by A J Hackwith
Claire took a short breath—all she was capable of with the words twined so tight around her chest. “You have me at a loss, Bjorn. I must cede. Who’s the author?”
“Claire Juniper Hadley,” Bjorn said, and the crowd roared.
14
CLAIRE
Everything went wrong. Gregor is gone and I am still here. But I won’t apologize. Not to god or the devil, not when souls are trapped here, left to wither and dry like flowers pressed between the pages of the books we keep.
Andras says I’ll grow into the role. I suppose I will. It’s the only path you left me.
I won’t apologize, but I won’t forgive either.
Apprentice Librarian Claire Juniper Hadley, 1989 CE
“YOU CHEATED.”
The room, like everywhere else in the lodge, was uncomfortably warm, and Claire picked irritably at the bandage on her arm. She sat on a cushioned bench, grudgingly sipping tea Bjorn had brewed to restore her strength and “put hair on your chest.” She’d insisted on bandaging her arm herself, freeing the healers to tend to Hero, who had been quickly whisked to an adjoining room after the fight.
“Do explain, lass. I’m in the mood to laugh.” Bjorn rubbed his bruised knee from the opposite side of the small table. They were in his personal study. The walls were lined not with books but with rows of capsae, hatboxlike containers that held scrolls and wooden slates of every shape and size. A fire roared in the fireplace that took up the far wall, and the study was as cozy as it was chaotic.
Claire shuddered to think what the Valhalla library must look like, if this was a tidy personal collection.
She took another sip of the tea and made a bitter face. “You quoted an unwritten author. That’s specifically against the rules of the duel. Worse, you quoted me. That’s not just cheating—that’s dirty.”
Bjorn raised a brow. “Would that be more or less dirty than turning your words against a noncombatant?”
“Uther was about to kill my character. He most certainly was a combatant.”
“Not your combatant.”
“Close enough.” Claire smacked the mug on the tabletop with a peevish frown. “He may be disconnected from his book, and he’s most definitely a pain in the ass, but Hero is still mine.”
“Well, you and your boy certainly set Uther straight on that.”
Claire remembered the mule they’d had to bring in to haul Uther’s body out of the arena, and she diverted her eyes to the table. “Yes, well. Sorry about your champion.”
“Don’t be.” Bjorn gave an airy wave of his hand. “He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We’re in an afterlife for warriors, Librarian.” Bjorn leaned back, and his chair let out a long creak as he grinned. “Any who fall in battle today wake up fresh as springtime tomorrow. He’ll never wield Widowbane again—he’s been proven unworthy. But he’ll continue on. We do love a good fight, and Valhalla sees to its own.”
“Well, that’s . . . convenient,” Claire said. “Tell me, would it have been the same for Hero if he’d fallen?”
Bjorn raised his brows, considering. “He didn’t die a warrior of the halls, so . . . ah, probably not.”
“Good thing I cheated, then.”
“Good thing,” Bjorn relented. “Up until then, you did comport yourself well enough to pass. The hall will have you.”
Claire was quiet a moment before saying, “The book you quoted. How did you . . . I mean, have you read—”
“I was the librarian of the Unwritten Wing before your grandfather was a twinkle in anyone’s eye.” Bjorn’s lip curled as he toyed with the edge of the table, running a rough thumb back and forth. “I had time enough in that place to get familiar with lots of books. Including yours.”
“My books were there before I was even born. . . .” A queer feeling flipped in Claire’s stomach, and her mind could not settle on a proper question to ask out of the hundred that bubbled up. She’d helmed the Library for thirty years, and it still felt like a mercurial kind of impossibility. A story was more immortal than its teller. Time had no play there, only potential. Claire had failed both. She looked up to find Bjorn studying her carefully. “They were readable?”
“I wouldn’t call them Shakespeare, but they were passable, yes,” Bjorn said. “You do have quite the collection.”
“Well . . . not that it matters now.” Claire’s eyes dropped, and she abruptly found an excuse to stand. The hearth needed poking; irresponsible to let the flames die down.
Bjorn followed her to the fireplace and rubbed a sore arm before glancing at her. “I heard about what happened, of course.”
The fire twitched behind the grate. Claire found her breath tripped up in her throat before she could let it out again. “There were a hundred tales about my ignominious rise to librarian, Bjorn. You’ll need to be more specific.”
“The rumor that goes against the tale. The one that says Gregor didn’t retire to his greater reward. The rumor that says he was attacked. Attacked by something with the power to unmake a human soul. Your mentor disappeared under . . . unusual circumstances, we shall say.” Bjorn said it calmly, as if recounting last night’s dinner. “And the attacker was never found, of course, so the retirement line was the one that took. Left you to take on the mantle far too soon, by most folk’s estimates.”
