The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  “Actually . . . does this count?”

  Rami glanced up. The soul had fished a small scrap of parchment out of his suit pocket.

  Paper. Real paper.

  Not secrets, not dreams. Not soul-type stuff, conjured by a dying soul. Physical, linen-and-wood-pulp and human-ingenuity-type paper.

  At the Heavenly Gates, the entrance to a world of souls, that was most definitely worth declaring. Rami frowned and leaned over the desk. “What . . . That’s not— How did you get that up here?”

  “I’m not quite—” The skin around the old man’s eyes knit together like rumpled tissue as he searched around for an answer. “Wait, ah, yes. Black magic.”

  Rami stared. “Black magic.”

  “Yes, quite. Enochian, if I recall. Bit of a fuss it was.”

  Figures it would be Enoch, Rami thought. It was always that bastard. “Right. Black magic. To bring scratch paper to your Heavenly reward.”

  Rami reluctantly shoved away from the bench and came around. Broad but not tall, he was forced to shoulder aside some blank-eyed souls in line. Each shuffled to one side without complaint, but the contact still left a residual feeling, the psychic smudge of the dead, that made Rami rub his palms down the front of his gray tunic before facing the old man. “Well, Mr. Avery, was it? Just give it here, and let’s see—”

  The moment Rami’s fingers came in proximity of the folded scrap, he heard a loud snap. He jerked back his hand with a grunt. A flare of light slowly dimmed around the paper. For a moment, ink on the inside page had glowed sickly green. It left behind the faint smell of ozone and anise.

  It was the smell that alarmed Rami. Nothing at the Gates smelled. Nothing at the Gates had the physical property to smell, per se. An important and convenient fact when dealing with the recently deceased.

  The old man smiled. “Well, look at that.”

  “I most definitely am now.” The hairs on the back of Rami’s neck crept up as he considered the innocuous-looking scrap. “I need you to come with me, Mr. Avery.”

  “Oh, did I pass?” The old man was delighted.

  “You did. I just need you to hold that—not too close!” Rami veered away as Avery swung toward him with the paper. He opted to steer the lost soul by the shoulder.

  “This way. And the rest of you . . . ah, well.” He spared one glance for the mass of souls behind him before shoving the old man up toward the Gates.

  Mr. Avery was happy enough to be led. For an accountant and an evident practitioner of the black arts, he was an agreeable sort. Rami brought him up short a couple of paces away from a tall figure encased entirely in silver. He took a deep breath and brought his knuckles up to rap on the armor.

  An ornate visor pivoted up. A perfectly formed face carried a perfectly expressed sneer. “What do you want, clerk?”

  The angel’s youth made Rami’s bones ache. They seemed to staff the Gates with only the newer caste, just to irritate him. “It’s Ramiel, you know.”

  “I do. I just don’t care,” the guard said.

  “I need to speak with an arch.”

  “Arches don’t speak to the Gate, especially not to you.”

  “I’m well aware.” Rami fought not to grind his teeth. Because he was a fallen Watcher, his position among the angels was complicated and barely tolerated. “There’s an abnormality they’ll want to hear about.”

  “Is that so?” the angel said. The old man next to Rami shifted and finally caught the angel’s gaze. “What have you got there, mortal?”

  It was a question that Rami had forgotten to ask, what with all the glowing and the fuss. The old man looked lost for a moment, gazing down hard into his hand at the trembling bit of scrap. He looked up with a brilliant smile. “It’s the Devil’s Bible.”

  The silence that hung between the two angels was louder than all the shuffling of a million souls past the bench. Rami was the first to recover.

  “If that’s—”

  “I’ll get an arch.”

  The guard disappeared through the Gates. Effortlessly, as Rami had once been able to do. But instead he was left to wait, occasionally shooting out a guiding arm whenever Avery wobbled too far away.

