The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,13

refresh, to fortify, she says. Maybe the English knew something about the Library after all. We’re preserving ourselves from the inside, sip by sip.

Librarian Gregor Henry, 1987 CE

REGAINING CONSCIOUSNESS WAS A scandal. Claire did not so much wake up as fling herself from one awareness to another. She jolted upright and was only stopped from falling over again by a pair of gentle hands. Fire thudded from her head and dribbled through every joint. It was as if every ache and pain of normal aging Claire had been spared for the last thirty years had come home to roost. “Oh, hellfire and harpies.” She rubbed her wrists tenderly. One was bandaged; that was to be expected. “Someone get me a hot compress and half a bottle of paracetamol.”

Claire knew Hell had no such thing. She had honestly expected Brevity and a clatter of teacups, not a weary sigh and a low voice full of amusement.

“If only I could.”

Claire abruptly forgot about her joint pain. The hold on her shoulders was the only thing that kept her reclined on the couch. The cushions beneath her had a familiar feel, and Claire’s careening mind distantly placed it as a piece of Library furniture. Which did not mesh with the sight of Beatrice perched on the edge looking wary as a feral cat.

“Beatrice.” Claire struggled not to reel again. “What— You are in Malta. You can’t—”

“I really can’t,” Beatrice agreed amiably. Claire’s unwritten character wore the same rumpled suit vest she’d had on when Claire had seen her last in Malta, sans the dirt and blood. Beatrice appeared perfectly recovered from the adventure that had left her on Earth, hair swept in that careless crop of curls that looked soft enough to make Claire’s fingers ache again. There was a smudged look about her, an air Claire couldn’t quite place, though she tried. Beatrice tucked the blanket back around Claire’s lap while simultaneously giving her the chance to gawk.

“You can’t—” Claire repeated, finally taking in her surroundings. They were in the damsel suite, which showed signs of swift evacuation. Open books and half-eaten nibbles were strewn across the tables, and on the end table nearest her, steam still wafted faintly from an overbrewed cup of tea. Claire rescued the strainer on impulse, though the tea had obviously gone bitter. She stuck her finger in her mouth, allowing the acidic bite of the tannins to try to clear her head.

“I was arguing with Brevity, there was a— Oh gods, we fought—and the ink—” Claire jerked her hands up. Her right hand was swaddled in a tea towel. Claire wiggled her fingers free. The entire fingertip, skin, nail, and all, was stained black. It had a shine to it, an oil-slick feel as if it were still wet, though when she wiped her index finger on the tea cloth, nothing was left behind.

“I touched the ink. This stain . . .” Claire said blankly. She peeled back the towel, following the discoloration up, over her knuckles, past her wrist, until it came to an abrupt halt just below the crook of her elbow. It jutted right up to a border of iridescent blue, which appeared to be made of different stuff, shimmering like a propane pilot light.

“She thought quick, to do that,” Beatrice said quietly.

Claire resisted the impulse to pick at it, no matter how foreign it was on her skin. “Who did? Brevity?”

“No, the other one. Though I think she wouldn’t have acted if she hadn’t been prompted to.” Beatrice gave her a considering look. “You have a very loyal assistant in that girl. I’m glad.”

“She’s not my assistant anymore.” It was a bitter kind of reflex, and Claire shook her head. “She’s Librarian now, and—” Claire stopped, feeling eight kinds of idiotic. “Hell and harpies, we’re in the damsel suite. In the Library. Why—how are you here? You shouldn’t be here. You would never return here after all that’s happened. You escaped. Did Brev force you to come back? How long have I been out? Did—”

“Calm down, Claire.” Beatrice seemed remarkably unflustered by being in the very place she’d fled decades ago. “No one brought me here except you. I think I never fully left.”

Claire blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“And I don’t have much time to explain. I convinced the others that you would need time to understand, but they’re restless. Naturally.” A muffled sound, like a wave of small feet, stirred from somewhere outside the suite door. Beatrice sighed. “I need you to