him to yank her to her feet.
“Perhaps breakfast will improve your mood. Slice of diabetes?” Hero opened his hand and offered her one of the tiny snack cakes that she’d seen him trying with Leto in the Mdina kitchen. It was perfectly preserved in cellophane, if a bit squished.
“We’ve been on the run for our souls, and you’ve been hiding cakes on your person?”
“What? It’s not as if anyone else thought to pack provisions.” Hero took offense. He began to close his hand, but Claire snatched the treat before he could withdraw it. She tore the wrapper and crumpled the cellophane into her pocket.
“I thought you hated sugar,” Claire mumbled around a mouthful of frosting, to which Hero shrugged.
“I suppose I’m still figuring out what I hate.”
“Where’d you learn a word like ‘diabetes,’ anyway? I thought your book was more fantasy based. Don’t tell me Brev had you read a medical text.”
“Leto made a joke, and I made him explain it.” Hero’s eyes went distant before he swiftly shifted the topic away from that memory. “How do you think they’re doing?”
Not Leto. The Library. Brevity. Andras. “I can’t know until we get out of here,” Claire admitted. The cake felt less sweet, turning to mud on her tongue. “It’s been too long, but time between realms can do funny things. Brevity’s smart. I’m hoping the reason we’ve heard nothing is because she called up the wards. The Library’s not defenseless. But it’s more built to keep books in rather than keep anything out—”
“The irony is delicious,” Hero interjected.
“And Andras has the pages,” Claire finished with a scowl. “Those pages, that codex . . . if Lucifer made it, it’s a part of him. Like Hell itself. Even a portion of one could tear down a ward, and Andras has ten whole pages. I might be happy that the angels don’t have it, but Andras . . . I’m afraid what he wants to do is even worse.”
“You’ll just need to take it back, then.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure the Horrors will be happy to listen to a deposed librarian. Without any of her tools of office. Without a library.”
“You have a library. A library of one.” Hero tapped his chest and flashed her a carefully practiced thousand-watt smile, only slightly dimmed by the smear of sand in his hair. “I’ll have you know I’m worth a hundred of those boring old books.”
“And an arrogance to match the worth.” Claire tried to sound harsh and failed.
“It’s all part of my charm. I—” Hero stumbled, as if his foot had tripped on air. He gripped the stone wall with white knuckles as if he suddenly wasn’t sure of his feet.
“Hero?”
“Just a moment. I feel . . . peculiar,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Claire studied him, then felt her pulse stop in her throat. The color began bleeding from Hero’s bright, brassy bronze hair. It formed cool wisps before evaporating. She looked to the hand pressed against the wall and saw a band of symbols glowing on his wrist. It was bright crimson even as all his other colors were being drained out. Her gut clenched, and the cake fell from her fingers. “The IWL.”
“The what?” Hero followed her gaze to the stamp on his wrist. Sweat began to bead on his temple, his face white with distress. “That can’t be. You’re the librarian.”
“Not necessarily. Not if Brevity’s done her job.”
“What? But that’s absurd—” He was fighting it, but Claire knew the pull of the Library always won. She saw the panic flare in his eyes as Hero came to the same conclusion. “Not yet, dammit!” He glared up at the air above them as if the Library’s interworld loan was something to be bargained with.
Claire felt her heart slowly turning to lead. The little parts of her that had been restored by sleep and food and banter, the illusion of hope—those bits were fading along with the peach of Hero’s skin and the blue of his worn coat.
“The Library needs you. It’s all right.” Her voice was eerily calm even in her own ears. She was a writer; she could lie for him.
“No. Wait. Hold on. Just try—maybe you’ll come with?” Hero snatched at her wrist and clamped down hard enough to pinch. His face was beginning to shimmer, just at the edges.
Claire forced her lips up, a halting smile. “Maybe.”
She was a better liar with words than with deeds, and she rarely smiled. It was no surprise that the alarm increased