The God of Lost Words E-Book

A. J. Hackwith

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 502

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

To save the Library of the Unwritten in Hell, former librarian Claire and her allies may have to destroy it first, in the final book of the bestselling fantasy trilogy To save the Library of the Unwritten in Hell, former librarian Claire and her allies may have to destroy it first. Claire, rakish Hero, angel Rami, and muse-turned-librarian Brevity have accomplished the impossible by discovering the true nature of unwritten books. But now that the secret is out, in its quest for power Hell will be coming for every wing of the Library. To protect the Unwritten Wing and stave off the insidious reach of Malphas, one of Hell's most bloodthirsty generals, Claire and her friends will have to decide how much they're willing to sacrifice to keep their vulnerable corner of the afterlife. Succeeding would mean rewriting the nature of the Library, but losing would mean obliteration. Their only chance at survival lies in outwitting Hell and writing a new chapter for the Library. Luckily, Claire and her friends know how the right story, told well, can start a revolution.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Praise for the series

Also by A.J. Hackwith and available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a review

Copyright

Dedication

1 Hero

2 Claire

3 Brevity

4 Hero

5 Brevity

6 Hero

7 Claire

8 Hero

9 Rami

10 Brevity

11 Rami

12 Claire

13 Brevity

14 Claire

15 Hero

16 Hero

17 Claire

18 Hero

19 Brevity

20 Hero

21 Rami

22 Brevity

23 Hero

24 Brevity

25 Claire

26 Hero

27 Claire

28 Rami

29 Claire

30 Rami

31 Hero

32 Hero

33 Claire

34 Hero

35 Hero

36 Claire

37 Rami

38 Claire

39 Rami

40 Hero

41 Rami

42 Hero

43 Rami

44 Brevity

45 The Library

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Website

Praise for the series

“An enjoyable madcap caper.”—The Guardian

“Hackwith’s plotting, her characters and her scenes are each a delight. This book is as rich as chocolate and as refreshing as sherbet.”—Morning Star

“Hackwith builds her world and characters with loving detail, creating a delightful addition to the corpus of library-based and heaven vs. hell fantasies. This novel and its promised sequels will find a wide audience.”—Publishers Weekly

“Elaborate worldbuilding, poignant and smart characters, and a layered plot… An ode to books, writing, and found families.”—Library Journal (starred review)

“Hackwith writes a fast-paced, suspenseful story set in an intriguing world where storytellers can duel with words and souls are not what they seem.”—Booklist

“Wow! A.J. Hackwith puts a whole new spin on libraries and librarians in The Library of the Unwritten! The imaginative plotline coupled with lots of phenomenal action and a solid dose of humor keep the reader engaged even as we wonder what twisted turn of events will happen next.”—Fresh Fiction

“Prepare to laugh and to cry, to have your mind bent and your grip on reality loosened as you embark on the wild ride that is The Library of the Unwritten. This is the ultimate novel about the power of storytelling. Librarian Claire, who must deal with the denizens of assorted Afterworld realms, is a stand-out creation, complex and memorable. A novel brimful with imagination, with emotional undertones that run deep. I loved it!”—Juliet Marillier, author of the Blackthorn & Grim series

“Clever, charming, full of intricate worldbuilding and delightful characters, The Library of the Unwritten is the first book in your new favorite series.”—Christina Henry, author of The Girl in Red

“It’s like The Good Place meets Law & Order: Bibliophile Crime Unit. Highly recommended. This book is so much fun, and you should be reading it. Trust me. Stories about story are some of my favorite kinds. This book definitely makes the list. I am so glad I read this.”—Seanan McGuire, author of In an Absent Dream

“The most intriguing story I’ve read in a long time. I shall never again turn my back on an unfinished book.”—Jodi Taylor, author of Just One Damned Thing After Another

“The Library of the Unwritten is a tiered dark chocolate cake of a book. The read is rich and robust, the prose has layers upon layers, and the characters melt like ganache upon the tongue. A saturated, decadent treat. An unforgettable, crave-worthy experience. A book lovers’ book; a supreme and masterful concoction that makes fresh fiction out of dusty Dante and boring Bible bits.”—Meg Elison, Philip K. Dick Award Winner

“Like Good Omens meets Jim Hines’s Ex Libris series, a must-read for any book lover. Hackwith has penned a tale filled with unforgettable characters fighting with the power of creativity against a stunning array of foes from across the multiverse.”—Michael R. Underwood, author of the Stabby Award finalist Genrenauts series

“A muse, an undead librarian, a demon, and a ghost walk into Valhalla… what follows is a delightful and poignant fantasy adventure that delivers a metric ton of found family feels, and reminds us that the hardest stories to face can be the ones we tell about ourselves.”—New York Times bestselling author Kit Rocha

“Hackwith has artfully penned a love letter to books and readers alike and filled it with lush, gorgeous prose, delightfully real characters, a nonstop, twisty, and heart-wrenching plot, and an explosive ending that gave me chills.”—K. A. Doore, author of The Perfect Assassin

“A delightful romp through heaven, hell, and everything in between which reveals itself in layers: an exploration of the nuances of belief, a demonstration of the power of the bonds that connect us, and a love letter to everybody who has ever heard the call of their own story.”—Caitlin Starling, author of The Luminous Dead

“A wry, high-flying, heartfelt fantasy, told with sublime prose and sheer joy even at its darkest moments (and there are many). I want this entire series on my shelf yesterday.”—Tyler Hayes, author of The Imaginary Corpse

“The only book I’ve ever read that made the writing process look like fun. A delight for readers and writers alike!”—Hugo Award Finalist Elsa Sjunneson-Henry

“It’s fun, creative, some great humour and a solid mystery at its core.”—Books, Tea & Me Review

Also by A.J. Hackwith and available from Titan Books

The Library of the Unwritten

The Archive of the Forgotten

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The God of Lost Words

Print edition ISBN: 9781789093216

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093223

Published By

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London, SE1 0UP.

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: February 2022

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2021, 2022 A.J. Hackwith. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Becky

Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself

Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,

Into the harsh and boist’rous tongue of war,

Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,

Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine

To a trumpet and a point of war?

William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2

1

HERO

Maybe a library isn’t defined by what it holds. Maybe it is defined by what it does.

Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1433 CE

WHEN A BOOK RUNS, a librarian follows. It was the law, part threat, part promise, of the Unwritten Wing. Hero knew this; all the books knew this. It was thoroughly known.

What was unknown was what a book was supposed to do when the librarian ran.

