by A J Hackwith
Malphas waited until Claire reluctantly sat again before speaking, fond and soft, which was when she was most dangerous. “If—if—our lord had an inkling of Andras’s ambition, and if he decided to test Andras’s loyalty by dangling a morsel in front of him—”
“That sacrificial morsel being the pages of the codex, my Library, and my people.”
“If he did as you say,” Malphas continued, “then he may have taken precautions to limit damage. And he must have had the faith—misplaced, in my opinion—that you would produce the necessary outcome. That doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences for your actions, child of man. We have no control over that.”
The way she said it, with the calm of the ageless, made a final, awful piece snap into place in Claire’s brain. Her anger fell. “This isn’t coming from Lucifer at all.”
“No.” Malphas leaned back, crossing scarred, muscled arms. “When Hell comes for you, little mortal, you’ll know it.”
Claire tried to ignore that. “The books . . . have a grievance?”
Malphas cast a look around the ash-strewn hall. “Wouldn’t you?”
The Library had always been not quite quiet. Silence was always built on the susurrus of rustling pages, the creak of leather spines, the rumbles of stories sleeping fitfully. There was none of that now. The books slept, but dreamlessly. It turned the Library into a tomb, and again the dust of a thousand books turned to graves clogged Claire’s chest. “And the Library chooses its librarian,” Claire said dully. “But in the stacks, they—it, the Library—withdrew. It gave me a chance to make things right.”
“And that’s what you’ll do, as Arcanist,” Malphas said. “The Arcane Wing will no longer be a threat.”
Claire knew it wasn’t wise to look away from Malphas, but she found her gaze had drifted to the cluttered desk in front of her. The new stitches on Hero’s book had tightened. Claire picked up scissors and began mechanically snipping off the loose ends. She had cleaned up only two knots when Malphas broke out with a terrifying sound: laughter.
“Despair is such a dull look on you. Don’t start boring me now.” Malphas leaned over the desk, looking every inch the dotty, harmless old woman she pretended to be. “You’ll still work in the Library, of course. There’s plenty of work to do to clean up your mess. As you said, the Arcane Wing and the Unwritten Wing are the allies that make the Library. I never had much patience for reading, but it gives Hell an air of erudite respectability.”
“As Arcanist, I get to choose my assistants.” Rather than let it sink in, Claire latched onto a demand at random. She glanced briefly at Rami. “I won’t work with those vile creatures Andras had in here.”
“Easy enough. You destroyed most of them anyway,” Malphas reminded her. She slid off the desk, rolling her shoulders like she’d won something. “I’ll leave you to give your pawns the good news.”
The demon disappeared in a swirl of iron and cinnamon. Claire stared at her desk. She found herself preoccupied with the knots twisted on Hero’s book, noting the irregularities for trimming. Her hands clenched when Rami cleared his throat.
“I can go find Brevity. If you . . .” He trailed off when Claire nodded, and he turned and disappeared into the stacks.
Claire tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She drew in a slow breath and exhaled firmly, driving out any thought of the changes to come. She shuddered, eyes squeezed tighter.
When she could be sure of herself, she twisted in her chair and squinted at the unmoving body on the couch. The body whose face hadn’t moved but whose breathing had shifted just slightly when Malphas appeared.
“I suppose you heard all that.”
A whisper of movement tugged up the corner of Hero’s lips. He kept his eyes closed, but his color was better. When his lips parted, Hero’s voice was hoarse. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Rami was concerned about you. You could have said something.”
“I like playing hard to get.”
Claire snorted. “You do love a chase.”
Hero couldn’t quite manage a laugh, and when he tried, it turned into a pathetic, stumbling cough. He licked his lips with some effort. “Did you destroy all the pages of the codex?”
Claire’s smile was bitter. “Maybe. Maybe not. Better to let the courts wonder. The Library will be vulnerable for a while. If I did destroy them, we’re fair game. Open to being swept up by the next demon with a hunger for power. If I didn’t, then I’m a threat only Lucifer has the authority to address. Until they know, even Malphas will stay out of the Library.”
