The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,71
little more creative.”
Hero crossed his arms and looked down his nose to consider Claire. “Taxis are too simple, I agree. Let’s revise. What if I’d decide to run? How’s your stamina, warden?”
Claire was already winded from the run over, but she attempted to bury that fact with a deep sigh. “You’re already IWL’d.”
“And you’re without your tools of office. How long would it take you to get back to Hell with the little errand you’re on?”
“Quite a while. But when I did, you would still end up in the Library with much to answer for. Unless you think I’ll never make it back because Heaven’s the surer bet in this little race. Is that your wager?”
His eyes were grass green, sunny and sharp, as he studied her. She thought for a moment he was going to take that bet and run. But the smile on his lips faded and he glanced down with an awkward cough. Claire thought she saw color drift across his cheeks as Hero grunted, “I was never a good gambler.”
“I knew you were a clever one.” Claire let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding and made sure that Hero walked in front of her.
He made an offended sound. “I just find Heaven’s agents interminably dull.”
“Well, long as you quit trying to hare off, I’ll endeavor not to bore you.”
“Now, that you’ll never do.” Hero stuffed his hands in his pockets as they headed back up the street.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
WHEN THEY RETURNED TO the alley to retrieve Leto, Andras was fussing at the boy’s waterlogged curls.
“That was fast,” Hero grumbled.
“Walter isn’t the only one who deals with artifacts like ghostlights. You’re easy to find.” Andras shrugged.
“Did the angels give you any difficulties?” Claire looked over the demon carefully for any signs of abuse.
“Child’s play. I left when the tall one threw a tantrum. All’s well in Hell, by the way.”
“What is this?” Hero made an injured sound that drew her attention. He dangled a large handgun pinched between two fingers. His lip curled like he smelled a dead animal.
“It’s called a pistol, Hero. Your sword would have been a little obvious in streets filled with cell phones. The sword changed to fit, like our ghostlights.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Or do you need me to show you how to use it? It’s like a sword. Just aim the pointy end and—”
“I know how to use a gun,” Hero said archly, sniffing one more time to ensure the full measure of his disgust was felt. He checked the weapon over with surprising dexterity, then stowed it in his coat pocket. “The muse foisted all sorts of combat manuals on me for instruction before we left. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t an insulting choice. Guns are all noise and bluster. Nothing intelligent about their use.”
“You’ll get along fine with it, then,” Andras said.
“Oh! A sarcastic demon. How original!”
“Uh, did mine change too?” Leto came up with a familiar blue lighter and held it up to the sun. It still glowed faintly, but it was markedly dimmer.
The pool of light had dimmed to a sliver of a thumbnail, sending a shiver across Claire’s shoulders. Measuring ghostlights was imprecise, but Claire had never been out long enough for it to matter. Usually, when out on an errand, she took note of when she left Walter’s office and entered Earth. But between trips to and from Hell, plus the hours spent in Valhalla, time had gotten fuzzy. Claire couldn’t do more than vaguely guess how much longer they had.
“It’s fine,” Claire said, voice grim. “Let us proceed, if we’re all done complaining?”
Claire motioned to the street. Leto exchanged a humiliated look with Hero but declined to say anything about his detour. Claire trusted they’d work it out themselves. She focused on the codex’s song, the snip of card pinched between her fingers in her pocket, and began guiding them up this alley, then down another. They finally paused outside what appeared to be an apex of the tourist district. From a map on the wall, Leto identified where they were. “Valletta. That’s in Malta?”
“Yes. The island was a British trading port in my day,” Claire said.
“It appears to now be a stronghold of old men with poor taste in footwear.” Andras frowned as a portly gentleman trundled by, flip-flops smacking against the ancient stone streets.
“Regardless . . .” Claire leaned against the wall. “The codex pages aren’t here.”