  He sighed at the mass of milling souls that stretched out across the featureless plain. They would be backing up without processing, he knew. It struck him as entirely unnecessary. And tiring. This was Heaven. Souls judged themselves. No one found their way up here unless they were meant to be here. The processing, the Gates, the judgment, it was all a performance someone—likely the only Someone that mattered—had decided was necessary. Once, very long ago, when Rami was allowed past those vast shimmering gates and came and went from the Heavenly court at will, he might have agreed. Now he was just tired.

  And he wanted back in.

  “Uriel will speak to you.” The angel guard appeared at his elbow.

  Rami stifled a groan. “It would be her.” He ignored the guard’s scandalized glance as he pulled the old man along. Avery was busy grinning at his pockets again.

  A door appeared in the wall next to the Gates, revealing a narrow pearl staircase. At the top, Rami and Avery stepped out into a nursery of stars.

  The dimensions of the room followed the general idea of an office: four walls, a smooth floor, and a high ceiling. But it was as if one had tried to explain the idea of an “office” to an elder god and this was the result. Everywhere, upon almost every surface, clung a thin film of the universe. Stars burst across the floor; an orange nebula cloud of color gestated new suns in the curve of a bookcase accented with brass spindles. 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. Rami blinked his eyes against it.

  The only mundane surface in the office was a deep oak desk, but even this was held up with pillars of stars. Rami recognized the angel seated behind it.

  Quite tall and nearly as powerfully built as Ramiel, Uriel was all light. Her white-gold hair was trimmed short, and her uniform was impeccable, where Rami’s was dark and faded. The uniform was not much changed from the last time Ramiel had seen it, despite the centuries that had passed. Outrageous buttons and tassels had been replaced with clean military trim, but it was still a leader’s uniform. Still assuredly Uriel. Five seconds in her presence left Rami feeling shabby and mismatched.

  Uriel was always as inerrant in her presence as she was with her purpose. Rami had once chalked this up to the confidence of youth. Ramiel was from the original Watcher angels, made before the Fall. Uriel belonged to the batch of angelic creatures made after.

  But as the centuries went on, the difference in age became negligible, and he was forced to admit that Uriel was simply better made. Made for power, made for righteousness. Where Rami struggled to be certain of his way, Uriel burned with it.

  “Ramiel.” No less certain were the daggers of disappointment that edged her smile as she rose to greet him with a powerful handshake. “I was there when the Host voted to allow you to serve at the Gates. A chance at redemption, a great honor.” She said this evenly, as if it was a decision she would not have made but could be generous enough to allow.

  “Uriel.” Rami nudged the old man to sit in an armchair of dwarf stars, cold and lumpy, but stable. “There’s an abnormality—”

  “You’ve served well, so far,” Uriel continued. “I’m glad you’ve found your place, my friend.”

  Rami’s jaw clenched. “I don’t recall our last parting as exactly friendly.”

  Uriel dismissed it. “Foolish failure, but one that I’m pleased to see you’re moving past.”

  Rami’s cheek twitched. The Watchers, sympathizing too deeply with the fragile mortals in their care, had granted humans forbidden knowledge. The cost had been exile with Lucif
er’s minions, though the Watchers had not rebelled themselves. Heaven called it justice.

  But Rami remembered the impoverished years of war and anarchy among the fallen Watchers, seeing the oldest witnesses to the universe feud and scrabble for survival, soaking men’s dreams with enough blood of Heaven to drive them mad. Rami had stayed sane only by walking away.

  Being a fallen angel meant he belonged nowhere, but being a Watcher meant he had access everywhere. Somehow, he’d found himself back at the Gates, looking at the one place he no longer could go. It was after an eon of walking that Ramiel realized the only thing he wanted was to be able to call a place home.

  It’d taken him another century before the archangels had deigned to notice. Another before he was given a chance. Serve Purgatory, faithfully process the mortal souls entering Heaven, and the unspoken offer had been maybe—just maybe—one day he’d pass the Gates himself.

  So he had. So he did. All rather uneventfully, until today.