Hero huffed weakly. “Clever.”
“I learned from the best.” Claire’s eyes dodged to Andras’s dagger. She turned back to the book in front of her and picked up the paste brush again. “For now I’ll need to finish fixing your binding. Again.”
“Maybe you’ll get it right this time.”
“Everybody’s a critic,” Claire muttered as she began to apply the paste where the binding would adhere to leather. She worked in quiet for a few moments until Hero spoke again.
“I heard you, you know.”
Claire turned and saw Hero had cracked one eye open with great effort. His gaze glittered, beneath the bruises and black filth. Claire turned back to her work. “Heard what?”
“When you confronted Andras. You said ‘my book.’”
“Is that what you heard?” Claire felt a small smile grow on her lips before she remembered herself. Loss welled in her stomach as she shook her head. “No books are mine now.”
For once, Hero didn’t have a response.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
THE DOORS TO THE Arcane Wing protested as she pushed them open. Claire stood at the entrance a moment, squinting as she indulged her gloomy mood with the darkened interior.
It had taken much talking and two pots of tea to get Brevity to accept her sudden promotion. The muse had ranted and railed, and at one point Rami had had to restrain her from fade-stepping right to Lucifer’s court herself to set things right. But in the end, she’d slumped down beside Claire on the couch, sulking dully.
“This sucks, boss.”
Claire silently agreed, but she rolled her eyes at Brevity. “Only because it’s new. You will be an adequate librarian if you—”
“But after all we did. That I— It’s not fair.”
“What ever gave you the idea that Hell’s Library would be fair? You should know better by now. Stories are capricious at the best of times, and . . .” She bit off the lecture that might make her feel better but would only increase Brevity’s hurt. Tears had just finished drying tracks down her face, but the muse looked close to waterworks again. She slipped her hand into Brevity’s. “You’ve already proven yourself to be a champion of the Library. You’re strong, Brev. You’ll be an admirable librarian. Better than I was. Look at it this way. You can finally brew all the atrocious strawberry-whatsit tea you want.”
Brevity pulled together the broken bits of her smile. “And you’ll be there?”
“I’ll be around,” Claire said evasively. “Just not when you’re stinking up the place with that rubbish.”
There might have been kinder ways to pass the mantle, but Brevity had experience reading between Claire’s words. She rallied to help Claire finish restoring Hero’s book. Claire had chosen to rebind him in a vivid green leather cover—primarily because it matched his eyes, but also because it was bright enough to annoy his aesthetic. The book was repaired, but the front pages remained stubbornly blank. No matter what techniques she attempted, Hero was still exiled from his own book.
He’d taken it in stride and seemed to at least get more color back in his cheeks as time went on. His eyes were back to their usual calculating mischief.
Brevity began the long work of putting the stacks back in order (the gargoyle had done the kindness of righting the
fallen shelves before returning to its post in the hallway). Hero helped where he could, primarily by grumbling loudly from his recovery couch. After a few days, Claire felt confident enough to leave them to their work.
The Library would go on without Claire. The stories already had.
Rather than indulge in the morose thought, Claire decided to return to the Arcane Wing the artifacts she’d stolen and see what her new posting would bring. It was just as gloomy as she remembered. The shelves and cupboard stood ransacked where she’d raced through, scooping up anything Andras had left behind.
The raven cages, naturally, stood open and empty at the back. Arlid had taken back her people, leaving the place oddly silent. Claire ran her fingers over dust-coated shelves as she worked her way back, trying to place amulets and rings back where she remembered them.
“One shelf up. It was next to that atrocious violet crown.”
Claire placed the piece and turned to see Hero lounging against the open doors. “Lounging,” perhaps, was not the right word, as the doors contributed a great deal to keeping Hero’s battered body upright. His arm was in a sling, but his wounds were beginning to heal. Scar material, pale as parchment against his tan, was beginning to form in spiderwebs along his jaw. Skin puckered and curled over his temple, marring his much-lauded cheekbones. Time would never fade the scars entirely.