The Arcane Wing had become a carefully layered thicket. No, not a thicket—a fort. Hero danced between half-crumpled crates of artifacts, malice and wonder dribbling out from between the cracks. A stack of folded gold cloth tilted precariously, and Hero sidestepped the silk avalanche.

It was worse than Rami had described when, in the low, gentle tones of a worried sheepdog, he’d asked Hero for help. “She hasn’t conducted an inventory in a month. Not since…” He trailed off, finding it either impossible or unnecessary to indicate the epicenter of Claire’s distress. Of everyone’s, really. A mysterious ink that stained and threatened to possess Claire, a muse angling for revolution, Hero’s book… gone. No one emerged from that nonsense with the unwritten ink okay. Under different circumstances, Hero would still be sunk into a dark corner of Hell and an even darker corner of whatever passed for a bottle of ale in these parts—he suspected Walter could point him the way. But those were different circumstances, and this… well, this was Claire.

The Arcane Wing had been ruled by Claire’s discipline, iron will pitted against magical chaos. But now order had been discarded, however temporarily, in a search for answers that weren’t there. Hero cleared the last wall of defense—a particularly cluttered table where ornate jewelry lay in a tangled nest—and found the center of Claire’s warren.

“Go. Away.”

Ah, this was why Rami had asked Hero to help. Ramiel was a steady assistant, could lend infinite wise guidance and support. That patently wasn’t what Claire needed right now. People only ever brought Hero in when there was monstrous prodding to be done.

The Arcanist was slouched in the chair behind her desk. She had an absurdly large book held up like a shield. Hero cleared his throat. Predictably, Claire ignored him.

“Sulking doesn’t suit you, warden,” Hero said.

The book lowered a fraction. Claire’s face did an enjoyable contortion before settling into an arch frown as she saw him. Bodies didn’t change much in Hell, but Hero thought he could detect new, exhausted lines around her eyes that had not been there before. She rose and brushed past him with precisely the brusque, offended air he’d been hoping to elicit. “I don’t have time to sulk—or for you.”

“But I’m a delight.” Hero shadowed Claire’s steps as she stopped to straighten a particularly teetering stack of crates. Even when cultivating chaos, Claire was tidy. “And you must have time. You’ve wasted nearly a month on self-pity.”

“Not self-pity. Research.”

“Ever your vice. Personally I would prefer if you were a drunkard. It would be infinitely more entertaining for the rest of us.”

“I apologize for boring you.”

“Never that, no.” Hero smiled as Claire finally halted at the head of a row of shelves to look at him. “You are never that.”

Claire sighed, but Hero could see her shoulders relax by inches. “What do you want, Hero?”

“The same as you—answers. But we already know we won’t find them here.” Hero stepped closer, still feeling a thrill of wonder when he reached out to touch her chin and she allowed it. “We’ve already faced the worst, Claire. What are you hiding from?”

There was a moment when Claire drew a breath and her lips parted and Hero thought he’d reached her. But then the answer came out of the darkness behind him. “The consequences of her own actions, if I was asked to wager a guess.”

The voice crashed against them like ice water. Hero stepped back out of reflex. Claire’s mouth snapped closed and she turned with a poise she reserved for only the worst things. “Why, Malphas. To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit, Grandmother of Ghosts?”

Malphas was seated at a worktable near the front doors, enthroned in a brown-red cloak. She was a lean older woman, although demons could appear any age they wished. Age sharpened her edges rather than softened them. The soft light from the lamps deepened her wizened features and made the fabric appear to puddle into dried blood in the folds. At least, Hero reverently hoped it was a trick of the light. A smile pinched her wrinkled features and she raised her voice to carry. “Never cared much for that name. ‘Grandmother’ insinuates I’d claim anyone as kin.”

“A shame; she’d make a delightful evil stepmother,” Hero mused under his breath.

No one should have been able to hear him at this distance, but Malphas pinned him with a glance. It was precisely like a pinning, so much steel and malice in her regard that a cold smear of terror streaked up Hero’s spine. He felt a small bit of relief when Malphas turned to Claire with a trip-wire smile. “If only it were bloodshed. No, nothing so pleasant. Worse: accounting.”

Malphas said the word with the precise feeling with which Hero might say “polyester,” or Claire would say “coffee.” Claire’s lip twitched. “Poor thing. Don’t you have a lesser devil of details to see to that for you?”

Malphas appeared to miss the wordplay. “They’re the ones who brought it to my attention. I need an inventory.”

The amusement faded off Claire’s face. Hero was fairly certain only he could notice the muscles in her jaw as they twitched. “An inventory? Surely you don’t mean my wing.”

Leather stained the color of dried blood creaked as Malphas folded her arms and tapped a sharp claw against her elbow. “For a start. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, child. I’ll be asking the Unwritten too.”

Claire smiled, and it was a very particular smile. One she reserved for disasters and imminent death. Really, it was alarming how familiar Hero was with that smile. “I’d be happy to comply; unfortunately, Hell doesn’t have authority over the Library to make such a request. We’re sovereign, remember.”

“A right shame—we do so love cooperating with Hell,” Hero added.

“You aren’t sovereign, not when it disturbs the power balance of the realms. There was a sudden drop in the ambient power of the realm a short while ago—coincidentally centered on the spaces where we generously host the Library wings. Almost as if something was removed.”

“Well”—Claire gestured with a theatrically loose shrug—“your measurements are inaccurate. As you can see, here we are.”

“It isn’t your whereabouts that concern me—for once,” Malphas said. “In our realm, the inventory of souls might as well be our borders and defense. We have a right to protect our assets.” The trap in Malphas’s smile sprang, and she stepped forward. “I find it strange that a soul loss would register here of all places, given your attendance. Don’t you?”

Claire had her right hand clutched behind her skirts. Only Hero saw the flinch and reflexive clench of her fingers, hard enough to turn the knuckles pale. It was the same hand that had been stained black with the ink of destroyed unwritten books mere weeks ago. A stain that had subsequently spread, had haunted and nearly destroyed her. Hero might have—they might have—lost her had it not been for a fateful confrontation in the Dust Wing. In a struggle with Probity, a muse set against the Unwritten Wing, Claire had unleashed the ink. Rami had recognized the tattered souls in the ink, like had called to like, Claire had been saved, and the fragmented souls had joined their brethren in the Dust Wing.

At least, that was the current theory. Hero wasn’t sure any of the Library’s little family knew precisely what the hell had happened to any of them.

