The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,20
didn’t accidentally fall into the orchestra pit.”
“And the nonpractical?” Leto had seen enough today to understand that the nonpractical was usually more worrisome.
“The theater ghosts, of course.” Claire smiled and eased to a more sensible stroll as they passed the first trickle of crowds lining up outside dockside restaurants and bars. “Theaters traditionally always closed for at least one day a week, leaving on the ghostlight, to appease the ghosts. To allow them one day on the stage to perform their acts. To live and love and hate and triumph on the stage like the living.”
She slid him an unreadable smile as they slowed down at a new corner. “That part’s true. In the glow of a ghostlight, the dead all get one day. One day only.” Claire looked down the street. “Last time I was here, there was a long pier. Good view, outdoor patio across from a ferry. It should be around here somewhere. . . .”
“Two blocks down,” Leto said automatically.
Claire hummed. “Aren’t you handy?”
They walked on, weaving through sidewalk crowds until the waterfront came into view. Far down the walk, Leto could just make out the lights of a Ferris wheel flickering on, painting the night’s low clouds with luminous pinks and greens. The quiet was amiable, until Claire let out a sigh. “You’re a stubborn one.”
Leto’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“All during this fiasco you’ve been asking things! Gawking! Mr. Questions! Fussing over taxicab ethics, even.” Claire stopped at a railing and tugged at a lock of hair irritably. “But I try to introduce the one thing you’re supposed to question and suddenly you’re more gullible than a saint.”
Leto shifted. “I’m not sure I— I’m sorry if I’ve—”
“No, just stop.” She dragged a palm over her face. “I just finished explaining how ghostlights work. How they allow the souls of dead humans like me a day on Earth. So an obvious question might be . . . ?”
“Yes, ah . . . Do they have something to do with the hero?” A trickle of sweat lined the back of Leto’s suit. He felt like he was failing a pop quiz.
“No.” Claire crossed her arms and motioned to his pocket. “An obvious question to someone in your situation might be, ‘So why does a demon need a ghostlight at all?’”
“Why does a demon need a ghostlight? Well, I thought . . .”
Leto tried to consider it—he did. The stern librarian’s approval had swiftly grown important to him. But even as he repeated the words, his mind kept trying to hitch off in a new direction. Surely there were better inquiries. Where was the hero now? How did Brevity pop in and out? How were they going to fix the book? Considering all those, his brain refused to waste time on a silly question about ghostlights. Demons didn’t deserve the luxury of learning. Leto deserved even less.
But Claire’s expectant look made him try. He’d grown to respect the librarians. He liked Brevity and Claire, prickly as she was, and the thought of disappointing her curdled his nerves. He slid his gaze out over the choppy water as he tried to focus. Surely there was a reason he needed a ghostlight. It was obvious.
Because he was new? Because of entropy? Because of the time of year? Because he was such a miserable excuse for a demon?
He felt his stomach tilt as he sorted through each possible reason and discarded it for lack of logic. He felt like he was being tipped over the top of a very tall, steep hill, adrenaline climbing into his throat. He couldn’t see the bottom, couldn’t stop.
Like a roller coaster.
Roller coaster. A term he hadn’t recognized when Claire said it right before the summons this morning. But he could picture it clearly now: the clattering metal track, the thick, foam pads that came down across his shoulders and always smelled vaguely of someone else’s sweat, someone else’s nerves. The flip in his gut as the roller coaster would start. The feeling of a hand grabbing his, belonging to someone soft and bright and all wonderful things at once. The smell of popcorn drifting up from below . . . human smells. Mortal feelings. Living memories.
Leto did not notice his legs failing until his knees banged against the wooden railing harshly. Claire caught him under one arm, stopping his chin from meeting the wood. She supported his weight with a grunt. “Easy, now.”
“I’m . . . I’m not a demon?” Leto’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I’m