The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,22

such a clear echo of Hero’s pride and mannerisms, as much as she faulted him for them. A distant fondness in his chest surprised Rami, but he pressed it down. He almost missed that she’d avoided answering the question.

“You know you look never less than a force of nature to me, ma’am.” He’d discovered quickly that accurate observations, spoken as plainly and earnestly as possible, toppled Claire’s defensive airs fastest. “My concern wasn’t for your ability to keep up appearances.”

“I—” Claire stopped herself and seemed to weigh the question. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “I will let you know, when I know myself.”

It was subtle, and shocking, but only if you understood Claire well enough. Rami thought he did. Thought he knew what a free fall it would be to feel uncertain about your mind, especially for one so certain and capable as Claire. But Rami’s nature was to guide, not press and poke. He waited, giving her the silence to say more if she chose. But the woman just met his eyes and shook her head, ever so slightly.

“I’ll be in the back. Get those artifacts isolated,” she said over her shoulder, and Claire made a tactical retreat into the depths of the collection.

* * *

* * *

“POROUS” WAS A LOOSE attribute when one’s collection of curiosities numbered in the tens of thousands. Rami had hit a snag when he’d started cross-indexing with an item’s composition material. Paper and cloth were obvious, but now he was into the leathers. A stack of waxed dragon hides mocked him from the worktable, and the furrow in his brow deepened as he considered them. Yes, ink could stain leather, but what about variations? Waxed leather? Scale and aquatic varieties? There were too many variables, and Rami was shit at making these kinds of judgment calls.

On reflection, it should have been no surprise that he was a failure as an angel.

The great doors of the wing creaked on their hinges. Rami glanced up only long enough to frown at Hero’s face before focusing back on his work. “Don’t you ever have real work to do?”

“Watcher! Look at you, so industrious. Just the man I wanted to find. Odd thing, isn’t it?” Hero said as he approached, as if he hadn’t heard Rami. As if Rami was the kind of person Hero frequently sought conversation with. “Bits of book existing—surviving—that the librarians knew nothing about?”

“Not really.” Rami eyed Hero as the character made a circuitous route of the worktable. “A travesty like Andras’s failed coup has never been attempted before.”

Hero paused, leaning down to inspect some petrified fingers that lay on a bed of velvet on a side table. “Perhaps not on that scale, but surely books have been lost before. Mishandling, accident, all those distinctly human errors.”

The finger bones had a paralytic curse attached to them, Rami recalled. He should really warn Hero. “Are you trying to make a point, or simply enjoying the sound of your own voice?”

“Better than your endless stoicism. I swear, it’s like a dull blade against stone.”

He definitely wasn’t going to warn Hero. The fingers were only a little paralytic, after all. Rami shrugged. “How else do you keep a blade sharp?”

Hero’s fingertips paused over the artifact and surprise tugged at the arch of his brow. “Repartee? I didn’t think you had it in you, old boy.”

“Don’t call me boy,” Rami grumbled. “I’m older than your maker’s maker. You have a point, don’t you?”

A clever look bloomed on Hero’s face. “Why, yes, I do. Cheeky of you to ask.”

Rami stared for a beat until the salacious edge of Hero’s smile sank in. “You . . .” He needed to clear his throat. “Save it for the damsels.”

“Not when I know it irritates. I’m quite aware how repellent I am to you.” Hero hummed. Rami steeled himself for another round of endless nattering, but instead Hero braced his hands on the table between them and leaned forward. “Never mind that. As I was saying . . . it raises the question, what else does the Library not know? What really are unwritten books?”

Nonporous; that decided it. The dragon hide was scaly, and coated in enough dark magic that it could fend for itself. Rami sniffed. “You are one. You should be able to tell me.”

The lightness dropped from Hero’s face in increments. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? I could tell you every inkblot and footnote about my story, of course. But my book itself?