Claire had been haunted and then purged. Brevity had been tattooed, then scarred. Hero… well, Hero had been a character from a book. With that book destroyed, he wasn’t sure what that made him now.

Ramiel, their angelic resident soul expert, insisted it all came down to the revelation of the secret the Library had been hiding: books are made from fragments of soul. Or, at the very least, human souls and stories were made of the same stuff.

Souls were one thing in Hell: power. When they’d released the ink, Hell had taken notice.

Hero’s mind spun up a dozen ways to divert Malphas from this line of inquiry and discarded all of them as doomed to fail. His spiraling dread was only interrupted by an irritated tch sound as Claire clicked her tongue. “Well,” Claire said after a moment, sounding irritated. “No need to make it out so dramatic, General. I don’t have time to meddle with your little power plays and schemes. I’m positive you’ll find all our inventories in order, but if you insist—”

“I do,” Malphas said.

“—then I suppose we can produce yesterday’s inventory. Will that suffice?”

“With proper authenticity, perhaps,” Malphas allowed. Claire turned on a prim heel and strode toward the far aisle of shelves, waggling a hand over her shoulder as an invitation to follow. Malphas did so, shouldering past Hero with more weight than her fragile old grandmother appearance warranted.

There was no inventory, at least not one completed yesterday, or last week. Only years of professional villainy kept the blasé smile on Hero’s lips. Years, and the firm belief that Claire was not so foolish as to let slip what the Library had discovered to the blood-soaked grand general of Hell. He wiped a palm over his face before hurrying to follow Malphas.

*   *   *

HE CAUGHT UP TO them back at the oubliette of paperwork that Claire liked to call her office. It was more of an alcove, really, inset off the back corner of the Arcane Wing, conveniently located adjacent to Claire’s twin priorities of tea and secrets. Even Malphas didn’t care to follow the curator all the way into the bookkeeping stacks. Claire resurfaced after a moment with a box not quite succeeding to contain its pile of vellum sheets.

“Here, the most recent inventory, signed and countersigned by Walter, as a matter of fact. I assume that’s sufficient?”

Malphas frowned, but even Hell’s general wasn’t going to question the good name of Death. The terrifying yet oddly charming gatekeeper of Hell was a rather clumsy giant and, secretly, one of Claire’s greatest allies. Malphas eyed the box with significant prejudice. “This is your idea of filing?”

“Oh, I defer to my predecessor. All Andras’s files were kept in just such a manner. Who am I to change the system?” Claire’s smile was delightfully malicious, and Hero was glad he had a moment to admire it as Malphas reluctantly took possession of the box.

“You’re hiding something,” she said.

“It’s Hell. Of course I’m hiding something.” Claire made a vague shrug of her shoulders. “The only question is, Is it the same thing you’re looking for?”

Malphas’s expression grew warmer, if no less suspicious. “Careful, little librarian. Get too good at this game and Hell may decide to keep you for themselves.”

“Hell could not afford to keep me in the damnation to which I am accustomed.” Claire gestured vaguely to the collection of problems around her, with a finger flick for Hero. A warm feeling beneath his breastbone immediately decided it was a compliment. It nearly distracted him from noticing how Claire’s eyes slid past Malphas’s shoulder, and she abruptly cleared her throat.

“If that’s all, General Malphas, I do have an Arcane Wing to run.”

Not being a fool herself, Malphas turned her attention behind her. In the shadow of the Arcane Wing’s wide double doors, Ramiel waited. His trench coat was even more rumpled than usual, feathers escaping the epaulets to stick up around his collar like some disgruntled owl. It was an atrocious look, absolutely horrid, and it never ceased to fill Hero with an inexplicable fondness. So much so, in fact, that he nearly missed the other visitor.

Pallas, smooth and perfect as a statue, was hard to miss normally. The—what was he, an attendant?—attendant of Elysium was no more than a blond sliver clutching Rami’s sleeve. There was no official title in the Library for Pallas. His mother was the librarian of the Unsaid Wing and wore his body like a puppet when the mood suited her, a feat Hero hoped to never have to witness again. One trip to Elysium’s library had been enough for him. Pallas should not be here, and his presence could only indicate a new problem.

More important, Hero noted with irritation, Pallas should not have been so forward as to clutch Rami like that.

These calculations occurred in the split second it took to glance back and catch the particular level of superiority in Claire’s frown that she reserved only for deep alarm. If Pallas was here, then that likely meant other members of Elysium were here—for some ungodly reason—and Hell would not take kindly to visitors of a paradise realm encroaching on their doorstep. Hell barely tolerated the Library, which held a distinct policy of moral neutrality when it came to the afterlife. The Library could hardly afford more suspicious attention from Malphas.

Claire’s lips parted but closed again as Hero made an irritated sound. He wasn’t quite foolhardy enough to nudge Malphas aside, but he put extra dramatics into his sigh as he stepped around her. Attention was an easy thing to manipulate, once you knew the trick. “Ramiel, you scoundrel! You terrible cad.”

The way Rami’s brows inched together, like two anxious caterpillars in the middle of his forehead, never ceased to delight. He was excessively attractive when confused. Hero continued forward, slipping an arm through Pallas’s elbow and stealing him away with a graceful turn. “Bringing a damsel down here, really! And while I was away visiting your senior, to boot.” Hero squeezed Pallas’s elbow, and the youth had the good sense to stay quiet. “I know you Arcane Wing types flaunt the rules, but leave our poor charges out of it.”

Rami’s broad olive features did a complicated twitch before regaining control. Bless his heart, the angel was just not wired for impromptu subterfuge. Hero said a silent thanks when Pallas cleared his throat.

“No, it was my fault. I swear it, Sir Hero. I begged Sir Ramiel until he agreed to take me along. I wanted to see the”—Pallas’s eyes darted around the dim wing for a flicker of a heartbeat—“the tables… so awfully much.”

“The tables are impressive. Connived your way into it, did you?” No damsel, indeed no self-respecting book of the Unwritten Wing, would call Hero “sir,” but Pallas’s wide blue eyes and cherubic cheeks, which flushed with performative guilt, would have sold a lie to the devil himself. “Not that an angel should lose out to a mere book.”

Perhaps it was his time in Hell. Perhaps it was Hero’s bad influence, but Rami managed to recover in the time Pallas had bought him. “One would think. But I appear to have a weakness.”

Rami’s constructed poker face almost hid the amusement in his eyes. Any flush of color in Hero’s cheeks could be dismissed as annoyance, surely. He made a scoffing sound in his throat.

