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

by A.J. Hackwith

Stories want to change, and it is a librarian’s job to preserve them;

No story, written or unwritten, is static. Left abandoned too long and given the right stimulation, a book goes wrong in the head. It is a story’s natural ambition to wake up and start telling itself to the world.

BOOKS RAN WHEN THEY grew restless, when they grew unruly, or when they grew real. Regardless of the reason, when books ran, it was a librarian’s duty to catch them.

Her stomach soured; this job had ruined her taste for the horror genre entirely.

An awake book was a noisy thing. Returning it, even noisier.

Only books died in Hell. Everyone else had to live with their choices.

The scent of rotten eggs curdled the Library’s pleasant smell of sleeping books and tea, scalding her nose.

It was Claire’s job to keep the books ready for their authors in the best possible state. Tidy. Stories were never tidy, but it was important to keep up appearances.

“It means an unwritten book woke up, manifested as a character, and somehow slipped the Library’s wards. A neat trick that I will be keen to interrogate out of it later. It is likely headed to Earth. There’s nothing stronger than an unwritten book’s fascination with its author. But a book that finds its author often comes back damaged, and the author comes out . . . worse.”

Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea.

“You assumed a mere demon could make sense of the tangled, unfinished dreams of humanity? Not likely. Too messy. Last demon assistant I had ran screaming after one full inventory. No, librarians are nearly always mortals, and nearly always unwritten authors themselves. Brev here being an exception worked out by the Muses Corps.”

“A day, no more,” Claire said. “Not everyone gets access to a ghostlight, but since it’s part of the Library’s duties, King Crankypants has to make an exception.” Leto couldn’t help but twitch every time she did that: refer to Lucifer with a horrific pet name. It was disrespectful. Undignified. Not done. He’d begun to suspect that was why she did it.

It brought thoughts to mind, disquieting feelings, mortality, flashes of laughter and starlight and loss no longer felt. It was uncomfortable, like wearing someone else’s suit, but also faintly familiar in the way all the worst things were.

“A story.” Claire watched the cab pull away. “I paid him in a story, his story. It’s all most souls want, really, so it’s easy for them to accept.”

lie. A dream. Good stories are both,” Claire dismissed. “Is it so bad? He’ll remember the story, turn it over carefully in the back of his mind, feel the edges of it like he would a lucky coin. A story will change him if he lets it. The shape and the spirit of it. Change how he acts, what dreams he chooses to believe in. We all need our stories; I just fed him a good one.”

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.”

oh, hell and harpies.”

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.

“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.”

Bugger. Why’d it have to be a hero?” “What’s wrong with heroes?” “Everything.”

It wasn’t a painting or a model; the office was molded out of life. It was a miniature, breathing existence that bloomed color and expansion. So much color, so full of texture and movement after the unrelenting sterility, it was dizzying.

This time they got a minor duke on their side.

“Leto, meet Andras, Hell’s Arcanist and former Duke of the East Infernal Duchy. Andras, this is Leto, my . . . assistant, I suppose.”

Hero was doing remarkably well. Especially for a hero. In Claire’s experience, heroes of unwritten stories were often the most fragile. All that destiny and tragic backstory. It made it easier to force them into their books, but it left a sour taste in her mouth. Entirely useless. Nothing folded like a hero without a story. Even damsels were sturdier.

“What, you thought you were the only book to ever wake up?” Claire stopped in front of a frosted-glass door. She knocked once, then ducked in. “You’re not even the prettiest.”

It would not be proper to be amused right now.

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.

“Oh, good. I would hate to cause him a laundry bill when I inconsiderately die all over him.”

A duel between librarians was a duel of words. Not just any quotation from a poem or other passage would do; it had to hold meaning for the audience. It was the meaning that carried the weight. The opposing librarian would have to identify it, take away the audience’s meaning, and redirect it to defuse the attack.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.’”

Her voice rang out, and she felt the silky shudder on her lips as the magic took hold. Fine silver script flowed through the air, etching the words in a glowing ribbon. A flare of figures formed around it, tiny points of light in the shape of faeries, fine ladies, jesters and daggers, moons and men. It whispered as it flew sharply at Bjorn’s face, and the crowd murmured approval.

It’s much better to do good in a way that no one knows anything about it.’”

Bjorn’s words were gold and old stone runes, tiny marching men and snowflakes, all sharp edges as they snapped toward her. Claire’s mind spun along with her staff, and she stumbled back a step as she barely avoided being sliced by the tail end.

The sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers strength and courage as the day gets on.’”

“‘He knew everything there was to know about literature, except how to enjoy it.’”

Bjorn staggered when an Austen escaped his guard and landed a blow to his knee. Claire found herself diving to the ground to avoid an Eliot as it lashed for her head.

“‘Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not.’”

“‘And the rest is rust and stardust.’”

“‘We lived in the gaps between the stories.’”

“‘Logic may indeed be unshakable, but it cannot withstand a man who is determined to live.’”

“‘The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair.’”

“‘War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle!’”

“‘And hope buoyed like a flag, fragile on the wind. Death was the only freedom.’”

On the subject of angels: be not afraid. Oh, hush. Let an old crone have her fun. No, really, kiddo. Don’t mess with ’em. They’re all hopping mad as the English. And twice as dangerous. Librarian Fleur Michel, 1762 CE

“The voice of the book. The music—the song of the tale.” Bjorn paused with a glance toward Leto and Andras. “Every book has it—you know, the book’s way of talking, the words it uses, the rhythm of the speaker in your head as you read. Its voice. Each one a bit unique to the author and the tale. Before the written word, it was even more important. Every storyteller worth their salt knew how to create their own voice, mimic others, and find the beat that wove it.”

Books have songs, songs have stories, and then there’re humans at the heart of the jumbled mess. 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. Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1712 CE

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. Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 991 CE

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 in her head, coloring moods until she shook herself from it.

“Oh! A sarcastic demon. How original!”

TOOK TIME AND cost to trace a soul: a sacrifice of cold stars and the ashes from his own flight feathers.