The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,9

sidewalk, then began turning slowly in a circle. “It’s nearby.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Leto asked.

“A leather-bound book, like the rest of our collection. It’ll think it’s being sneaky, but it should stand out pretty clearly against modern-day paperbacks.” Claire frowned into store windows as they wandered a few yards up and down the sidewalk. “Or since it is awake and manifested, it could be a person.”

“A person?”

Claire frowned into a coffee shop window. “They look like anything, but you can tell by the . . . oh, hell and harpies.”

Both Brevity and Leto turned and peered over the librarian’s shoulder. The shop was a popular spot, filled with an assortment of creative and business folk jostling for table space and power outlets.

Leto didn’t see what had caused the librarian to utter increasingly dark and esoteric oaths under her breath until Brevity pointed. “There. We got ourselves a hero.”

Leto followed the girl’s finger to a table by the window where a young and attractive couple perched. The woman sipped at a tall glass while she flicked animated, slender hands around in her conversation with what Leto assumed, from the smitten look on the man’s face, was her boyfriend.

He was a composition of fine tailoring and good genes. He leaned conspiratorially over the table and offered the woman a practiced smile. The man’s fingertips rested artfully at his temple, where bronze hair ruffled in a nonexistent breeze. Leto was no judge of such things, for many reasons. But even he could tell in a moment that the hero was, frankly, perfect.

“Is the woman the author?” Claire had finally exhausted her cursing. “Brev, grab me the photo from the author profile.”

Brevity ruffled around in the librarian’s bag before flipping open the file. “Yeah, looks like Miss McGowan to me, boss.”

Leto suspected, from the stormy look that crossed Claire’s face, that the author’s presence was a very bad thing.

The librarian heaved a sigh. “Why couldn’t it have been a damsel? This is going to make things significantly more difficult. We need to corner it and keep the contact with the author to a minimum.”

“Wait—I thought we were here for a book,” Leto said.

“We are. He is the book.” Claire’s explanation was peevish as she scanned the shop. “When unwritten books get too wild, too loved, or just too hungry, they get it in their fool heads to be real. They leak into the world, usually in the form of one of their characters. They aren’t the most creative lot on their own. That guy is obviously the hero—did you see those cheekbones? All he’s missing is a sword and a white horse. That’s our character.”

“And he’s talking to his author?”

“Violating every rule unwritten works have. When I get that book back to the wing . . . Bugger. Why’d it have to be a hero?”

“What’s wrong with heroes?”

“Everything.”

“Boss ain’t exactly fond of characters that decide to wake up, ’specially heroes.” A thoughtful look flickered across Brevity’s face. “He’s just a representation of the story, of course. The physical book still exists. He can’t stray too far from the rest of his book, so it must be close.”

“Hopefully, Mr. Nightfall here is fool enough to keep it at hand, and we can wrap this up easy,” Claire said. “All right, a plan. Brevity, I’m going to need a distraction that gets the author’s attention.”

The former muse positively glowed. “Wild, public display of drama? That I can do. What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s keep this classic.” Claire turned to Leto with a smile that made him gulp. “Leto, time to earn your keep.”

3

RAMIEL

I’m glad I’m here! I’ll be the last librarian, for all I care. Think of it: what is more boring than paradise?

Apprentice Librarian Brevity, 2013 CE

The realms of the afterlife are long-lived, but not static. Realms function off belief, and will change as beliefs change. Realms can die if starved of souls, but more often they morph into something closer to legend than to religion. Eternity bends to the whims of mortal imagination.

I wonder what we would do if we knew we held such power when we were alive. It’s an opportunity.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 51 BCE

THERE’S A FIRST QUESTION that anyone who lived a good life hears after they die. It’s a simple question. And it was Ramiel’s duty to ask it.

“Anything to declare?”

“What?” The soul was a thin man, his hairline meandering that border between middle-aged and elderly. He was confused, as they always were, wobbling slightly as he