The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,19

had the vial—hell, they had the whole well of it back in the Arcane Wing. But something instinctual in Brevity’s gut told her this ink was precious, should not be let go. Loud, Claire had said just before she fainted. That made sense now, so many stories—

“We’ll bury it,” Claire said. Hero and Rami had been murmuring concern for a while, Brevity distantly recognized, but it was Claire’s grim voice that cut through the fog. “We’ll seal it up in the Arcane Wing. I’ll look into something permanent enough that the damsels won’t keep sniffing it out.”

“What?” The fog—desperate, longing fog—cleared in her head. Brevity stepped forward, aghast. “We can’t do that. You realize what this is? It’s not just ink. It’s—”

“Some kind of residue left over from the unwritten books we lost in the fire, yes.” Claire pronounced the words the way you’d describe an unfortunate deathbed that needed cleaning up. But this wasn’t unfortunate; it was a gift. Brevity could see that even as Claire shook her head and turned away. “After the coup, it probably pooled and drained to the Arcane Wing as the nearest reservoir of magic. It’s not books anymore, so it couldn’t stay in the Library, but I suppose enough remained to call out to the damsels and attract them.”

Hero had taken on a particular shade of white as he came to help Brevity to the desk. They were talking about bits of books as body parts. She would have time to worry about him later. For now, the horror of what Claire was saying took all her attention.

All her thoughts felt knocked into free fall. She missed things being simple: unwritten stories being books, not pools of dead ink; her friends being her friends, not estranged colleagues; Claire being a friend she called boss instead of a former boss she still tried to call friend; the Library being the vast yet total edges of her concern. It still should have been, since she’d been named head librarian. But instead of feeling more focused, she was drowning. The world was a library she could never really read.

“How are these not books?” Brevity asked. “You saw it just like I did. Of course those are books, stories—”

“Only in the way a clipped lock of hair is human.” Claire’s brow knit; then her expression hardened. “That ink is the former lifeblood of those books that died because of us. Formerly pure and full of life, now corrupted and muddled. It couldn’t even establish itself on the page, Brevity. Think it through. Obviously, the ink of a hundred books has mixed and commingled until it doesn’t even know itself. There’s nothing to salvage.”

“We can certainly try, at least.” The memory of all those books destroyed, the stories crumbling into searing ashes between her fingertips, struck at her like a lash. “The Unwritten Wing can try.”

A flinch, like ice frosting over, occurred on Claire’s face. She plucked the pen from Brevity’s hands and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t allow it.”

Brevity distantly registered they were slipping into a fight, slashing open old wounds along the way, but she couldn’t help the way her brow arched all the same. But it was Probity who broke the pause with a soft, curious: “Allow?”

“The reservoir of ink resides in the Arcane Wing and is therefore under Arcanist care,” Claire said.

“That’s not fair.” Hero had recovered from his shock enough to step up next to Brevity and Probity. It felt nice, having support. “These are obviously the sacred remains of books of the Unwritten Wing; therefore—”

“Sacred?” Ramiel objected. “We’re in Hell.” The stoic angel had remained quiet up till now, but he gave Hero a dismissive look, up and down and then away. He gestured broadly to the shadows of the Library stacks. “Nothing sacred or holy about this place.”

“There is no place more sacred than stories,” Probity said lowly.

“Profane remains, then.” Brevity took up Hero’s argument and he flashed her a grateful smile. “Doesn’t matter either way. Those are what remain of books of the Unwritten Wing. We have a duty to try to repair them.”

“There is no repairing that.” Claire’s cheeks had turned sallow and taut. She retrieved the vial from its resting place and cradled it against her chest, clutched in a blackened hand that trembled. “You saw how it behaved. Books are potential, Brev. Potential is power. And demons crave power. Whatever remains of those in that ink is lost and is essentially distilled power. That’s