Hero was marked, changed from how he was written, but it didn’t appear to affect the mocking smile at her questioning look. “I have an excellent memory and humans think of the ugliest things.”
“Yes, well, someone dreamed you up.”
“You wound me, warden.” Hero placed the fingers of his uninjured hand to his chest, bitterness keeping his voice from being as light as it should have been. He gestured to his face. “I suppose there’s no being mistaken for a hero now.”
Claire turned back to the shelves. “Don’t be silly. You could be a grimdark darling. Heartless and rugged.”
“Rugged. Now, there’s something I’ve never been called.” Hero chuckled, the act of which made him grimace. “But this place is dark enough for both of us.”
“Andras was not a bright person. Spaces match their owners.” Claire gave the warren of bleak cages a baleful look.
“So why isn’t it changing?”
The way Claire blinked at him elicited another chuckle that looked like it hurt. Hero rubbed his ribs ruefully. “It never occurred to you. You’re still thinking of this place as Andras’s. It’s yours now, isn’t it?”
It stung a little, but Claire had to nod. Hero made an imperious gesture. “Then Claire-ify it. Oh—clarify! God, I’m clever.”
“Please stop,” Claire groaned, and surveyed the lab, if only to shut him up. It was too dark, too sterile, too much a cross between Frankenstein’s laboratory and a Gothic parlor. She concentrated, remembering the golden glow of the Library, shabbily appointed chairs, and hot tea. She couldn’t re-create that, but perhaps she could create something adjacent.
The shift was slow, like that of a photo developing in a dark room. Color slowly seeped into the walls, warming the wood. Pools of light sprang up with lamps where there were none a moment before. The orientation of the lab seemed to pivot around her until all had changed. Claire twisted around slowly to take it in.
Tidy cubbies built of dark wood made neat rows along the sides of the large room. Each row was spotted intermittently with a globe lamp. An ordinary lamp, not like those in the Library she knew, made of frosted glass and brass, but tidy and functional. Generous worktables dotted the front, gleaming with polished wood and more brass tools lit by overhead lights. It was warm, orderly, if too mechanical. Not quite the Unwritten Wing, but approximate. Some tension slowly began to leak from Claire’s chest.
Hero made an approving sound in his throat, soft and a little surprised. “Nicely done.”
“It . . . it will do.” Claire dusted her hands, though she hadn’t used them, and focused on Hero. “I suppose you’re here to blackmail me. You were going to run off and tell the courts what a horrible librarian I am, weren’t you?”
Hero pursed his lips and looked away. Claire thought she almost detected red in his cheeks. He reached a hand up to rub his cheek but stopped when his fingertips touched the scars. “I . . . was angry when I said that. Besides, I suppose that’s lost any bargaining power now. Now that you’re not . . .”
Claire shrugged. “They could always demote me to janitor.”
Hero chuckled and winced. Up close, Claire could see there were still feathers of bruised ink clinging to the skin around the scars. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“Shouldn’t you?”
Claire snorted, turning her head to survey the room again. She was aware of Hero’s watching her for a reaction. “I suppose I wanted to see the place. And give Brevity some room to settle in.”
“You haven’t been exiled, you know. The Unwritten Wing needs plenty of help. One big, happy Library, after all.”
“One big, happy,” Claire repeated.
Hero rolled his eyes. “What are you going to call the place?”
“Call it? It’s the Arcane Wing.”
“That’s incredibly boring. Besides, I can’t see calling you the Arcanist. How about . . . the Vaults?”
Claire wrinkled her nose. “Too steampunk. Arcane lab?”
“Too nerdy. You do lock things up. How about the Cells?”
