The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,38

tenor. The light spilling from shaded lamps drifted to a cooler tone, fading from amber to blue before dimming entirely. The shadows deepened. The deer that had frolicked in a nearby pastoral painting cast nervous glances outside the frame and disappeared into the oil-painted woods. The air became hushed and heavy.

Claire’s last act of business was to pat the gargoyle as they slipped out into the corridor. “Hold down the fort, friend,” she murmured. She half turned to look back but abruptly thought better of indulging the guilt that twisted in her stomach. She squared her shoulders and led the party toward the stairs at the far end of the hall. “Hopefully Andras is ready to go.”

11

LETO

Stories and books have had many forms over the centuries. Humans have written down words on paper, but also on wood, clay, bone, bark, ivory, linen, stone, and the skin of every creature under the sun. Logic dictates that the unwritten words would be the same. But the Unwritten Wing is filled, shelf after shelf, with sturdy leather-bound books. Proper, civilized books. Even the Librarian’s Log refers to current collection materials—books, not scrolls. I suppose the log must have some translation magic worked into it, but the Library itself?

It puzzled me until I came back to the simple truth: stories want to be told. And we, the librarians, are the only readers they have here.

Unwritten books yearn, and unwritten books change. Yet we expect them to remain timeless. I would say that’s an accurate description of Hell.

Librarian Claire Hadley, 1990 CE

BOOKS WERE HEAVIER—AND muses stronger—than they looked. Leto had offered to carry Brevity’s bag and quickly regretted it. He scrunched his nose as he followed the others down the stairs.

They passed through the Arcane Wing’s ornate double doors, and he nearly collided with Brevity as she came to a sudden stop. Claire’s back went rigid, while Brevity shuddered. Leto craned over her head to see what had startled the librarians.

He really wished he hadn’t.

At the center of the laboratory, Andras conferred with two very large lab coats. The sheer size required to fill these lab coats was surprising enough, but then the lab coats turned. The faces above starchy white collars were . . . not there. Or they were there in the same way that the Library’s gargoyle was there—that is to say, in angles and proportions that were only reality adjacent, best not considered straight on. But these faces didn’t just give you a headache, like the gargoyle did; they twisted and writhed and broke through your calm, like sanity-fed maggots. Their smiles contained screams.

And there were so many. Leto looked away only to see another half dozen such creatures working the shelves. He was certain they hadn’t been there on his previous trip, but now their presence was overwhelming. Leto focused on his shoes and fought the urge to retch. Behind him, Hero made a queasy noise.

Claire alone kept her eyes riveted straight ahead as she cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you’d taken on interns in the Arcane Wing, Andras. Let alone such . . . prestigious ones. Wherever did you recruit them?”

The Arcanist looked up from his papers and glanced at the hulking horrors to either side of him with a fond smile. “It is so hard to find reliable help. I’ve had to devote quite a lot of time to recruitment lately.”

Claire shook her head. “And here I thought I was your only mentee. I’m crushed.”

“You’re still my favorite.” Andras gave an indulgent smile.

“What are those things?” Leto hissed to Brevity.

“Horrors, they got a lot of different names aboveground. You don’t usually see them outside the lower levels of Hell. Demons use them sometimes to keep a legion in line.” Brevity frowned at the lab floor as she hung back.

“They most definitely shouldn’t be here.” Claire dropped her voice so it wouldn’t carry to Andras’s very sharp hearing. “The Library isn’t supposed to deal in torment. Or tormentors.”

“Not for humans at least,” Brevity said, catching Claire’s gaze with a coded look.

“Not normally dealing in torment,” Claire corrected after a weighted moment. “This is not normal.”

“Maybe they’re the runts. Castoffs and rejects of the proper Horrors,” Hero suggested. He’d recovered enough to pull level to Claire and sneer at the creatures that towered above them. “Seems this place deals in that kind of thing.”

“Either way, it’s none of our business.” Claire let out a little breath as the Horrors turned away. Leto found it comforting that even she