He’d nearly forgotten about Malphas until she spoke. “Behaving like children, as usual. I expected a better level of control from you, Claire.”

“The misbehavior of unwritten characters is not my concern, alas,” Claire said, hands primly clasped in front of her. She was the picture of buttoned-up propriety, which just made Hero want to pluck at her buttons. “As the general keeps reminding me, I am no longer the librarian.”

Malphas offered Claire a smile that didn’t pretend to reach her eyes. “That would mark the first time you listened to me, child.” She hiked the sizable box against her hip with one hand, a relaxed reminder of her superior strength. “We will speak again. Pray you listen to me then.”

“Quite,” Claire said in that particularly British way that simultaneously said both Sure and I’d rather eat dirt. She held her placid mask in place until Malphas disappeared down the hall and the air colored with a sharp burst of anise and cinders, which signaled her true departure. All pretense dropped when Claire whirled on Rami and Pallas in alarm. “What for hell’s sake are you doing here?”

“Language, ma’am,” Rami muttered. He swallowed a particularly worried sound but was beat to the answer.

“Mother wants to see you,” Pallas said simply.

2

CLAIRE

There’s not much time. The Library is—no, me, I am failing. The songs are failing. Darkness grows in the stacks. Malphas will find her way in soon.

I will keep writing until the pen is taken from my hands. I owe the books that much. I can’t save it, at least not in the way that I’d planned, but I can preserve it. The Library has to grow to become a force for good. I will change the Library, or I will perish in the attempt.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE

“MOTHER” WAS A COMPLICATED term to humans, even at the best of times. Memory of her own mother was another bit of Claire that Hell had snipped and nibbled at the edges. She was left with a vague sense of a sufficient childhood and an excess of books and candies slipped to a small, persistent child. That would have been practically indulgent child-rearing by the standards of Claire’s day.

Pallas’s mother was trouble by any standard. Claire had never had the occasion to meet the woman who held the Unsaid Wing as librarian, but Rami’s report and the way the color drained from Hero’s face was reputation enough.

“I don’t believe I’ll have liberty to travel to Elysium anytime soon,” Claire pointed out.

“Oh, no.” Pallas broke into a shy smile. “Mother is here. Waiting in the Unwritten Wing.”

“Oh shit,” Hero muttered.

Claire didn’t run through the hallways, but perhaps only because she could use Hero’s long strides as a reason to sprint.

*   *   *

“INVENTORY?” HERO KEPT HIS voice pitched only for her as he drew up alongside. The hallways of Hell flashed by in a distracted blur.

Claire had been expecting the question. “It was an inventory. Malphas will find everything in order.”

“Signed by Walter yesterday? He’ll attest to that?”

Claire shrugged. “Death has as subjective a sense of time as one would expect.”

“You’re playing fast and loose, warden.”

“Your influence, no doubt.” She hesitated as she rounded the stairs. “Any idea why Elysium has sent people?”

She caught motion in the corner of her vision as Hero’s mouth twitched down. “No. None.”

Alcoves and staircases flashed by the corners of her eyes, unimportant and ignored, as she reassessed the situation. Pallas’s presence in the Unwritten Wing was bad—Malphas would have had every right to be suspicious—but the librarian of one wing abandoning their own realm to interfere with another? That was a disaster.

Claire should know; she’d been that disaster. She’d had a clear and thorough rationale, of course. Strange, it felt different on this side of the experience.

The doors of the Unwritten Wing were open, and distant voices leaked out of the stacks as they entered the lobby. The librarian’s desk—Brevity’s desk—sat empty. Claire paused, fingertips resting on the desk for a moment, but the air was still. The books stacked on the nearby cart lay quietly, and the lamp on the desk remained a cheery soft white. Nothing wrong, not yet. Claire took a slow breath and exchanged a glance with Hero and Rami.

Hero shrugged eloquently. Rami gestured down one of the far aisles that wound deeper into the thicket of stacks. “I left them near the damsel suite.”

“Your books are funny,” Pallas mused, fingertips drifting over the returns cart. “They talk.”

“So do yours,” Hero pointed out.

“No,” Pallas said with a touch of regret. He began to drift down in the direction Rami had indicated. “They only echo.”

“Why are the pretty ones always so creepy down here?” Hero complained as they followed after him.

“You would be one to talk,” Claire said.

“I’m too well-bred to be creepy.” Hero placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. It didn’t keep him from knocking shoulders with Claire. “Hey. You called me pretty. Warden, I’m touched.”

Once, Claire might have assumed Hero was being annoying for annoyance’s sake, instead of trying to ease her with a distraction. Once, she would have risen to the bait—well, she would still rise to the bait, but it would be accompanied with a comfortable easing in her chest. “I said nothing of the sort—”

“I will accept this confession of admiration with grace—”

“Oh, bugger off, you—”

“You are both well-proportioned beings of many attractive values.” Rami’s voice rumbled behind them, making Hero startle. “A fact that I fear will not benefit us with the librarian of the Unsaid Wing.”

“Unless she wants to wear one of us,” Hero said with a shiver. Claire noted the paleness in his cheeks. The banter had drained out of him.

The damsel suite’s door stood open, cutting a cheery light across the shadows of the Library stacks. Just inside, Brevity stood with her back to the door, shoulders up around her ears with obvious uncertainty. The damsels clustered around her like a shield. The characters of the Unwritten Wing were protective of Brevity in a way they’d never been of Claire. That was not unusual.

What was unusual was the pond that appeared to flow out of the fireplace and pool in an indentation in the floor. Against the diffuse lights of the damsel suite, the water reflected a dark, murky surface. Not ink, Claire told the sudden incendiary in her chest. She concentrated her gaze on the waterlogged doily that was just visible through the edge of the water near her toes. Water, not ink.

Feathers brushed her cheek as Rami stepped forward, offering his grounded presence. On his other side, she could see Hero’s hand gripped tightly. Brevity made an effort to disentangle herself from the wary crowd of damsels before joining them.

“I brought them, Mother.” If Pallas noticed the combined distress of the Unwritten Wing, he made no sign of it. He stepped lightly over a tilting ottoman to kneel on the waterlogged carpet. “Will you speak with them now?”

“Now,” the pond echoed. Without the benefit of high canyons, Echo’s voice was quieter, limited to a flutter of sounds rebounding against the pond surface.

“Is that really necessary—” Hero made a nauseated sound as Pallas reached toward the surface of the water and his reflection reached back.

