The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,42

that Leto struggled to place in his panic. Then a last voice that hissed out and bounced into the darkness:

“If you want to die so bad, why don’t you hurry up and do it, then?”

Leto didn’t even try to fight it this time. The voice was cruel and viciously cold. The voice was his.

Light. Air. Cool hands pressed on the back of his neck. Grass tickled his hands, and the air filled his lungs with the smell of green, sunlit things.

12

CLAIRE

A librarian exists in service to the books, and takes peace in that. Future librarians, I exhort you: do not meddle in the affairs of Hell or concern yourself with the mortal world. Our time there is past, but the stories we shepherd are immortal. What we do here echoes in eternity.

Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 971 CE

[Scribbled at a much later date in a slightly sloppy hand:]

Bleed that. We got a job to do, sure, but what good’s a librarian without a story of his own?

Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1253 CE

THE MOUNTAINS WERE BLACK and sharp, like the ribs of an ancient giant rimming the field of flowers. The closest peaks were spotted with white snowfall and a sparkle of glacial ice. It was daylight, but traces of northern lights played hide-and-seek against the far clouds drifting like passing thoughts. It was a perfect blend of mythic reverence and dreamlike impossibility. It was ridiculous, half-forgotten heroics with changing faces, half mead and belief turned legend turned pop culture. It was Valhalla.

Claire had time to soak it in only after they retrieved their possessions from the ravens, who left in a huff. Brevity had been the fastest, snatching her own glimmering ribbon from her raven and pausing to drape it gently over one wrist. It twitched a protest, then absorbed seamlessly back into the complicated patterns tattooed on her arm.

A strangled cry caught her attention. Leto had arrived last, even though Claire had brought up the rear. That alone wasn’t concerning; the raven roads were always changing. Each path was unfathomable and personal. However, the way he crouched in the grass, breath short and hands fisted tight in his hair, drew everyone’s attention.

“Leto.” Claire dropped to a knee beside him. His shoulders spasmed violently away at her touch, though the rest of him didn’t appear to acknowledge her at all. His breath was a fevered, shallow wheeze. She gently threaded his fingers away from his hair before he pulled it out by the roots. “What’s wrong?”

Leto stared at his hands in reply, fists clenching and unclenching. Claire could feel his pulse merging into a single fluttering drumbeat under her hand. She was about to try to shake him out of it when Brevity jostled between them.

“He’s having a panic attack,” Brevity said crisply as she clasped Leto’s clammy hands and rubbed gently up his arm. “Leto, hey, buddy. We’re safe. Doesn’t feel like it, but we are. We’re gonna take as long as you need, okay?”

Leto didn’t respond, so Brevity dropped to her knees next to him. “You’re right. Brains are fuckin’ liars. But you got this. No rush. I’m going to count to four; maybe you can breathe for me. Four in, four out.” And then, a few moments later, “Want to walk around? No? Good choice—this grass is kind of scratchy, don’t you think? And that air—smells like butterfly farts, yeah? Look at those squishy, weird flowers. Wonder if you can eat ’em. . . .” Brevity kept up the words, grounding him, creating a steady, soft patter that, over a handful of minutes, slowly eased Leto’s shoulders away from his ears. Brevity produced a small blue bottle from her bag and pressed it into his hands before shooing the rest of them away to give Leto a chance to recover.

“You seemed well prepared for that,” Claire said, feeling thrown by her own assistant. Brevity was always surprising her, but then, that was what muses did. In all fairness, Brevity talked so much Claire had learned to only half listen when it wasn’t related to the Library. Perhaps she should change that strategy.

“I was a muse. Contrary to popular belief, it’s hard to get inspired when you’re panicking. Not the first time I’ve seen someone struggle through anxiety.” Brevity gave a careless shrug, not quite looking Claire in the eyes.

“You never talk about your previous work,” Claire said.

“You never ask either, do you?” It carried an accusation, but Brevity brightened, only a little bit forcefully. “It’s okay, boss.