“That is one of the more fanciful ones. Did you hear the one where I sold my soul for the promotion, danced naked with Cerberus? Never mind how I would sell my soul when I was already in Hell, but . . .” Claire trailed off as Bjorn failed to take the joke. She rolled her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Gregor . . . He was more than a mentor. He was my friend and I would have never wished him harm.”
It was true enough, Claire thought carefully, in a certain kind of light.
Bjorn was quiet for a moment, as if testing the edges of that statement. Then he turned with a grunt. “Ah! Where’s my mind? They’ll already be at the feast. Hero too, if the healers have done their work.”
“Feast . . .” Claire’s voice was flat. “Bjorn, I can’t tolerate another delaying tactic—”
“A feast for our angelic guests.”
“Angels?” Claire’s eyes widened in alarm. “Here? But how—”
“They arrived shortly after you. Because of what they are, the hall already recognizes them as warriors. They were welcomed in, think they even caught the last of the fight.” Bjorn hooded his eyes as Claire began to pace. “I suppose you know why they’re here.”
Claire twisted her hands, wincing as doing so pulled on her bandage. “You said there was more than one?”
“Two. One formidable lass all in white and a man in gray who frowns too much.” Bjorn paused. “I don’t hold with that lot, but they seemed a capable pair.”
“Capable and problematic. We’ll need to leave right away,” Claire muttered. “You know why they’re here?”
“Let’s see. Hell’s librarian and two hunter angels visiting a simple storyteller on the same day, muttering disaster and all hackles up about something.” Bjorn snorted. “Even a dumb old Viking has to get the idea.”
Bjorn held up a hand as Claire opened her mouth. “Easy, lass. I am loyal to the Library, but listen. Even if I answered your questions now, worst thing you could do is go tearing out of here with the angels watching the gate. They’d be on you faster than a raven flies. Feast. Rest a while. I’ll give you your answers, and you may slip out in the morning when half the realm is still sleeping off the drink.”
Claire’s mouth shut slowly. “Do angels even drink?”
Bjorn chuckled and took her by the arm. “All warriors drink in Valhalla. Come! I’ll prove it.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
ALL WARRIORS DID, INDEED, drink in Valhalla. The arena had been invaded, lined with additional long tables and
benches to accommodate the revelers, who were several drinks in already. Claire could barely move through the crowd without having to dodge sundry blades and axes strapped to backs. Valhalla’s citizens did not believe in leaving their weapons at the door, even for a party.
In truth, Claire found it maddening, the chaos, the cheer, the swells of mood and passion that roiled over the pressed bodies like a wave. She’d never cared for crowds. Crowds were messy; crowds were not predictable and not reliable. After she’d spent thirty-plus years in the quiet of the Library, dealing only with the trickle of Hell’s patrons and recalcitrant books, Claire found the chuff and churn of Valhalla’s festivities incomprehensible. It made her head hurt and her joints ache. Mercifully, Bjorn guided her to the table her companions had staked out, before he drifted away, muttering about proper drink and song.
“Oh, try the little blue ones!” Brevity had been busy in her absence. A stack of small pastries and dainty twists of meat, far more ornate than Claire would have guessed the Vikings capable of, was set out in the center of the table. She smiled despite herself. Trust Brevity to find the sweets at any party.
Claire allowed Brevity to shove a mug of something sloshing and foamy into her hand. Hero was still absent, but her assistant succeeded in coaxing Leto and Andras into sipping at their drinks. Judging by the empty mugs and the bearded grins sent their way, she had passed the time warming to the warriors at the adjoining table. Excellent work. It couldn’t hurt to win the goodwill of Valhalla’s residents.
“You did great, boss,” Brevity said.
“If you say so.” Claire kept her eyes on Bjorn and set down the mug the moment he disappeared into the crowd. “There are angels here.”
Andras choked on his drink, flecks of ale dotting his beard as his gaze darted around. “Already?”
“It seems so.” Claire recounted Bjorn’s news as quickly as she could. Leto, having run into an angel once already that day, began to exude panic, acid sweat forming on his temple and sliding down to his collar with a hiss. Frankly, Claire couldn’t blame him. Brevity pivoted in her seat to scan the crowd, covering the gesture by ordering another round for the boisterous table next to them.
“You’re certain there was no way for them to track the scrap in the afterlife?” Claire asked Andras.
“Absolutely not. It’s a piece of Hell. They could detect general demonic activity if they were in the area, but not across realms. They must be searching anywhere we were likely to seek help.”
“Which means they have an inkling of how important it is. Brilliant.”
“If so, we need to leave, pup. Sooner rather than later.” At Claire’s look, Andras’s brow furrowed. “Surely we’re not staying here while there are angels looking for us.”
“Of course not,” Claire said. “Bjorn may trust in the hospitality rules of Valhalla, but I don’t. We will just need to get around them carefully. Do you see them yet, Brev?”
“Only one, ma’am. Tall lady by the entrance, all shiny and terrifyin’ looking. I don’t think the Vikings care for her much.”