“Steady, Hero,” Claire said quietly. She had never met the Unsaid Wing’s librarian before. Hero and Rami had eventually described their foray into Elysium, but she was keenly interested in observing Echo for herself. Each wing of the Library chose unpredictable librarians, all especially suited for the nature of their wing.

The Unsaid Wing, it appeared, preferred the heart of a mimic. Claire watched with a clinical eye as Pallas tipped to the water’s edge and his reflection rose to meet him. The exchange, when it occurred, was eerily seamless, though nothing outward appeared to happen. It was as if the dynamic of life switched places. The reflection stepping out of the pool was now the living image, and the boy slumped against soggy carpet was just a reflection.

People stepped out of books in the Unwritten Wing. There seemed something not quite right about stepping into people.

“Greetings, Librarian,” Claire said as Echo straightened. She unfolded her hands behind her back enough to nudge Brevity forward. To her credit, Brevity fumbled only a moment before clearing her throat.

“Welcome to the Unwritten Wing.” Brevity appeared to wipe the palm of her hand off on her pants before offering it. “Brevity, the current librarian. You’ve already met Hero and Rami. And Claire is the curator of the Arcane Wing, as you might know.” Claire felt a flash of pride for how smoothly Brev rattled that off. No flinch, no pause.

Echo-as-Pallas took her hand after a weighty moment. Echo stopped, appearing to search Brevity’s eyes before her expression drifted into sorrow. “No,” she repeated softly.

Hero had described how Echo, true to her myth, could only repeat what others said, in whole or in part. The Greek librarian lifted a hand and gestured to her daughter. A flicker of annoyance crossed Iambe’s fine features before she stepped forward with a sigh. “Mother has a request. I suppose she brought me to save us time.”

“Time,” Echo repeated, though Pallas’s lips never moved.

“I’m getting to it, Mother.” Iambe straightened, appearing to choose her next words with uncharacteristic seriousness. “The Unsaid Wing is in danger. We require the assistance of fellow librarians.”

Hero made a disbelieving click of his lips. “From what? You lot are in paradise, for gods’ sakes.”

“That would, it appears, be the problem.” Iambe was able to match Hero down to his precise lip curl. “Elysium took note of your visit. The resident heroes started asking questions.”

“I imagine your mother was as helpful as she always is.”

“That’s precisely the problem; she was.” Iambe rubbed her temple. “They followed the trail that you neatly left, and then did something you weren’t clever enough to do: ask Mother a question.”

“It’s not as if one ever gets a straight answer,” Rami grumbled.

“Straight enough, when the questioner is as clever as Herodotus. And the question is, ‘The made and the maker are the same. Why is the Library concerned about books so old?’”

“Books so-ol,” Echo repeated, voice watery as she elided the original phrase enough to transform it. Books soul.

“Oh, bugger,” Claire breathed.

“Cheating!” Hero almost stamped his foot. “That’s cheating. Why wasn’t she so helpful when we needed information?”

Iambe exchanged a look with her brother-mother, then lifted her shoulders in a blunt shrug. “You didn’t ask the right question.”

“Elysium knows, then. About us.” Rosia spoke up from the front of the cluster of damsels. Claire had quite forgotten she was still in the room. The girl was still moonlight and shadow, but more solid now. Her gaze no longer wandered but appeared to look straight through you. She considered Echo for a long moment, and even the eerie librarian appeared caught off guard. “They know we have souls.”

“Are souls,” Brevity corrected, looking pained. “Not just partially made up of souls, like inspiration, but are as soulful as any human.”

“They will try to use that,” Rami said quietly, and Brevity’s worry took on a nauseated hint.

“They have already tried.” And at that, Iambe looked ill. “The Unsaid Wing is in… I suppose you would call it lockdown.”

“Elysium has moved against its own library?” Claire’s voice was low with a streak of horror.

“They have tried. They believe souls are better off in their custody.” If Iambe understood the danger of the situation, she did an admirable job of not showing it. She studied her nails. “Heroes, they’re like that. What paradise realm has never met a soul it didn’t want to save?”

“We don’t,” Rosia said with a peak of color in her cheeks, “need saving.”

“I agree. Your people are so much luckier here in a damnation realm.”

“Yes, here they just want to consume you,” Hero grumbled. “And only if you’re lucky.”

“Key,” Echo said.

“I was getting to that, Mother.” Iambe sighed. “We were forced to… relocate.” She made an impatient gesture toward the pool of water.

Brevity glanced back and forth between the pond and Iambe. A bewildered look sprouted on her face. “Your entire Library wing is in there?”

“Temporarily. It is not a long-term solution, of course.”

“How—what—all of it—wow, really?” Brevity’s brain appeared to short out and take a moment to recalibrate. “Can you show me how to do that?”

“I doubt it. Not every library is as… inflexible as the Unwritten.” Iambe looked impossibly smug.

Claire jumped straight to the point. “Then what can you possibly want from us?”

For the first time, an uncertain shadow crossed Iambe’s face. She glanced askance at her mother, who nodded. When Iambe turned back, she had straightened her expression into a military kind of dignity. “We request sanctuary.”

3

BREVITY

Churches gave sanctuary, in my time. To the unwanted, the unloved, and also the criminals, whether they repented or not. I don’t see why a library in Hell shouldn’t be a kind of church—lord knows that we have enough altars to longing, to regret, to mistakes, here in the stacks. Few souls find their way down here, but if they do, what shelter we can provide, the Library should. Libraries have always been a kind of church, a kind of sanctuary.

Librarian Fleur Michel, 1784 CE

THERE WERE TIMES—MOMENTS, REALLY, no longer than a swig of tea—when Brevity longed for the simplicity of the Muses Corps. Take this, go here; love this, break your own heart. It was hard work, but there was a certainty to it. Certainty was good; it kept quiet the beehive of anxiety that she held in her chest.

As Echo and her daughter turned their expectant gazes on her, Brevity swore she could hear buzzing.

“Sanctuary?” Rami repeated, breaking the silence and earning Brevity’s eternal gratitude. His brow tucked in on itself in disapproval. “You intend to stay here?”

“Them and their entire wing,” Claire said.

“On a temporary basis.” Iambe had maintained her icy composure. Echo, wearing Pallas’s face, continued a placid kind of eye contact with Brevity. As if completely confident in her fellow librarian to navigate this bombshell.

Sanctuary. Brevity wracked her brain but couldn’t remember any relevant protocol. She risked a glance at Claire. “Is that possible?”

