“Peace, woman!”
Claire held the book over her head again.
“What’s wrong with you two?” Leto stumbled between them, holding up his hands though he didn’t seem certain who was a threat to whom. He visibly relaxed when Claire lowered her arm.
“Lesson time, Leto. It’s important to know your archetypes. You know the difference between a hero and a typical villain in a fight?” Claire said, pinning accusing eyes at Hero over the teenager’s shoulder. “Heroes are optimists. Ambush a hero, and you’ll get shock, anger. Retaliation at the injustice. But a villain, a villain, now . . . they know how betrayal works. Strike a villain, they expect it. Villains get cautious, not angry.”
“Oh, I can be plenty angry,” Hero said.
“Don’t.” Claire clenched her hands and had to remind herself not to twist the book in her grasp. She shouldered past Leto and shoved the book hard into Hero’s chest. “You lied.”
“It was more of a . . . failure to correct.” Hero grimaced down at his book. “You were the one that started calling me a hero! I didn’t think I’d be around long enough for it to matter, but then . . . well.”
“You’re a villain.”
“And you’re a murderer!” Hero snapped. “If we’re going about handing out titles. Were we supposed to forget that?”
“Don’t try to deflect this—”
“Like you did?” Hero leaned into his space, a harsh sneer coiled and ready to strike. “Perhaps we should be talking about what is going to happen when the whole of Hell’s court hears about what you did, hmm? When we get back, I’m going to have such fascinating stories to tell.”
Claire held her expression still, despite the self-doubt and misgivings curdling through her anger. “I’m the librarian.”
“For now,” Hero said. “What would you do to stay that way? Maybe you could lose track of another book, warden. Let’s talk about that.”
“Like. Hell.” She held his glare, the only sound in the kitchen Leto’s nervous shuffling. She would hide, she would obscure, she would mislead, but hell if she would ever fail the Library again. She couldn’t stand more ink on her hands, stains that wouldn’t rub out. Claire shook her head. “You were never a hero.”
“Figured that out on your own, did you? Here I thought I’d been the perfect gallant.” Hero’s lips thinned into a line before his eyes moved over her shoulder. “Or was there a little bird?”
Beatrice lingered at the kitchen door. Her arms were crossed and she held herself tall and tense, like an arrow pulled ready for a target. “Some of us care about the truth.”
“Oh no.” Claire whirled on Beatrice. “You don’t get to say a word about the truth.”
A nerve twitched in Beatrice’s haughty face. “I’m not the one who—”
“I don’t trust either of you. At least he”—Claire practically stabbed Hero’s chest—“knows it’s a lie. He pretends to be a hero—but you think you’re being heroic.”
Beatrice’s expression became injured and glacial. She said nothing before withdrawing again. Claire waited until the unwritten woman had disappeared down the hallway to release her sigh between pursed lips. She turned and caught Leto’s look, which was part judgmental teenager, part injured puppy.
“You are very good at driving people off,” Leto said.
“It’s a gift.” Claire’s smile felt forced, but she offered it anyway.
Hero lost his bravado after the outburst and wilted against the wall. “It appears we both have secrets to keep—”
“Don’t.” Claire cut Hero off. “We will discuss your future—at length—when we get back to the Library. But for that to happen, we must get out of here. I do have a way you can help redeem yourself. Call it an act of goodwill.”
“How fortuitous for me.” Hero narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel I am not going to like this?”
Claire merely smiled and gestured them both toward the table. “We need a distraction.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
WHEN CLAIRE EMERGED FROM the kitchen into the study a short time later, Andras was lounging on the couch with a cup of coffee and already deep in discussion with Beatrice. He rose when he spotted her entrance, and gripped her shoulders tight in a hug. “I’m sorry, pup. I tried.”
His hands lingered on the tension in her shoulders. It was supposed to be a comfortable squeeze, but felt more like a measuring of meat.
Claire ignored the quiet alarm in her gut. “The angels are already here?”
Andras ghosted a nod. “Roosting like vultures on the outskirts. They aren’t in yet, but it’s only a matter of time—an hour, if