The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,77

warded against us.”

Rami blinked. “What, the whole city?”

Uriel nodded. “I’d heard tell of it, but never had need to see it for myself. The entire city, warded. Something left over from one of the humans’ petty wars. Nothing not born of humankind—not angel or demon or claimed by another realm—gets in without invitation from its residents.”

Rami glanced at the thick sandstone walls with new interest. “Then how did the librarians get in?”

“That is a very good question,” Uriel said. “If the Creator were receptive, we could have found a way in through the churches.”

That startled Rami. “The Creator is removed from the faithful as well?” A stroke of unease stirred at the back of his thoughts. The state of a realm was tied—to belief, but also to the godhead that ruled it. If those two become disconnected . . . well, Rami wasn’t certain of the repercussions.

Uriel waved a hand as if to flick the irritation away. “It’s no matter. I’ve made arrangements. They will come to us.”

Rami frowned. “I very much doubt that. Why would they—”

“I have made arrangements. Second rule of demons: they always want something.” Uriel, smug and almost smiling, raised a brow at him. “They’ll come to us. I have it on good authority that they’ll have no other choice.”

23

CLAIRE

My dear apprentice, you learn so quickly. Though it will be years yet before you learn all that is necessary to serve the Library, I see the librarian you will become. Fierce, strong, and yet with enough feeling heart to treat the books under your care kindly. Perhaps even to bring much-needed change to the Library, and the secrets it holds. The Library needs you, Claire.

So I can only beg your forgiveness for what I must do.

Librarian Gregor Henry, 1989 CE

SOMEWHERE, SOMEONE HAD A pot of Earl Grey on. Earl Grey with citrus, Claire corrected, detecting the lemon drifting through the air. Her favorite, when not mixed with the smell of death.

It soured her stomach. An old clock on the desk ticked, but otherwise there was no movement behind her, near the body. Claire clenched her fingers, which were absolutely not trembling, and pretended to sort through the stack of books by the window.

“May I ask why we just shot our only source of information for the pages of the codex?” Andras broke the silence, his voice mild.

“Come to think of it, why isn’t the well-armed guard outside rushing in at the sound of a gunshot?” Hero said.

“You need a body to need a bodyguard,” Claire mumbled under her breath. The help around here probably had strict instructions not to enter no matter what was heard.

“Is she dead?”

Leto’s panic finally brought Claire’s head around. The teenager looked even more pale than usual, if that was possible. He crouched over where the book collector lay, eyes wide as saucers as he extended a finger.

“Don’t touch, Leto. She’s . . . fine.” Claire scooped up a few books at random and gave them an underhand lob. “Flip through these. We’re looking for loose sheaves of very old paper.”

The books fell to the floor with a clatter—Leto had made no move to catch them. He turned a look of horror on Claire. It was earnest with a cutting edge. “Fine? You killed someone!”

“No, I didn’t. I—” Claire forced her jaw not to lock with tension. “Just start looking. Gentlemen, please. We don’t have much—”

She was cut off by a cry. Leto stumbled back, flinging himself away from the empty rug. An empty rug where, but a moment before, the prone body of the book collector had lain. A tacky pool of black blood and a slight impression in the crumpled carpet were the only indications left.

“. . . much time,” Claire finished.

“She disappeared.” Leto stumbled to his feet. “She just disappeared.”

“Disappeared rather like a character from an unwritten book.” Hero held an increasingly suspicious glint in his eye as he turned toward Claire. “Now, why would a body do that, warden?”

“As I said, we don’t have much time.” Claire moved toward the desk and studied the drawers. Locked, of course. She began rifling through the detritus for a key.

“Perhaps a very succinct explanation would speed things up,” Andras said.

She found the key resting in the bottom of a cup of pens. Exactly where she would have hidden it.

“Pup. Claire,” Andras prompted softly.

Claire’s lips thinned, and she let out a hard breath, staring at the key rather than at the others. It was dented; tarnish discolored the grooves between the