The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,26

Claire kept her eyes leveled on the hero. “I was hoping it might listen to you and repair itself. It’s a long shot.”

“Long shots are a . . . hero’s specialty,” Hero said with an uncertain lilt as he stood. He was smooth but not quite as graceful as he’d been hours before. He approached his book and laid a proprietary hand on the cover. “What do I need to do?”

“First, open the book.” Claire swatted his hand away to open it to the fresh, blank pages. “Now, talk to your kin, get them settled. Remind them how the story starts. ‘Once upon a time,’ all that.”

“I was thinking ‘In the beginning . . . ’ had a nice ring to it,” the hero sulked. He pressed his hand to the page and fell silent. They all did, librarian, muse, and demon alike. Claire felt the book stop its frantic, minute vibrations, and listened. The remaining words on the pages slowed their skittish mutations, twitching quietly as some private conversation went on. An invisible line pulled tight.

Then snapped.

The book shuddered. The hero’s hand flinched off the pages as it snapped itself shut. His brows knit together as he looked up, incredulous. “They . . . The gall! They pretended they didn’t know me! Me! Oversized inkblots just—”

“The story didn’t recognize you.” The sliver of anticipation Claire had held dissipated. She’d suspected as much would happen, but she’d hoped to be surprised. She exchanged a glance with Brevity. “That makes sense.”

“No, that makes nonsense.” The hero’s voice was acidic, a barbed accent surfacing with his distress. “I’m the bloody—” He snapped his mouth shut abruptly. “Without me, there wouldn’t be a story.”

“It appears your book disagrees,” Claire said, and the hero glowered up at her. “By all means, make another attempt.”

The hero shifted uneasily. “All the better to allow you to put me back on a shelf?”

“Is that fear I hear?”

He shot her a stormy look and stepped up to the book again. He paused to spare a glance and a nod at Brevity. “Thank you for the tea, muse.” He winked at Leto before turning a cold look to Claire. “It’s been an unmitigated displeasure.”

Claire’s smile was just as icy. “Always glad to meet a fan.”

The hero’s lip curled and with a flourish he slapped his hand down on the cover. When nothing happened, the little remaining color drained from his face.

Claire cleared her throat. “Brev, you might want to guide our hero to a seat again.”

Brevity helped him stumble back to the couch. The hero’s green eyes had taken on a glossy look. “What does this mean?”

“Your damage disconnected you from your own story. Congratulations—that’s a feat. That means, at least until your book decides to accept you again, you’re a free agent.” Claire paused, then amended, “Well, not free. You’re still Special Collections, and you’re going to be answering to me.”

The hero’s face froze. His gaze fished around the room before coming to the book again.

“Whoa, our own hero. The damsels are gonna freak.” Brevity clapped, only a little awed. “We can’t keep calling him that. Hero. Can we?”

Claire shrugged. “Fine. He can rename himself when he comes out of shock. I thought ‘Janitor’ had a nice ring.”

The hero shook his head, subdued. “This isn’t happening. . . .”

Claire let that go. It was probably best to let the man work it out for himself. He quite possibly had eternity to do so. “Brev, if you can hold the fort here, I’ve got an errand I need to run. Leto, I’d like you to come along.” The teenager jumped up from where he had been lingering at the edge of the group, twisting his hands together. “You proved so useful before.”

Brevity’s brow knitted. “You just got back. What now?”

“The Watcher’s scrap did not belong to the hero’s book. I need to run it past the Arcanist to be certain before I explain more than that.” Claire cast a glance toward the restorations room. “But there might be more than one book missing.”

8

LETO

The demons have been petitioning for borrowing rights again. The log says they waited a whole three centuries before trying again. This time they got a minor duke on their side.

I know scavengers when I hear them. The Unwritten Wing holds a delicate balance in Hell: neither vassal to nor clearly apart. It’s the nature of books that keeps us here, but it’s the nature of books that the devils want. They want anything that tastes