She expected a clear signal from Claire. As former librarian, Claire always had an opinion on the goings-on in the Unwritten Wing. Brevity had leaned on it, up until recently when they’d disagreed over the ink of unwritten books. Brevity had tried to restore them, Claire had tried to isolate the threat, and the result had been a disaster. The ink had nearly killed Claire and Hero. Brevity had traded her beloved inspiration tattoo for scars. Perhaps both of them had been wrong, but Brevity wasn’t sure they could survive being at odds again.

Which is why the distracted glaze in Claire’s eyes was so alarming. “Claire?” Brevity prompted again.

“Hmm? Oh.” Claire shook herself, razor-edge focus returning. “Gregor referenced an agreement of mutual support and allegiance between the wings of the Library.” She pursed her lips. Claire had always avoided mentioning her predecessor by name. “But I don’t recall anywhere in the log where it’s actually been done. We’re a standoffish lot in the Library.”

If Claire had an opinion on the matter, she hid it well. Brevity didn’t have the time to panic over what that might mean. A glance said Hero and Rami were just as lost.

Only Rosia looked at her with clear understanding. “You are the librarian,” she said simply.

The librarian. Brevity sucked in a breath. It was a title, but it was a duty too. Spending so much time with the log and books, one couldn’t help but draw some conclusions. Librarians protected the books with ferocity like Ibukun’s. They cared for the books with skill like Ji Han’s. They considered the power of books and humanity with the wisdom of Gregor. They bucked tradition and expectations for the sake of the books with the abandon of Fleur.

But they also, whether in Hell or on Earth, didn’t turn away anyone in need.

She’d learned that one from Claire. For all Claire’s harsh manner and harsher words, she’d never turned away anyone who really, truly needed what the Library could offer.

Brevity was the librarian. There was no question what a librarian’s answer was.

“Okay, then,” Brevity said.

Hero blinked. “What? Are you sure that’s wise? You may want to—”

“I… On behalf of the Unwritten Wing, I grant you sanctuary.” The words swept past Brevity’s lips, as if stolen on a snatch of wind. A susurrous sound rippled through the damsel suite like a tide as millions of pages ruffled. It was a prelude to a sonorous creak, which turned into a rumble that shook the floorboards beneath her feet. The world tilted. And the Library rearranged itself.

“May want to open that door,” Iambe suggested, a second before a gust of wind tossed the entrance to the suite open hard enough to crack the inset glass. Outside, a feral thunder rumbled through the wing.

Brevity grabbed the corner of the couch, squinting against a shiver of dust that fell from the suite’s rafters overhead. Light splintered on the shoals of dust particles, forcing her to squint. The air, when it cleared, was accompanied by a bite of green.

The damsel suite, in itself, seemed unchanged. Echo’s pool had dried up, leaving Pallas’s sleeping body inert by a merely damp carpet. But Brevity could hear the raised voices of damsels outside. She hurried out the door, with Hero close on her heels.

At the threshold, Hero let out a low whistle into the dim aftermath. Dim, that was, because the globes of Brevity’s faerie lights filtered through new obstacles. Spider-thread vines and silky drifts of heather hooked carelessly up the sides of bookcases and across strings of lights, painting everything in a mossy kind of watercolor. Wood-slat crates punctuated the formerly tidy shelves, overflowing with haphazardly rolled paper and clapboard notebooks. On the book cart nearest them, an old unwritten epic appeared in a struggle for territory with an elaborately folded envelope. Its jaws were still sealed with red wax, but it nipped and stabbed creases into the larger book.

The Unwritten Wing remained; it hadn’t been harmed. But it had been… subject to revision. Brevity bolted down the stacks, overcome with the sudden desire to check the front desk, to anchor herself with some sense of solidity. She had to pick her way over fast-growing vines and sandstone vessels popping up like mushrooms over the top of impeccably polished wood floors. She slipped, once, when a fresh patch of moss decided to sprout under her heel. It was Claire who caught her elbow and kept their forward momentum. They sprinted between dappled foliage and familiar shadowed shelves to slide to a stop at the edge of the lobby.

“I just inventoried that section,” Hero complained.

“Unacceptable,” Claire muttered under her breath, more than a little scandalized. Brevity was prone to agree. There appeared to be a turf war brewing between the stack of books she’d been in the middle of repairing on her desk and a clatter of rickety papyrus that was emerging from a drawer that hadn’t previously existed. The unmistakable sound of tearing paper prodded her to action.

“Excuse—wait, y’all, listen, just—SETTLE DOWN!” To Brevity’s ears, she always sounded more like a frazzled babysitter than an authoritative librarian, but she was used to that by now. She drummed her hands on the desk until the sound of textual warfare eased.

“How nice,” Iambe said with a tone devoid of said quality, which Echo repeated with a more sincere “Nice.” They trailed out of the stacks with the others, accompanied by a handful of damsels, whose expressions ranged from wide-eyed wonder to deep judgment. Iambe carried her brother’s sleeping form as if he weighed nothing.

Brevity had been trying to pry a scroll out of the maw of an angry gothic horror, but she paused. “Is… is your mom okay?” The floor had gone concave underneath Echo-as-Pallas’s feet, and water—water! in a library! again!—was seeping in from the floorboards beneath her toes. She beckoned with a waft of one slender arm.

Iambe grunted a prolonged complaint under her breath as she hefted Pallas’s limp form over one shoulder and deposited him without reverence into the growing puddle. “Oh, she’s happy as a sea hag.” She made a small adjustment so Pallas was merely slumped over and not at risk of drowning as the small flood of water grew. “Good luck getting rid of her now.”

“Surely this is just a temporary—” Claire made an arch noise as Echo-as-Pallas ignored her. The spirit laid a gentle hand on top of her sleeping son’s head and began to sink.

The shallow water swallowed her up, and inch by inch Pallas’s reflection returned to him. Hero shook his head and turned to Iambe. “Your mother is kind of an asshole.”

Iambe smiled. “You just noticed?”

A crack, like a popping log, thundered from the doorway, drawing Brevity’s attention. The greenery had spread a trail of tiny white flowers out the door, but Brevity couldn’t see how such tiny plants could make such a ruckus.

Claire’s brow furrowed, then smoothed with a dawning kind of horror. She broke into a run. “Oh, bugger.”

By the time Brevity caught up, Claire had frozen to a stop at the edge of the hallway, just before the gargoyle alcove.

The gargoyle’s empty alcove.

The flowers swarmed over the wide hallway, blanketing the alcove in blooms. Dark red-purple leaves and wide lilies the color of turmeric had joined the foliage now, and evidently driven out the stone inhabitant.