“What, so you can keep calling me warden? No, thanks.” Claire’s smile stilled as her eyes landed on the empty cages at the back. Her chest felt hollow. “Maybe a place like this shouldn’t have a name.”
“Oh, come, now.” Hero made a sharp noise. “I won’t have you sulking down here by yourself. You’re no fun when you brood.”
“I’m no longer here for your amusement. Not your librarian now, remember?”
“True. You’re not the warden anymore.” Hero considered. “I suppose I’ll just have to run away again. Brevity won’t have time to miss me for a while.”
That was bait that Claire was in no mood to ignore. She whipped her head back around and stabbed a finger at Hero’s chest. “You absolutely will not. Brevity will have a hard enough ti—”
“Peace,” Hero interrupted, and slid his gaze lazily around her face before coming to a conclusion. “How about a truce? You stick around, I’ll stick around.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“Is it?” Hero mused. “I thought that’s what friends did.”
Claire pressed her lips together, silenced by that. Artifacts gleamed underneath their new, cozy lights. Gems winked with dark eyes, all turned toward their new keeper. The force of the gaze felt heavy on Claire’s shoulders, harsh but not hostile. The wing listened. The wing watched.
Hero broke the spell after a moment, clicking his tongue. He squeezed her arm.
“Come on, Claire. New story. There’s work to do.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book started its life as a nonsense short story about a nervous demon courier and a grumpy librarian. It was a long, winding road from an idea in my own Unwritten Wing to here, a finished book in your hands. It was not the first book I ever drafted (there are many, many trunked novels), but it was the first book I truly wanted to believe in. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to properly thank and acknowledge every kind person who helped this strange book on its way, but I’ll try.
Thank you, first and foremost, to my agent, Caitlin McDonald, who believed so much in this book that she forgave the fact that it came attached to an author with the personality of a magpie. And to Rebecca Brewer at Ace Books, who championed it onward. Without Caitlin’s and Rebecca’s considerable skill and energy, Claire and the gang would not have made it the last mile out of the Unwritten Wing. I also want to extend my sincere gratitude to the entire Ace and Penguin Random House team, including Jessica Plummer, Alexis Nixon, and
Dan Walsh.
Special thanks to writer friends and mentors who read early drafts and yelled at me until I explained how living books actually worked:
Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Scott Lynch, Steve Gould, Sherwood Smith, Chris Wolfgang, Jennie Goloboy, Tyler Hayes, Jo Miles, and Elizabeth Kalmbach (and Cru). Thank you to Rebecca Littlefield, a dear friend who was the one who heard me go, “Ha-ha, but what if a library in Hell . . .” and ordered me to write it. Special thanks to Jennifer Mace, who helped me check a few Britishisms, and John Appel, my consultant on all matters pointy-things related. All errors are my own.
Thanks to Jilly Dreadful’s Brainery class, and the amazing Viable Paradise workshop community, who helped me put the book through the fire and melt out the (many) flaws. All my love, gratitude, cheesy weasels, and space whales to the writers of the Isle, VP20, and the Pub. I would not still be doing this without you.
Love and gratitude to my family, who have always encouraged my writing even when they did not entirely (or even partially) share the interest. To my sister, for understanding what it takes to get here, and my mom and dad, who didn’t, but were proud of me anyway. Look, Mom. All those book fairs and bedtime stories paid off. Dad—it’s not a cowboy story but I hope it’ll do.
And to my husband, Levi, to whom this book is dedicated: thank you. You were my first reader, the one who gave the crucial initial shove out of my personal Unwritten Wing, and have been there for every word, weasel, and win. You are and always will be my favorite story.
A. J. Hackwith is (almost) certainly not an ink witch in a hoodie. She’s a queer writer of fantasy and science fiction living in Seattle and writes sci-fi romance as Ada Harper. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise writers’ workshop and her work appears in Uncanny magazine and assorted anthologies. Summon A.J. at your own peril with an arcane circle of fountain pens and classic RPGs, or you can find her on Twitter and other dark corners of the internet.
