The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,108
wasn’t dark. No place that held stories could be dark to a muse, but it was dim. Dimmer than it should have been. The books beneath her feet were quiet as pavers. Instead of lashing auras of color, they merely glowed, weak. The light of their story barely dribbled over their surfaces. Brevity hadn’t thought stories could wither, not like this.
But then she looked up and realized all she had thought was wrong.
They were in a forest, of sorts. Everywhere, books lay open on the floor and their pages were unstitched, folded and torn until wafts of barely connected paper drifted up in a fine column, freed of the sensible logic of gravity. Every couple of feet, another mutilated book bloomed paper that drifted in place like a sea of kelp on an ocean floor. Brevity gasped, and the nearest frond shivered. Against the dark and the dim glow, it was like standing in a forest of ghosts and bone.
“Is this the Dust Wing? Who did this?” Brevity turned and found Probity watching her. The ink-bleached muses were animated since they stepped through, straining at the ends of their makeshift leashes to lunge for the nearest drifting tendrils of paper.
“No one’s allowed in the Dust Wing, of course,” Probity said, completely ignoring the contradiction in her presence. She hesitated, then covered the hesitation by yanking on the leashes impatiently. “The books do this to themselves.”
“No way.” A frond of shredded paper drifted close enough to brush Brevity’s hand. She startled away. “It’s mutilation. No one would do this to themselves.”
“Not even a character who woke up to find themselves entombed in the dark for the infinite reaches of time? Even books can go mad with enough isolation; you know that.” Probity gave her a sad, pointed look.
The idea refused to sink in, then settled on Brevity like a layer of cold iron. Books can go mad, like anything sentient, Claire had told her once. It was why every wing of the Library required a librarian. Not just to keep the books from escaping, but to curate, and attend.
No one could tolerate oblivion alone.
“Why?” Brevity whispered brokenly. The book at her feet had split in two, pages lost long ago.
“Because humans are agents of decay,” Probity said. Her voice had been soft, gentle, but hardened to steel. “I’ve been trying to tell you since I arrived, sis. Humans are the reason the Dust Wing exists. We gave them the power of creation—something only gods have—and they spit on it. They don’t deserve it. It’s time we take it back.” And Probity let her hold on the leash go slack.
Gaiety and Verve stumbled and appeared to pause, noses in the air—well, one nose, since Gaiety’s face was blank—before lunging. They tore into the nearest fronds of damaged paper with a gluttony of violence. The sound of shredding and chewing covered Brevity’s cry, and Probity held up a hand when she started forward.
“Careful, now, best not get between them and their meal.”
“They’re not meals; they’re stories. We’re supposed to protect them.”
“Humans sealed their fate long ago. They’re not stories; they are just corpses.” Probity’s eyes glittered in the twilight as she intently watched the pale muses rip shreds of paper and bring them to their faces. Verve swallowed greedy mouthfuls whole, but Gaiety made a grating noise of frustration as his hands encountered his ink-erased face. Probity stepped forward, a scalpel suddenly in hand, and sliced across Gaiety’s blank chin. A gap appeared in a bloom of black ink, and scissored razor teeth beyond. Probity stepped back, satisfied. “It’s a worthy sacrifice if it shifts the power in the right direction.”
“Your direction,” Brevity clarified. She shook her head, feeling helpless as Verve followed the frond of paper and began to try to gorge herself on the book whole. “Prob, this is against everything we are.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Probity said, anger inching an edge into her voice. She broke her intent study of the ink-sopped muses to frown at Brevity. “Didn’t they say the same thing when you took a stand and kept a line of inspiration for yourself?”
“That wasn’t a stand! That was—” Brevity clasped her bare forearm. A vile feeling roiled up in her throat, but it was all pointed inward. “It was an act of desperation. A mistake.”
“It wasn’t. Don’t you dare say that!” Probity yanked the leashes as she turned, entreating, toward Brevity. “I can’t believe she made you believe that! This is all because of that old librarian;