The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,19
legs that Leto found impossible to corral. Leto grimaced as they hit another trash can that boomed loudly in the darkness.
Brevity, hand full of book rather than hero, kept pace with something close to a nervous dance. She flashed Leto a reassuring smile. “Cheer up. At least she’s not cursing His High—”
“Lucifer’s frilly, satin balls,” Claire grunted as they deposited the hero against a stack of stained cardboard boxes with a shove.
“Never mind,” Brevity said.
Leto flinched. Despite his growing increasingly used to Claire’s colorful wording, each blasphemy still sent a tremor of unease through him. He set the hero’s feet down gently on a box. The character’s haughty face was still pale. “Is he going to be okay?”
“For now, I reckon.” The muse cast glances back to the alley entrance, and pedestrian traffic was slowing as the afternoon waned.
Brevity crouched over the hero and poked at his shoulder. “Tearing out your own pages is one thing; they can be reattached. But his pages were destroyed. Anything that was on them is gone forever. Places, plot . . . or characters. You can do a lot with restoration, and boss is one of the best, but you can’t reinvent things out of whole cloth.”
“Which is why it’s time to stop dallying and get him back to the Library.” Claire dusted off her hands. “When you arrive, make him comfortable, then be sure to send a message to the muse cache. I’ll have to work on him myself, and I’ll need fresh parchment and binder.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re not . . . ?”
“One more piece of business. I’ll be fine. Leto’s been extremely helpful so far. Isn’t that right?”
Leto jerked his head up. “Uh, sure. I mean, I hope so. We aren’t going back now?” The hum of the city streets made his skin itch, and the whole adventure had left his human form disconcertingly . . . sweaty.
“Brev will take the hero and book back,” Claire said, as if to a small child. “We have a quick stop before we use our ghostlights.”
Claire met Brevity’s concerned gaze, and some unspoken discussion occurred between the librarian and her assistant. After a moment, Brevity took hold of the hero by the collar. “I’ll take care of handsome here, sure thing.”
The muse etched a figure on the dusty concrete faster than Leto could follow. He could have sworn the brick walls wobbled, just a moment, before he was distracted by a hissing pop. Brevity and the prone hero were gone in a swirl of dust and paper debris. A trace scent of cotton candy and ash hung in the air.
Which left Leto alone with Hell’s librarian. He pulled his gaze away from the swirling air to find Claire scrutinizing him over her glasses. Her lips were cinched up like purse strings. Leto didn’t know her well enough to know what that meant, but he was sure it was nothing good. He again suffered the sense of being appraised for something he didn’t understand. Claire nodded and took off down the alley at a pace that required Leto to hurry to keep up.
“Do you know the origin of ghostlights, Leto?” Claire asked after they had joined the evening foot traffic on the sidewalk. She guided him around the corner at a brisk pace, stopping occasionally to squint at street signs.
“Not exactly.” It wasn’t much of an admission. He was a junior fiend at best. He hadn’t understood half of what he’d encountered today. They wandered downhill from the business buildings, away from tall towers, and toward squat ferry buildings and shops that lined the pier. Distracting smells and sights filtered his thoughts. They passed a famous chocolate shop, where buttery, sweet cocoa smells wafted out and drove away the briny smell of the bay. Leto didn’t stop to wonder how he knew the scent; he just did. He knew if they turned right, they’d run into a flock of taxicabs that swarmed around the Four Seasons and a crusty protester who always stood on that corner, waving a picture of the current president—didn’t matter who—with horns drawn on. No one knew what he was protesting.
“The term comes from the theater. Or at least, from days when theaters were more popular. When a theater closed for the night, a single light was left on, usually just a bulb on a stand at the center of the stage. The stage always stayed lit. A ghostlight. It had a practical purpose, of course—that way the first one to enter