The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,25

retrieved the tweezers and carefully lifted the scrap. She could see the age of the otherworldly parchment now, the fineness of the fibers. Not paper, not parchment. There was no way it belonged to the hero’s book, belonged to any of her books. Impossible that she’d missed it before.

“What are you . . . ?” Claire turned it under the light. Whatever it was, it was old. Powerful. The fallen angel wasn’t after the hero’s book after all—this was something different. A fallen angel working for Heaven sought it. Thought the Library had it.

But it wasn’t of Heaven; of that much Claire was certain. Nothing that sang that song could be. It was a song of destruction and endless hunger.

That was Hell’s song. But Hell had no literature of its own.

A muffled groan escaped through the closed door. That would be the hero. Claire carefully set the scrap down with a sigh, pushing it away in favor of more immediate concerns. Vague murmurs drifted in through the door, summoning her. The hero would need her attention next; then she could focus on the mystery of the scrap in front of her.

Claire worked the kinks out of her aching hands before opening the door and, likely, answering yet more of Leto’s unending questions. The human-demon had an inexhaustible supply, it seemed.

Her gaze flicked again to the whispering page. Questions.

She had a few.

* * *

◆ ◆ ◆

BY THE TIME CLAIRE joined the group in the main section of the Library, the hero was sitting up. He draped a lanky muscled arm over the back of the couch while Brevity clucked instructions at him over her teapot. Leto perched at the far edge of the sitting area, wound tight as a spring.

Leto was returned to his demon features, but Brevity had taken the opportunity of his soggy condition to replace his ill-fitting suit with a more comfortable pair of slacks, suspenders, and a buttoned shirt, arms rolled up, in a vivid blue that matched the muse’s tattoos. He looked slightly less cadaverous and more like a high school kid on an internship. Claire smiled. Brevity was in the middle of interrogating him, her hands animated over the caddy of saucers and cream.

Leto caught sight of Claire first and coughed on his tea. Brevity’s head whipped around, and she stomped toward Claire. “You were attacked by a Watcher?”

Claire cast a sharp glance at Leto. “I see someone’s been catching you up.”

“Attacked,” Brevity insisted. “By a Watcher. An angel from before the world was made.”

“Technically, a fallen angel. If I remember Enoch right, Ramiel was one of the human sympathizers.” Claire paused. “Though he seems distinctly less sympathetic now.”

“Attacked.”

“Threatened,” Claire corrected, shrugging her off to let the repaired book hit the desk with a thud. “Leto here staged quite a heroic intervention before anyone was attacked.”

Leto colored as he looked to the floor. “Well, I just . . . really . . .”

“Why would he be after a character?”

“One emergency at a time, Brev.” Claire turned her attention to the hero.

He raised his cup. “Back to the brig already, warden? I was still working on my tea.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. The hero was still pale, pale as the maddeningly blank parchments in his book. But his eyes were bright, and his hand was steady enough to mock her with a salute. Stable enough, for now.

“Your story still exists. That means it’s time for you to go home.” Claire tapped the book. “But you’ve managed to do far more damage to yourself than I thought possible for any story. At least any sane one.”

“Characters can go insane?” Leto blinked.

Claire waved a hand. “Anything long-lived will deal with bouts of questionable sanity from time to time. Unwritten characters included.”

“Perhaps if you spent half the energy working with us that you do keeping us contained here, such drastic measures wouldn’t be needed,” the hero said.

“A hero with a crusade. How unoriginal,” Claire said. “How are you feeling?”

The hero gave a sour smile. “Trapped. And famous, by the sounds of it. Perhaps you should let me stick around if I’ve got Heaven and Hell fighting over me.”

“You cause any more trouble, maybe I’ll let Heaven have you,” Claire said, though it was an empty threat. Even if Heaven wanted him, she had no intention of giving up any of the books in her care. “You’ll be perfectly safe back in your story, however. The pages are repaired, but the words won’t take.” Brevity made a small distressed noise, but