  “What have you got there, little man?” Uriel snapped Rami out of his thoughts as she approached Avery. The soul had relaxed even in the surreal surroundings, no longer hunching over his curious scrap of paper.

  Avery looked up at the angel. “A barter.”

  “And what do you hope to barter for?”

  “Forgiveness.”

  “Well, now.” A sharp gleam set over Uriel’s eyes. “That’s a big trade.”

  It really wasn’t—every soul in Heaven was forgiven. The judgment had always been for show; the only one who damned you to Hell was yourself. But Rami saw Uriel’s tactical mind turning that for information. “What would be worth such a trade?”

  “Just a piece of paper. From something I heard was valuable.” There was a sharpness, an awareness, in the soul’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. As if the prospect of negotiation had woken him up. “The Devil’s Bible.”

  The same change came over Uriel’s gaze that had transformed the guard as well. “Ramiel, I’ll need a moment with the human soul.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS,” Ramiel said.

  “I am always serious.”

  “But I’m not even an angel. Not anymore. I’m—”

  “Thunder of God. Shepherd for the lost.” Uriel marched her hand over the desk as she spoke, and stars eddied around her fingertips. The office was empty, Avery divested of his treasure and sent Heaven knew where. “Well suited to chasing after a powerful artifact. Or you were once.”

  “Not anymore. I can’t . . . I’m not. I am in exile, at best.” Rami begrudged even having to say it aloud. It was a barbed twist in his chest. “I can’t even enter Heaven, let alone complete its work.”

  He refused to meet Uriel’s eyes. Until her next words snapped his head up.

  “Bring the pages of the book back, and that can be changed.”

  Rami stared. No angel or Watcher that had followed Lucifer had ever, ever been forgiven. Heaven did not forgive. It wasn’t its nature—not when it came to angels.

  He didn’t want to ask, but the words were out of his mouth. “What kind of paper would be worth that kind of offer?”

  Uriel stilled behind the desk, but she met Rami’s gaze steadily. “It could be nothing more than a remnant. Something left over from the time of Enoch that the Betrayer’s people missed.” There had been a time of miracles, when the divine had still held an active interest in . . . anything really. That had been a long, long time ago. “But—that paper whispers power, Rami. The mortal named it the devil’s. The stories on Earth were thought to be . . . Well, whatever it is, it will be something our Creator would have a vested interest in.”

  “You’ve . . . spoken to the Creator about this?”

  “No. You know that . . .” Uriel caught herself, clenching her hand around the pommel of the blade at her side. “Or perhaps you don’t. The Creator has grown . . . distant during the past age. Even to those in the holy presence.”

  “Distant . . . how?”

  “The divine’s attention is turned . . . elsewhere. Not here.” A flicker of pain appeared on Uriel’s angelic features, quickly schooled away.

  Ramiel thought the Creator must have grown distant indeed to withdraw even from Uriel. She was the Light, where he had once been the Thunder. At times, she’d even served as the Face of God. The only one perhaps closer to the divine was Metatron. If their Creator was drifting beyond even Uriel’s counsel, much must have changed in Heaven since Rami left.

  Yet nothing had changed for the Host, not that he could see. The line of souls processed and progressed smoothly. Every angel he encountered at the Gates was as they always were: confident, golden, glowing with the righteous or, at the very least, the self-righteous. That kind of confidence was inspired only by true leaders. Like Uriel.

  The realization hit Ramiel all at once. “You’ve been running things in Her absence.”

  Uriel’s lips thinned. “Not alone. And only as the divine would have willed it.”

  “Ruling a realm. That’s quite the promotion, Uriel.”

  “It’s my duty. Our duty. The other archangels agree.” Uriel averted her gaze. “Until the return. The Creator wouldn’t abandon us entirely.”

  “I see.” Temporary absence was frightening in itself. But Rami detected the rising tension in Uriel’s shoulders and kept his voice neutral. “And you think this scrap holds enough power to draw the Creator back?”

