The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,116
ahead. A soft light rippled out of an arch and pooled on the stone floor. A chill danced up Claire’s neck, and Hero had tilted his head. “Do you hear music?”
Claire listened, but there were only the constant far-off rumbles. “No. What do you— Hero?”
Hero lurched toward the arch.
Claire, for once, found herself being the one to have to jog to catch up with him and his long legs. “Hold on a moment! We need to be cau—”
Hero reached the doorway and turned his face to the strange light. The torch fell from his hand, then guttered on the stone. Claire burst forward to face whatever new monster waited.
Springtime.
In their hallway, it was dark and chill in the dead, forgotten realm of the afterlife. But across the threshold in front of them, grass burst from the stones and slowly faded into a thick forest carpet. It swelled with fat moss and large-leafed bushes before giving way to the paving stones of a tidy cottage.
It was a forgettable construction, squat and consisting of conveniently stacked stones and aging wood. The hovel was barely taller than Hero, but one look at the blue-painted door and swept pavers said it was well loved. Flowers of an almost lurid variety burst from boxes by the steps, and smoke rose lazily from the chimney.
“What is this?” Claire felt unease and kept her toes away from the patches of false sunlight.
“That’s home.” Hero’s pronouncement left a cold shock in her stomach. Claire returned her attention to the tranquil little scene in front of her. “My . . . my story.”
“That can’t be. Your book is here. It’s likely a trick of the realm,” Claire warned. She frowned as she watched a rabbit munch on the grass nearest the threshold. It twitched its ears as if it’d heard her insult. “I had expected a castle for you, the way you talked.”
A strange, soft smile broke out on Hero’s face. His eyes never left the arch. “Humble beginnings,” he murmured. “Castles came later. This is where I grew up. Or next door to it. My place was smaller. Not nearly as nice. My neighbor . . .”
Hero broke off with a gasp as movement stirred at one edge of the arch. He stumbled a step toward the threshold. A lithe young man in dark leathers emerged from the trees, startling the rabbit. He walked with easy, rolling strides, a simple bow slung over one shoulder. His hair was longish and braided, the end of a mahogany plait tickling at his collarbone. He seemed to be whistling to himself, though Claire could hear nothing of the tune.
“Owen.” Hero’s face warmed beatifically as he watched him. “Owen! We grew up together. He was always there, even when . . .” He paused, looking troubled as he considered it. “How had I forgotten about him?”
Her alarm grew louder with Hero’s excitement. Claire clasped his elbow, trying to draw his attention. She could feel the tremor of tension in it. “It’s a story, Hero. He’s not really there—none of this is. It’s got to be a trap. Come away from there.”
“He hasn’t cut his hair yet. He still has that ratty old bag,” Hero muttered fondly, not even hearing Claire. His face softened as he watched the hunter shuck what appeared to be his day’s catch onto the porch and kick mud from his boots. “And still poaching. I warned him about that. I always said he would get us both—”
He stopped, all color draining from his face. Claire grew concerned. “What?”
“They killed him.” Hero said it levelly, but the words were rimmed in hot rage. His jaw worked as his gaze—never on Claire—turned anguished. Rage set into the curl of his lip and turned his delicate features sharp, cruel. “He stood by me, always protected me, and they killed him. Your precious heroes killed him. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
Claire gripped Hero’s wrist. “It’s a story, Hero. A story. Look at me. Think this through.”
“It’s not happened yet. I could stop it. I can—” He reached out a hand toward the arch.
Claire knocked his arm down as she stepped in front of him. Only her hands firmly on his chest kept him from brushing past her. “Listen to me, Hero. You have to listen. This is just a story, a vision, a trick. Block it out. I know it hurts, but it’s not real—”