The Library of the Unwritten (Hell's Library #1)

by A.J. Hackwith

“Sometimes, a book wakes up as a character that has reason to be dissatisfied with their story. No agency. Flatly written. Just another reward for the hero—” “Heteronormative bullshit,” the girl added. It would not be proper to be amused right now. “As she says,” Claire agreed. “They have no interest in living it out—they’re happy their story has gone unwritten. We call them damsels because, most of the time, they’re women. Wonder why that is.”

“If their authors are dead and gone, it seems unnecessary to send them back and simpler to let them stay, as long as they remain in the Library and entertain themselves. Learn things.

It puzzled me until I came back to the simple truth: stories want to be told. And we, the librarians, are the only readers they have here.

Unwritten books yearn, and unwritten books change. Yet we expect them to remain timeless. I would say that’s an accurate description of Hell.

Brevity kept it pinched between two fingers as delicate translucent lines twisted and squirmed in the air. It glimmered in the low light, like the shed skin of something beautiful and rare. “What is that?” Leto asked. He tried to keep his voice down but knew he was gawking nonetheless. Brevity’s answer was muttered, quiet enough that Leto barely caught it. “Inspiration.”

why I was kicked out. I was a good muse at first, but . . . well, build enough dreams for other people, and you start wanting to make something for yourself.” “Inspiration?” Leto repeated. “You mean that’s someone else’s sto—” “It’s mine.” Brevity’s voice cracked.

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.”

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?”

Burning books, blood on an unwritten rug, the back of her head, hunch of her shoulders as she turned away from her.

More like since she became librarian three decades ago.

They’re all hopping mad as the English. And twice as dangerous.

Heaven was not set above Valhalla, Hell, or anywhere—all the after-realms maintained a careful, if grudging, balance sustained by the fuel of belief and the flow of souls to each realm. Realms of similar purpose were often most harmonious, but all of them were sovereign. An incident here, between two paradise realms, could upset all of it for centuries.

Even a formal stance couldn’t hide the repulsed looks Uriel cast at the Vikings.

He was not like Uriel, disdaining every soul not Heaven-bound—he of all people knew the many paths that led everyone astray—but the librarian’s manner set him on edge. A creature of Hell that didn’t consider itself a servant was either dangerous or a fool.

I’ve been through the records. Each apprentice in the Library can expect, on average, at least a couple decades of education before the sitting librarian retires to wherever they go. Decades. . . . I had three years. I can’t do this. Gregor, I can’t do this. Please.

I’ve come to the conclusion that you just can’t subtract a human from the story, no matter how hard you try. Even death doesn’t do that.

A library without its librarian in residence is vulnerable as a bleating lamb. Librarians serve as the readers the unwritten books never had. It anchors them, quiets them, and assists in keeping them asleep in their binding. Walk careful in the long shadows of abandoned stacks, for you walk footpaths of restless dreams.

We expect books to attempt to force change, but not the librarians. Dead things are not supposed to change, to grow. But here I am, a century into this role, and . . . I don’t recognize myself anymore. Maybe it’s best to say I don’t recognize the Library. Not knowing what I know now. I wonder if there are other places for us. But I won’t abandon my charges.

Whenever she read a book in a binge, cover to cover in a day with little break, she always found it stuck in her brain like a haze. The narrative voice stuck with her, and for a bit after, it was always like a waking dream, living someone else’s thoughts. The book haunted like a ghost

The codex’s song was not a pleasant one. Dark and bottomless and splintered, broken glass and tremors in the deep, like corrupted Latin and whale song.

There are cracks in the world. It’s how artifacts fall through to the Arcane Wing. It’s how muses slip through on strains of half-remembered songs. The world is permeable, and so is the mind. There are small cracks in the world, and there are large ones. I hope you found one to hide you, B. To hide you completely. I never want to see you again. Librarian Claire Hadley, 1989 CE

“She asked if you were on Tumblr. You should take it as a compliment; girls never want to share their Tumblrs with guys. Jeez, relax.”

One supposes that’s why librarian is not a permanent position. We need to retain ourselves, retain our souls, if we’re going to be any good to the books. My apprentice has an abundance of soul. That’ll make her a good librarian. That will also make her an unhappy one.

The Library needs you, Claire. So I can only beg your forgiveness for what I must do.

“She’s—she’s a hero from one of my books.”

impossibly dull. Claire rubbed at it with her thumb, but it didn’t come clean. “There isn’t. I removed her from the Library inventory. After I helped her escape.”

“I recognized her instantly. She was . . . part of me. One of the parts of me I would have written into a book, if I’d written one while I was alive.”

“Stop. Just stop.” Claire found it difficult to press the words between clenched teeth. “At least do him the honor of telling it accurately. I murdered him.”

It’s hard to be brave alone.

I tried writing it down, my life, so I wouldn’t forget it. Where I was born. My parents. My friends, my loves. My husband, my child. But every time I try to write down something from my mortal life in the log, the words melt into the paper like watermarks. Gone as soon as the ink dries. The log is a record for librarians, not people. I can feel its judgment. But what happens when the inevitable occurs? When the world forgets me, so I begin to forget myself? What do I become, when I am nothing but a librarian? Apprentice Librarian Claire Hadley, 1986 CE

“They have their god. Why should they be protected?” All confidence and command were gone, leaving the jagged edge of misery behind. “Why should they have anything? The Creator is gone. Gone. She has abandoned us and that snake has the only means to bring her back.” Uriel’s ragged voice bounded off the stone and broke.

The Creator was a god, not a lost house cat. She would not be tempted back by a bit of warm milk left outside the door. Wherever She was, if She even was, She was exactly where She wanted to be.

Realms can die. I said that before. It’s rare, because humans love nothing more than holding on to an idea, worrying it in their teeth until it’s shaped into something else. But it happens, occasionally. When a realm loses access to dreams and imagination, it starves. It’s not a gentle death. A realm will attempt to preserve itself, feed itself on any unwary dream, any stray soul that wanders into its maw.

“Your god is the god of loss or . . . oh.” Claire fell quiet. “Your gods died with their believers. I hadn’t thought a realm could remain after that.”

The trouble with reading is it goes to your head. Read too many books and you get savvy. You begin to think you know which kind of story you’re in. Then some stupid git with a cosmic quill fucks you over. Librarian Fleur Michel, 1721 CE

was . . . Matthew. Matthew Hadley.” The smile froze, half-formed across Claire’s face. Her voice dropped to a strangled whisper. “Hadley?” “Yeah . . .” Leto rubbed his arm. “Uh, but please, I’m still Leto.” A complicated pain struggled across Claire’s face, and it took Rami a moment to put it together. He’d read the brief on the librarian before all this started. Claire Juniper Hadley. Born 1944, Surrey, England. Married in London, 1965. Died 1986. Survived by a husband and one daughter. A daughter who hadn’t married but had moved to America to raise a child of her own.

“We can.” The words came to Claire’s lips, like grave dust. “We are the dreams that did not die with the dreamer. We care nothing for the dark.”

“We are imagination.”

This was a character from an old book, breathtakingly old, a book conceived when characters such as this were not women, but forces, faces of the gods.

Here is how you make a sheet of parchment: Soak a pelt in a scouring bath until it softens. Scrape the hair off. Treat the skin with astringent tannic acids. Rack and torture until tight. And here’s how you make a story: Soak a life in mortality. Scrape the soul.