The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,40
Andras and Hero were engaged in dickering about his sword, then rested a hand on Brevity’s shoulder to guide her a polite distance away. She lowered her voice. “Brev, it’s okay.”
Brevity flinched. She gave Claire an uncharacteristically bleak look before her gaze shied away to her arm again. “Muses aren’t supposed to keep anything for themselves. I was sent to the Library for punishment.”
“Muses aren’t my biggest fans,” Claire explained.
“You weren’t exactly thrilled yerself, boss.”
Claire’s mouth twisted. “I refuse to be anyone’s punishment.”
“If we’ve all got our valuables . . .” Andras cleared his throat, breaking the sympathetic quiet that had derailed the two librarians. His eyes were sharp, though, and Leto had the uncomfortable feeling that no incidental admission made in front of the demon was missed. “I thought you may want to take your companions through first, and I’ll bring up the rear.”
Claire composed herself. “You’re the arcane expert here, Andras. Perhaps you should lead.”
The Arcanist and the librarian exchanged a look, held just a second too long to be casual, before Andras nodded. “Off we go, then. Try to keep up.”
Andras opened a cage and hauled one of the birds out by its legs, awkwardly enough to make the whole rookery take up complaint. He dodged snapping beaks and thumped it harshly on the side of the head until the poor bird lay still. He plucked a single black feather from its side and offered a tiny silver dagger from his pocket in exchange. A fragmented jewel in the hilt shone and glimmered independent of the light.
The raven eyed it, tilting its head to one side, then another, before snapping up the bauble. Andras had to jerk back his hand to preserve his fingers. He swore, but in a fitful burst of feathers, the raven launched into the air and took off down the aisle.
Leto watched, wide-eyed. “But where’s it—”
The raven, with Andras close on its heels, passed through the rocky face of the far wall. The rock shifted, then snapped back into place with a vaguely jelly-like wobble. Leto’s stomach swam to watch it.
Claire rattled at the lock on the next cage. “There’s your demonstration. Let’s get moving. Brevity, you next. Then Hero and Leto.”
Claire reached into the cage with far more care than Andras had and came out with a calm—if gravely annoyed—raven perched on her wrist. She passed the bird to Brevity, who took a steadying breath before plucking a feather and offering the bird her shimmering ribbon of light. The bird snatched it up, and they were off, running toward the same rock face at the end of the aisle.
Hero cast a shrewd glance toward Claire. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me carry my own book. You might get lost after all.”
Claire snorted and shook her head. “Your care for my well-being is touching, as always. I’ll be along with the book right behind you.”
“The connection—”
“I’ll risk that it’ll hold. Now go, book.”
Hero allowed one disappointed curl of his lip before he repeated the procedure. His raven took off, flying with ease despite the large sword clutched in its talons. Leto supposed immortal magic birds were bound to be strong.
Claire turned to Leto. “All right. You’ve seen how the others did it.”
“Right.” Leto eyed the wall, which looked worryingly solid. The others hadn’t even had the courtesy to flinch. He wondered what happened when you flinched. He wondered what happened when you fucked this up too.
“The running is the easy part.” Claire stroked the waiting raven’s head. “The vital thing is to keep your eyes on the raven. It can be tricky in there. It’s a road between worlds, nowhere and everywhere at once. No matter what you hear, no matter what you think you see—follow the bird. Stay focused. Got it?”
Leto doubted anything in the world could possess him to abandon a magical lifeline, but the creases in the librarian’s brow prompted him to nod with more confidence than he felt. “Got it.”
“Good. I’ll be right behind you.” Claire handed him the raven. Its claws were gentle as they clamped around his wrist, dry but smooth and hot. The bird was surprisingly heavy and swayed on his forearm. Dark beady eyes regarded him with a canny kind of judgment. The bird gave only a disgruntled croak as Leto plucked the smallest feather he could manage from its chest. He swallowed hard, then opened his hand to reveal the ghostlight.
It had once again become a white candle upon its return to Hell, though