Brevity exchanged a mournful look with Hero. “We think he intends to use books as magical power for his coup. Or possibly bribes. For the court.”
That brought the protests back in force. “I’m not being someone’s reward again,” a princess with white hair said.
“At least you didn’t get fridged in yours.” A curvy woman in a pencil skirt slumped into a chair. “Where’s Claire?”
“Claire’s on her way . . .” Brevity faltered. “But we might be on our own for now. But now . . .” Brevity raised her hands. “No need for distress. We have Hero here and—”
“Heroes don’t do shit,” a firm voice spoke up. The damsel wore what might have started its life as a gauzy peasant gown, but at some point, it had been ripped and tied and stitched and paired with utilitarian fatigues until they resembled more of an androgynous apocalyptic soldier than a damsel. They spit and glared with open hostility at Hero. “Except die first. They do that well.”
“I don’t—”
“They’re kinda right,” a curvy alien with lavender tentacles said shyly.
“Your books—”
“Our books suck,” Charlotte said, and Brevity really would have to find out where that slang had entered her vocabulary. “We’re stronger outside of them.” She waited until she received some scattered nods from around the room. She squared up to Brevity. “So give us weapons.”
“What?” Brevity placed a hand to her chest, widening her eyes. “I couldn’t. I’m the acting librarian and you’re—”
“We’re damsels. Unsuitable ones at that—isn’t that why we’re here?” Charlotte picked an imaginary fleck from her skirt. At some point, she’d modified it to make it easier to walk in, Brevity realized. Modeled after Claire’s, perhaps. Charlotte crossed her arms. “Maybe that just makes us people now.”
“And people always have a choice,” Hero added softly.
“Look, even a hero gets it,” someone else muttered with only a small amount of disdain.
Charlotte nodded. “We’re people. And we aren’t sitting back and letting some old man tell the story for us again.”
A low agreement, hesitant at first, trickled through the room. The damsels seemed divided, but the quiet broke when Aurora, silent as always, padded forward on hooved feet. She inspected Hero’s arms and reached hesitantly for the scabbard of a blade nearly as long as she was tall. It wobbled in her hands, and she stepped back. She was followed by a chubby boy in a wizard’s robe. The leather-clad spy was next, selecting a thin dagger.
She sniffed. “No guns?”
“Tell me about it,” said Hero.
And then the rest of the damsels began to take up arms.
Hero divested himself of all but his own sword, and soon enough they were busy pulling out unwritten combat books and conferring. Hero withdrew to where Brevity stood in the doorway, shoulder bracketed against the frame. She was running through the time left. They would n
eed a plan. Barricades. Units. Tactics.
Hero tilted his head. “That was clever, what you did there.”
“What was?” Brevity acted surprised.
“Making them volunteer. Tricky.”
“I didn’t make them do anything. I just had faith they’d come up with the right answer.” Brevity sniffed. “Inspiration means having faith. It’s . . . it’s what muses do. What I did, once.”
“You must have been a brilliant muse,” Hero said.
A quiet smile grew on Brevity’s lips. “I was. Now I’m a brill librarian. Let’s get to work.”
36
RAMIEL
No story is insignificant. That’s what the existence of the Unwritten Wing teaches us. No escapist fantasy, no far-off dream, no remembered suffering. Every story has meaning, has power. Every story has the power to sustain, the power to destroy, the power to create. Stories shape time, for Pete’s sake. Once upon a time. Long, long ago. Someday. And then what happened?
Living author or dead, written or not, your story shakes the world. That’s common sense to a muse, and the idea librarians are supposed to honor. That every story, every human, matters.
The hard part is convincing ourselves first.
Apprentice Librarian Brevity, 2010 CE
LIGHT BLUE CAPSULES SPARKED a dull constellation against a navy blanket. They were that medical blue: the color of latex gloves and bitter chalk, but dulled by the bedroom’s yellow-tinged lights. They held the attention of the boy curled over them with a hunger-pang intensity.
When Rami went looking for the remains of Leto’s soul, he found a cluttered bedroom floating in darkness. Inside, a haggard teenager hunched over his bed, knees drawn and bony. The pointed ears and the oiled skin were gone, but Rami recognized the tangled curly hair, the soft brown coloring, the gaunt jut of the chin from the demon-boy he’d met. He was Leto, and yet he wasn’t. He was what Leto would be born from. Guilt and regret and self-loathing.
Rami knew exactly what that looked like.
