The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,23

Claire’s breast. “I am Ramiel. Soldier of the First Host, the Thunder of God. I’ll have the truth.”

Light shuddered just beneath the blade’s surface, though Leto swore Ramiel hadn’t moved. Leto twitched, and Claire shook her head ever so slightly.

“Ramiel . . .” Claire breathed, and for the first time Leto heard fear in her voice. “I wasn’t aware fallen angels had such a passion for literature.” Leto blinked at the word. Angel.

“Will you hand over the book, Librarian?” Ramiel’s shoulder inched down as his lips pressed into a pale line. The clear bag with the parchment dangled from his free hand at his side. Leto found himself listening for the whispers. He wasn’t sure if he wanted more to pick out the words or to block his ears. “I will not ask again. I know you are neutral. You were once human. I have no quarrel with your duties. But I must return with the book.”

The pause was charged, air before a storm. When Claire spoke, her voice was calm again. “Leto, dear. Remember to blow out your ghostlight.” She spoke without breaking her gaze from the angel. “Unfortunately, my duties extend to every book in my care. I cannot help you.”

“A pity. I wish it were otherwise.” A shutter came over Ramiel’s gaze, eyes guarded. His sword arm trembled. The air felt on the edge of cracking, and then Leto knew.

He didn’t know what a Watcher was; he didn’t know what a Watcher did. Didn’t know about fallen angels or books in Hell. Leto barely knew himself. But if he was human, then everything human in him—every teenage, powerless, frustrated human fiber—knew what angry men in power did when denied something they felt they were owed. Leto darted forward and grabbed desperately at the nearest thing in reach: the bag dangling from the angel’s fingers.

He’d intended merely to create a distraction, but the reaction was immediate and violent. Ramiel grunted, jerking his sword away from Claire’s chest. His arm swung back, and Leto flinched against the railing, waiting for the blow.

Instead, Claire’s arm crashed against Leto’s chest. They careened backward and pitched against the wood.

“Deep breath!” she ordered as the world spun. The railing dug into his back and then they toppled over the edge of the pier. The Watcher’s startled face tilted out of view, sword faltering as a free hand reached out. And then they hit the black cold water.

Ice spasmed through his nerves and the water closed over him. A brackish taste flooded the back of his mouth before he remembered to clench his throat shut. Diffuse light bled away as they sank into the bay. Claire’s hand clamped tighter onto his chest as another hand pawed for the pocket that held his ghostlight. Leto got the idea and managed to pull the tiny lighter out with a free hand.

His lungs burned. It was too dark to see, and his movements were turning thick and sluggish from the icy Puget Sound waters. Claire’s hand fumbled on top of his, and she thumbed the switch. The ghostlight flared, sparking light into the dark water with an impossible blue flame.

A trickle of bubbles breathed against his cheek as Claire mouthed something. He could not hear them, but he caught the last words as they bloomed quiet in the center of his head, like a half-remembered poem.

“. . . and I’ll drown my book.”

7

CLAIRE

A librarian has already failed if a book requires repairs. Books will age, yes, even in the Library. Need new binding, a tidying up of revisions. But true damage happens only when a book escapes.

I expect you, apprentice, will never fail so in your duties. But should a book need repair, be prepared to devote all your time and patience. It is simple enough to repair a book’s paper form; even its manifested form will mend. But a book in the Unwritten Wing is the manifest potential of a story—the words are the thing. Potential cannot be ripped out and replaced like parchment or leather. You cannot substitute your own words. A story must be fed, encouraged to grow its own roots.

Keep the books from damage, Gregor. Repair those you can save. But beware the stories that find their freedom.

Librarian Yoon Ji Han, 1817 CE

WHEN CLAIRE BLINKED, ENDLESS gnarls of red thread danced on the insides of her eyelids. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and drained the remains of her cold tea.

They’d landed back in Walter’s office, flopping about like fish, and bringing a