The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,14
stay calm.”
“I am always calm!” The ache in Claire’s joints was returning, with a building kind of pressure. As if there was suddenly more stuffed into her than before. She rubbed her face. “I forgot how exhausting you were. Forget it. We’ve got to get you out of here and back to the Silent City. It should be possible, while the others are distracted. There’s too much going on.”
“More than you think,” Beatrice said. She nodded to Claire’s banded arm. “That thing is like a magical tourniquet, but it’s not going to hold forever. You need to stop wasting time.”
Claire’s mouth dropped open, but before she could protest, a knock came at the door. It was a light, tentative knock, then slowly repeated. The brass door handle began to jiggle.
Beatrice froze, staring at the door before turning an intent frown on Claire. “Listen to me. You need to listen. It’s the only way the books will have any rest.”
“As I said, I’m not the li—”
“I don’t care if you’re not the goddamned librarian!” Beatrice grabbed Claire’s shoulder but pulled back when she flinched. “You’re not the librarian, you’re not an author, you’re not alive. Who bloody cares! You think your characters do? I certainly didn’t. Your friend Hero didn’t. You don’t escape your own story, Claire. It’s impossible.”
“What kind of nonsense are you talking about?”
The door abruptly ceased its rattling, and Beatrice’s shoulders tensed. Across the room, the damsel suite door unlatched and crept slowly open on silent hinges. The darkness on the other side of the door was inky and absolute. An unnatural sigh of air washed through, ruffling the pages of open books and chilling Claire to the core. Beatrice sat in front of her like a shield, but it was as if she weren’t even there. The room felt crowded with breath.
Her lungs were chilled when Claire tried to take a breath and try again. “What—what are you asking me to do?”
Beatrice finally turned back to her, looking solemn and sorry. It felt too much like how she’d looked the last time Claire had seen her, half-swallowed in torchlight as she hesitated at the precipice of a realm gate. Hesitated, to stay behind. When Beatrice brought her hand to her face, Claire flinched.
“Wake up,” Beatrice said in a voice that wasn’t her own. Claire was falling, and it felt like something new and horrible and cold was blooming in her bones. Beatrice’s voice splintered and turned fractal. “Wake up, Claire. Wake up.”
* * *
* * *
“WAKE UP! PLEASE, C’MON, boss.” Claire’s joints still ached. The settee was still soft beneath her. But the next breath she took gave her a lungful of warm air scented with familiar anise, paper, and tea. She opened her eyes.
“Oh, harpies, you’re back. That’s good.” Brevity’s nose was an inch from her own before she withdrew with a sigh. “The boys woulda murdered me if you didn’t wake up.”
“Was there doubt?” Claire grimaced at the sawdust in her voice. She gestured and Brevity helpfully handed her a glass of water. She was still in the damsel suite, resting on a settee. It was occupied again, with a handful of damsels studiously pursuing their hobbies and not at all scrutinizing Claire with absolute self-righteous judgment out of the corners of their eyes. Ridiculous. Claire could hear the sidelong whispering. “Gods, how long have I been out this time?”
“This time?” A small furrow knit in Brevity’s brows. “Not long. You fainted—we both did—when Probity did her thing. It stopped the ink, though. I . . .” Brevity looked down. “How do you feel?”
“Like the inside of a Hellhound’s mouth.” Claire sipped the water and grimaced.
“So about the same as me.” Brevity gave her a wan smile. Now that Claire was sitting up, she could take the time to observe the paper-thin energy of Brevity’s smile and the shadows under her eyes. For a moment it was overlaid with the memory of a handsome brown face exhorting her to wake up, to—
Claire yanked her arm out from under the covers and cursed loudly. Black stained her skin, held off by a ribbon of bright blue tied off below her elbow. She set down her water and gently pushed Brevity back by the shoulder until she could see the arm she kept half cradled against her stomach. Structurally, nothing appeared to be wrong. Brevity’s arm certainly appeared in better shape than Claire’s. But a paler band of periwinkle swirled on her forearm where her inspiration