The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,44

let you live—how did you pull that off, might I ask? You’re not the typical sort of hero we get around here.”

“You have no idea,” Ramiel muttered under his breath. Muttering. He’d done a lot of that since they’d got here. Hero ignored him.

“They ambushed me at the bridge—I didn’t get much time to make an impression.” Hero shrugged. “I wrestled that one, for little good it did me, and the others seemed to back off.”

“You wrestled Alecto, in her feral form?” That appeared to draw Pallas into speaking again. His eyes widened and became even brighter, if that was even possible. “Alecto is the strongest of the pride—and ceaseless in a fight. She never gives quarter.”

“Unless she finds something too familiar to her tastes to destroy.” Iambe hummed. Her voice was light and syrupy, but her gaze picked Hero over with new suspicion. “She’s the Fury of rage, did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Hero said, now uncomfortably aware of the she-beast in his shadow. He wasn’t sure whether he was being escorted or stalked. “Perhaps she just took to my charms.”

The lioness let out a low sound at that, halfway between a purr and a warning growl. It seemed to confirm whatever suspicion Iambe held. She smiled. “Have a trouble with your darker passions, Hero?”

The name might have been self-selected in sarcasm, but it sounded positively mocking when the Greek spirit said it. Hero stiffened, but Ramiel raised a hand before he could respond. “Peace, my lady.” He took a half step, as if drawing Iambe’s gaze from Hero. “You said we could be granted an audience with your librarian?”

“Yes,” Pallas said quickly. He also watched Hero with a new shine, but it wasn’t quite as carnivorous as his sister’s. He leapt to his feet and fluttered a hand over his chiton before motioning to the open walkway that led inside. “Mother will be pleased for visitors.”

“Yes, she gets so little good conversation these days.” Iambe’s laugh was sharp, as if she’d just made a joke. Pallas spared them an uneasy look as he held aside the curtain and motioned them inside.

12

CLAIRE

The people to the south declared the time before now Jahiliyyah: a time of ignorance and darkness. If this place has really been abandoned and without care since the previous librarian, then that term may be appropriate. I understand enough now to imagine what damage might have come to stories left uncared for during that dark time. Muses abandoned without direction, books corrupting neighboring pages, forgetting themselves. The only reason no books were lost was because the entire wing was locked down.

Stories need a teller. Books need a reader. These unlived lives are nothing without humanity to anchor them, breathe life into the missing parts.

Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 609 CE

BIRD WINGED ALONG THE shadowed passage ahead of Claire, coming to rest on the scarred triple-wheel carving that loomed over the door to the transportation department. Claire hesitated in the shadow of the arch. Granite-heavy footsteps creeped against the floorboards, punctuated by the glittering tinkle of glass jars. Walter resembled a small boulder crouched behind the counter when Claire entered the room.

“Miss Lib— Miss Claire! Ma’am.” Walter punctuated his greeting with startled movements. He jolted upright, clutched the jar in his hands too tight, barely managing to set it down again before it could shatter. The whorls of nothing in his eye sockets appeared to spin particularly fast as he glanced around the small travel office and said again, “Ma’am.”

“Am I interrupting something, Walter?” Claire paused at the threshold, hands folded in front of her as she took in the state of the office. The arching walls were peppered with shelves, which were lined with row upon row of clear glass jars full of colored smoke. That was usual. What was unusual was the zigzag of lines through the air. Colors exploded and skidded away from their jars like comet tails, twisting and knotting with others before fading into the gloom.

Walter’s innocent look was composed of red teeth and bulbous scars, but it was authentic all the same. “No, ma’am. Just doing a bit of tidying up.”

“Tidying up?” Claire stepped to the side as a spiral of persimmon orange floated toward her head. “Really, Walter, your jars are bleeding everywhere.”

“Bleed—” Walter straightened so quickly a flight path of lime green had to divert around him in a tight corkscrew maneuver. The void in his eyes slowed nearly to a stop as he stared at Claire. “You can see that, ma’am?