Claire was forced to shield her eyes to protect her sanity. Brevity stopped beside her and barely managed to drag them both out of the way to avoid a stone wingtip. The gargoyle flailed across the expanse of the hallway, churning up freshly formed moss under his stone claws. The greenery climbed up the creature’s sides, moss clinging to stone flanks even where the flowers couldn’t find purchase. The gargoyle’s frantic movement, coupled with his non-euclidean nature, made it hard to discern the details, but Brevity was almost positive it was yellow daisies encircling the shifting, fractal blur of his head.

The gargoyle let loose another growl that sounded like an aggrieved rockslide. It ripped at the offending greenery, but new moss just sprang up in its place. Brevity hesitated, then had a thought. “Rami?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ramiel stepped forward, shrugging his sword out of the folds of his coat. It ignited into a controlled blue flame.

Claire spun. “This doesn’t call for violence—” She cut off when Brevity squeezed her elbow. It didn’t take words to convey trust me, watch between them, and Claire folded her arms with a huff. Rami stepped past them, dodging around the gargoyle’s frantic movements with a grace that Brevity was always surprised to see he possessed.

Rami ducked and spun, waiting until he had an opening in the gargoyle’s guard. Then he tapped the burning tip of his sword to a mass of flowers clinging to the creature’s chest.

The foliage ignited, far easier than green moss should have. Violet, yellow, and white shifted into flames racing over the gargoyle’s stone body, stripping it of the offending flowers. When the embers tried to jump from the ankle to the floor, Rami stamped them out neatly.

The gargoyle was left with one singed daisy clinging above the fractalized cliff of his face. His panicked movements stilled, until the giant creature hunkered to a stop in the middle of the hallway, huffing great, gritty breaths.

“Aren’t you clever.” Claire cupped the side of Rami’s face with her palm before stepping past him as he sheathed his sword. She tutted at the gargoyle, “There, now. No need for all this fuss.” She began brushing ash off his shoulders. The creature let out a pitiful low croon.

“When do I get a flaming sword?” Hero complained as he joined them. He cast a loaded look toward Rami. “What do I need to do to get you to show me that trick?”

Rami’s stoic expression barely twitched but appeared to melt into something warm and shy. “You could train with me if you like.”

“You minx.”

Brevity cleared her throat, which made Rami step back, but Hero only made a wretched face at her. She left them to it and joined Claire beside the gargoyle. “At least now we don’t gotta bother the dryads for flowers.” She tilted her head. “Hey, do you suppose the Unsaid Wing grows their own tea leaves? That could be handy.”

“It overflowed the Library,” Claire said as if she hadn’t heard her. Her face was grim and slightly speckled with ash. “Hellfire. We’ll need to move fast.”

The relief Brevity had felt drained away quickly. She glanced up and down the hall but couldn’t see any discernible threat. Claire’s shoulders were clenched as if an attack was imminent. “What do you mean?” A flutter of doubt grew. That swooping sensation Brevity got at the fear of having done the wrong thing bottomed out her stomach. “I had to help them. It’s what the Library does.”

Doesn’t it? Tell me I was right. Please tell me it’s what you would have done, a terrified small voice said in Brevity’s head.

Claire waved that away like an irritating fly. “Of course you did, but the timing is terrible. I didn’t have time to tell you before. Just before the Unsaid Wing arrived, Malphas was poking around the Arcane Wing. She’s suspicious.”

“Malphas is always suspicious.” Hero appeared to have put aside his flirting enough to join in the conversation. He shook a spot of moss from the tip of his polished boots.

“This is different.” A graphite streak of certainty in Claire’s voice managed to draw everyone’s attention. “The Library provides some obfuscation, but they noticed something changed when we freed the ink.” Claire’s left hand grasped her right wrist, as if attempting to stem the memory. She straightened. “The spillover of the Unsaid Wing into the Unwritten will have created a signal flare of power that even the weakest demon won’t have missed. There’s no way an inventory will satisfy her suspicion now. Malphas will demand answers. If Hell discovers that the Library they host is actually stuffed full of fragments of souls, they’ll be on us like carrion birds.”

“Perhaps this is a conversation best held inside.” Rami cast a wary eye down the hall. The gargoyle had calmed under Claire’s attention and shook the rest of the ash from its shoulders to dust the lot of them. Brevity wrinkled her nose and stepped back so the giant could lurch back to his alcove.

“You’re right.” Claire dusted her hands. “Besides, we have guests.”

*   *   *

THE GUESTS, IAMBE AND Pallas, had not followed the noise into the hallway and instead appeared to have made themselves at home. They found Iambe lounging on a couch across from the front desk, idly flipping through a book with one of Brevity’s pens in her mouth. “I’ll grant you that it’s more exciting reading, but however do you work with books with writing that trips all over the page like this?”

“Carefully.” Brevity rescued the book from Iambe’s hands and returned it to the desk.

Iambe’s pink lips made a displeased moue, and she continued to chew on the pen thoughtfully. “As you say. You’ll be pleased to hear that Mother has asked the Unsaid to play nicely with the Unwritten for the duration of our stay.”

It was true. The alarming sound of paper warfare had trailed off. A cursory glance at the nearest shelves showed that books and letters were cooperating, if quite overstuffed in their cubbies. “Thank you,” Brevity said, and meant it.

“Where’s your brother?” Hero asked.

Iambe fluttered a vague hand over her shoulder. “He allowed himself to be swept off by those books you have walking around—”

“Damsels,” Hero and Brevity corrected at the same time.

“Damsels, whatever.” Iambe examined her nails. “They couldn’t wait to coo over him and coddle him off. Pallas has that effect on people.”

“The suite might be the most comfortable for both of—” Brevity cut off at yet another crack of sound coming from the hallway. Her pulse spiked as she wheeled around. Rami and Hero both had their swords out. What had the greenery of the Unsaid wrought now? Or was it demons, demons already champing at the bit to—

A large, elderly raven came careening through the great doors, cackling up a ruckus. It was the old mortal bird Claire kept as a—well, “pet” was too strong a word, as she still only referred to it as Bird, but she’d allowed it to stay in the Arcane Wing. She complained, but Brevity had caught her feeding it crackers.

The giant black bird was hampered in its flight. It had a large oversized envelope in its claws. It reeled once over their heads before dropping its package into Claire’s open hands. It cursed loudly at all of them before landing inelegantly on the desk. Probably to wait for its reward.