  “Not alone. But if it has a complete book of power on Earth equal to it . . . such a threat couldn’t be ignored. The Creator would have to return. We would no longer be—” Uriel rose from her seat. “Am I to assume from your skepticism that you have no interest in my offer?”

  “You’re saying if I do this, I will be allowed back. Heaven. Does that mean forgiven?”

  “That is up to the Creator, upon return. I can only promise you will be allowed past the Gates.” Her voice took on a softer note. “It’s your chance to prove your worth. Join us. You could come home, Ramiel.”

  Home. The word stuttered in his chest and traveled down his arms. Rami clenched his hands at his side. To set foot in the land he hadn’t seen since the Earth was new. Only grasped in faded dreams during his time in the dark.

  But it wasn’t just the prospect of returning that drew him. It was not the memory of floating spires and air heavy with music. It was the prospect of stopping. Of truly belonging somewhere again. It was the idea of slowing his steps and turning his eyes to a place that saw him, that recognized him, that claimed him. It was that concept, the cessation of motion, that drove his words.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent.” Uriel graced him with a rare smile. “You’ll want to start with Avery’s life, of course. I’ve got the brief prepared.”

  4

  LETO

  It’s uncertain what precise conditions precipitate a book’s waking up and becoming a character. Some restless characters must be soothed back into their bindings once a decade; others may not stir for several centuries. Some wake when disturbed with attention; others fidget with neglect. Some ache to be told; others appear to want to escape their own narrative. Or improvise upon it.

  The only certainty is a book is most at risk while its author is alive. Like any good story, unwritten books have the capacity for great healing and great hurts. We do not act out of cruelty. The safest place for an unwritten book to be—for both it and its author—is sleeping in the Library, dreaming what stories it will tell.

  Librarian Gregor Henry, 1944 CE

  THE SLAP TURNED LETO’S chin. He took a step back from where they stood near the counter of the coffee shop, but Brevity advanced on him, hands on her hips. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “I, uh . . .” Leto twisted, meeting pair after pair of blandly curious eyes. They had the attention of the entire shop, whether o
ut of sympathy or annoyance. Claire positioned herself discreetly at the far wall, near the book’s table. The hero, as Claire had called him, and his companion were entirely focused on Brevity’s display. “You found out . . . ?”

  He had just enough warning to flinch before another open hand aimed for his shoulder. Brevity burst into a very believable font of tears. The former muse had mastered the art of crying prettily, and Leto heard sympathetic murmurs drift among the coffee shop’s patrons.

  He reached out to pat Brevity on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. . . .”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Although the red-haired author was riveted, the hero began to lose focus as he scanned the crowd. His eyes stopped when they stumbled upon Claire. The two locked gazes with a crackle of energy that went unnoticed by the rest of the shop.

  A flash of silver hung from Claire’s fingertips, held low at her side like a blade. Her lips moved. The faintest silver script swayed, just a moment, in the air between them. The hero’s eyes narrowed and he stood up from the table with a murmured word to his companion.

  Brevity cleared her throat, bringing Leto back to their improv.

  “Can’t you at least tell me what I did?”

  The hero and the librarian exchanged a series of hissed words and sharp gestures across the way. Claire seemed to get the advantage when she flicked up the hand holding her tool. The hero blanched and shot nervous eyes toward his oblivious companion.

  “It’s like you’re not even here.” A nudge brought Leto around to face wide brown eyes. Brevity gave him an inscrutable look before her eyes welled with tears again. “You don’t even see me anymore.” Her voice was a stage whisper.

  Leto’s stomach did a flip-flop, and he hesitantly put a hand on Brevity’s arm. He garnered the courage to make his contribution to their little display. “I, ah, always see you. How could I not see a beautiful girl?” He resisted cringing at the line, randomly plucked from his limited exposure to human romance. His voice was not quite as confident as he would have liked, but he frankly had trouble thinking straight in close proximity to Brevity’s large, wet eyes.