The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,128
the Arcane Wing, and a legion of Horrors at his command. Just getting out of this blighted place would be a feat.
An exit, naturally, presented itself the next time she turned a corner and faced another dead end.
She was just about to let out a groan when she saw the arch. Wedged in the corner where two stone walls met, lost nearly in shadow, stood a darkened doorway. It was roughly the same shape and build as the one they’d encountered up the stairs, only the light was more muted. Lamplight, not sunlight.
“Oh, is it my turn now?” Claire muttered, wary of a trap. She brought her nose as near to the surface as she dared.
Lamplight and leather. Her breath snagged in her throat when she recognized it. Beatrice’s office was much as they’d left it, stacked with an aftermath of shuffled books and used teacups. Claire caught herself leaning forward, listening for footsteps. Even on this side of the arch, she could make out the distant sound of the Mdina streets that filtered in through the open window. It was night, the only light spilling from the desk lamp on Beatrice’s desk. Claire could just make out several bottles and plastic bags that hadn’t been there before. Hope clotted in her throat. If Beatrice had survived, she could be just out of frame. Stepping away to care for her injuries, or her book.
Her book. If the struggle with the Hellhounds had damaged her book, she’d need repairs. If it was damaged and poorly repaired, it could fall apart, stranding Beatrice outside her book or, worse, trapping her inside— Oh, no. Claire’s hand clapped at her side, where her bag of tools should have been. Her skin was tingling and somehow the arch had moved a breath away from her nose.
Claire jerked herself back and clamped one hand on top of the other. Heat stung her eyes. Bea. The thought was enough to twist a sharp pain through the numb despair in her chest. Her book could be just on the other side, hurt from ensuring their escape, dying, needing help.
She knew—she knew if she went through, if she found Beatrice, Hellhounds or not, she would not go back. One step and she could rest. One step and she could be accepted, loved, cared for. One step and all the rest of it could end.
She’d rejected the idea before, but it washed over her again in a way that she was too tired, too grieving to resist. The idea was strong: to rest, to stop, neither to run nor face her past.
Her eyes burned again from the powerful attraction of it. She’d felt the power of an easy escape before. When she’d said the god words that had banished Gregor.
So she said a different word instead.
“Fuck.”
The heels of her hands dug roughly into her eyes as she stumbled back. She ground them in until she saw stars. She screamed. “Fuck!”
She’d been looking for an exit, thinking of those left behind, and the labyrinth had presented her with what she desired. Like it had with Hero. But this wasn’t a temptation built on happiness; it was one built on despair. “Not again. I won’t. Not—”
A wordless rage tore at her throat. She flung one sneaker at the arch. The shoe sailed through the air before passing harmlessly through a shimmer of lamplight and disappearing. Not as satisfying as she needed. Claire let out a growl and flung the other shoe after for good measure.
The rage drained out of her just as quickly as it had come. “Sorry, Bea,” she muttered, then frowned down at her feet. “And now I’m barefoot again. Bloody fantastic.”
The images of a dead Leto, a wounded Beatrice, paper corpses and ink blood, swept through her. Claire twisted and ran from the dead end, down the path toward the rumbling bellows that echoed from the center of the labyrinth. Ghosts at her back, monsters ahead.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
THE HOWLING GREW LOUDER until Claire could feel the vibration jostling the organs in her chest. The air felt like it opened up, walls widening at the next intersection. She slowed as she turned the corner.
The endless dirt paths of the labyrinth fell away to a wide, paved courtyard, each cobblestone dotted with a jade symbol in stone. Half-finished pillars rose every few yards like shattered bones, forming a loose ring around an otherwise barren space. Ragged flags of saffron yellow hung limp from the tops. It was approaching what