Claire made no move toward her pockets for crackers. She pinched the large envelope at the edges and ripped. She read the short note inside, then continued staring at it with stony resolve.

“What is it?” Brevity drew closer and realized the envelope was singed. Sulfur and anise filled the air.

“A summons,” Claire said. Her voice was nearly as low as the gargoyle’s had been. “Malphas moves fast. We’re being summoned to the high court of Hell.”

“When?” Hero asked, and Claire’s grimace spoke volumes.

“Now.”

4

HERO

Malphas tried to warn me off this foolish quest, in her way. Don’t tell anyone, old book, but I think she’s always had a fascination with, if not a fondness for, the Library. Or maybe just with souls—she doesn’t know the secret, that they’re one and the same. If she did, I wouldn’t have lasted even this long.

She’ll come for me, but she won’t dare destroy the books. She won’t dare to touch the Librarian’s Log; even she doesn’t have that much power. So listen close, Book. This is not mere indulgence; this is strategy. Hide these words from the others if you must, but listen to that which I failed to learn.

To win a war against Hell, you have to know what you are willing to lose.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE

Hell is a natural bureaucracy—that would figure. But don’t underestimate the threat process and paperwork can present. Good men have been felled by less. The demons have been at this game far longer than you or I, apprentice. If you walk into Hell’s courts, tread very lightly indeed.

Librarian Gregor Henry, 1988 CE

HELL ONLY EVER OPERATED on a now time frame. The time in the afterlife was always either now or never, whichever was most painful. Hero didn’t know why he’d hoped for otherwise. Claire was already conferring with Brevity, concocting some kind of plan that would surely lead them to skimming along the edge of chaos. “… they’ll want to see both of us, at a minimum.”

“I’m going,” Hero said. It was a fact. He was. He lifted his chin and dared Claire to deny it. Not so long ago, she would have denied the sky was blue if it fit her preferences.

Miraculously, a resigned look flickered across her face instead. Claire screwed up her nose and frowned at him for a long moment before nodding. “Fine, then, we’ll all go together.”

Together. A sliver of his unease settled at the word. He was an exceptionally skilled man—humble, too—but as capable as they all were, the story seemed to go right only when they were together. It made a fierce, protective streak bloom in his chest, as strong as any ambition he’d ever had. Together; all of this would be all right if he could just keep them together, the story in arm’s reach.

It felt like the kind of irritating, honorable rot that Rami excelled in. Hero cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see their angel pleased at the pronouncement. Instead, Rami’s eyes were trained straight ahead as if facing a firing squad. Hero hadn’t thought it possible for color to leach out of the angel’s craggy stern face, but Rami’s warm olive cheeks were pale and gray as his trench coat. Tension sang across his cheek.

“However,” Claire said slowly. She was studying Rami too. She threw a significant glance Hero’s way. He was ashamed at how long it took him to put it together—Ramiel had been cast out of Heaven. Even though he had not joined with Lucifer, he had also fallen. The Watcher took pains to differentiate himself from the demons, but he had been colleagues with infernal creatures like Malphas. He’d strived to regain his place in Heaven, only to end up here, once again. Even angels could falter when faced with past mistakes and old betrayals. Claire cleared her throat. “It would be irresponsible to leave the books unguarded, wouldn’t it, Librarian?”

Brevity had been preoccupied with her preparations but read the emotional charge of the room in a single glance. She slapped the Librarian’s Log shut. “Right. Good point. Rami, could I ask you to stay? I know the damsels trust you.”

If it was difficult to be a villain among these heroic misfits, it had to be even harder to be an angelic being in Hell. Ramiel shook his head as if waking himself. “I—Of course I can, but, ma’am, you shouldn’t go into the vipers’ den unprepared—”

“I’m quite capable of handling a few bureaucratic demons myself,” Claire reminded him. She made sure that fact was given time to be understood and acknowledged before relenting. “In any case, Brevity and Hero will be there.”

Hero knocked his shoulder into Rami’s before he could work up a proper bluster. “I can follow orders as well as you.” That was a bald-faced lie, which he softened when he lowered his voice. Their cheeks touched. “You don’t have to face them. Not today. Let me do this.”

No one was as skilled at damning himself as well as a Heavenly being. As close as they were, Hero could feel the telegraph of relief and agonizing doubt flicker across Rami’s face before his shoulders sagged. “Be careful. These demons—”

“You’re not the only one with relevant experience,” Claire said gently. She straightened as Brevity came around the desk to join her. “Besides, Hero’s sword may not set things on fire, but he’s capable enough with it.”

“Such praise! Listen, if we’re going to start comparing my sword to Rami’s, it’s only fair—”

“Hero.” He was rewarded with the way Claire’s voice was the perfect frisson of reproach and scandal. Hero grinned despite himself as they departed for a meeting with Hell.

*   *   *

THE WAY TO HELL’S inner court wasn’t nearly as long as Hero had thought it would be. Claire and Brevity both appeared familiar with the route, down a flight of stairs, across a burnt-out cathedral that opened into a field of swords, and up another flight. They came to a stop at a door in an empty courtyard just as unremarkable as its kin.

“This is Hell’s court of demons?” Hero had thought demons had higher standards than the rotting moss that dotted the cobblestones at their feet.

“Everywhere has the potential to be a part of Hell.” Claire hesitated at the door, frowning at the distressingly modern brass knob. Hadn’t it been oak and knockers a moment before? Hero mistrusted changing architecture. Which is why he listened when Claire began speaking low and urgent.

“Hell’s court is a traveling one. It never convenes in the same place. Any place that has seen the worst that humanity has to offer can host Hell’s court. They simply snip a pocket of time from it—the moment an orphanage burned, war was waged, or a boardroom voted some people not worth saving. They have a demon in their employ that can snip that moment out of the world and use it for their own for a time. I don’t know what Malphas will have chosen for this affair, but I suspect she will choose something upsetting. It may be useless to say it, but I need you to be on your best behavior in there. Brevity—I know you’ve been to court before, but that was a social call. This will be different. You’re librarian now. They will test you.”

“I’m ready,” Brevity said, with only a minor pallor to her cheeks. Hero could nearly see her counting her breaths in her head, four in, four out. Practiced and in control. Hero admired that in the little muse.

“Then, let’s go.” Claire took a steeling breath for herself and opened the door.

*   *   *

A FAMILIAR, MUSKY SCENT assaulted Hero’s nose the moment he crossed the threshold. His childhood had been one of rural poverty, so his first thought had been barn