Claire raised herself from the bench just enough to spy what looked like a pale, walking storm cloud over the heads of the crowd. The crowd, despite the increasingly rowdy tone, did its best to flow away from her general vicinity. “Well, she’s not doing much to hide herself.”
“Heaven never was much for subterfuge,” Andras said with a touch too much demonic pride.
“Then that’s going to have to be our way out.”
Claire toyed with the foam on her drink, trying to develop a plan that balanced meeting their goals with getting out with their skins intact. “Brev, Leto, go extract Hero from the healers, assuming he’s not run off, and get him up to date. Then find Bjorn and get him alone in his office. I don’t care if you have to tie him up by the beard—we’re getting our answers tonight. I’ll meet you there.”
Brevity was already springing from the bench. “A rescue and Viking-napping sound fun. What’re you going to do?”
“Go find our other angel.”
Leto paused halfway out of the bench. “Pardon me for suggesting, but you don’t want to wait to take Hero with you? Last time that angel was kind of . . . angry. And violent.”
“I’m sure Hero will just be thrilled you volunteered him for mortal peril again,” Andras mused.
Claire remembered the lightning crack and smell of ozone from their first encounter with Ramiel. The point where the blade had rested on her chest tightened a little, but she shoved it away and shook her head. She’d risked the book enough for one day. “No. I’ll be fine. We’re all guests in Valhalla, correct? I just want to talk.”
“I’ll come, then,” Andras said.
Claire frowned at the old demon. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. This one seemed to have a hair trigger even around Leto, and he was in human form then.”
“He really doesn’t like demons,” Leto confirmed.
“You said it yourself: Valhalla’s safe.” A calculating look flickered through Andras’s red-gold eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve dealt with more than my share of Heaven’s pests in my time. And this one, Ramiel? He’s not even part of the Host—a fallen angel. I want to see why such a creature is after us, and how they came to possess the pages of the codex after all this time. I might be able to detect something from what he says.”
It was much the same reason that Claire was taking the risk herself, so she couldn’t find much fault. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one of your apprentices. I’m coming.” Andras’s smile was mild, but Claire knew when the demon’s mind was made up.
“Stubborn.”
“A requirement when dealing with humans.”
“So it seems.”
Andras had a demon’s care for order and justice—that is to say, none at all. For the first time, Claire wondered exactly what his real motivations were for setting her on this path, let alone coming himself. Andras could have just as easily advised from the Arcane Wing; in fact, staying behind the scenes, subtle and withdrawn, was just Andras’s preference. A tactic he’d tried to impart to Claire, but she’d always preferred doing her own work.
She trusted Andras, despite his being a demon. He’d protected her, taught her, cared for her. She would not have held on to the Library if he hadn’t stepped in and guided the way thirty years ago. Still. She trusted him, but she didn’t pretend to understand him.
Perhaps exposing him to the angel would shake loose more than just clues about the book. She forced a smile. “All right, but I will do the talking.”
Ales barely touched, the group disbanded from the table. Claire ducked toward the back with Andras while Brevity shoved cakes in her pockets and began a loud round of drink buying and shoulder slapping to cover their exit.
15
RAMIEL
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 FROTH ON THE ale was good. By rights, a pour that resulted in a head like that should have flattened the taste of the beer, but the drink was a crisp relief beneath the soft foam. Like Vikings, angels had a good appreciation for an excellent brew. There was a reason monks brewed ale to supplement their monasteries.
Ramiel was surprised to find he enjoyed Valhalla, though he was certain enjoyment wasn’t part of Uriel’s plan. The plan, of course, was to bust down the doors of the realms, find and confront the librarian, and get out before an interrealm grievance could be filed. The paperwork for that would be atrocious.
They’d been lucky to find Hell’s representatives so fast. They’d been unlucky, however, to find them in the arena, fighting with cleve
rness and heroics, two things that were certain to endear them to Valhalla’s residents immediately.
Uriel had threatened to start glowing, a very bad sign, until Rami had coaxed her into a back corner and explained they needed a new approach. It’d taken some talking to make her see the logic.
Contrary to Uriel’s speech, 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. Thankfully, the Light of God had eventually calmed down enough for them to formulate a new plan: gather information on Hell’s activities and apprehend its representatives the moment they isolated themselves from the realm’s warriors.
Uriel, of course, had taken up a very visible and glowering guard by the front entrance. She’d made no effort to fill in Valhalla’s master of the guard, an old warrior named Ragna, on what brought them there, declaring Heaven’s business was no one else’s if they were acting within the rights of the treaty. Even a formal stance couldn’t hide the repulsed looks Uriel cast at the Vikings.
To be fair, the residents of Valhalla appeared to quickly develop the same sentiment toward her. Rami saw how companionable smiles quickly fell to suspicious frowns over their ale. Uriel had never had patience for the souls that chose other realms, worshipped other gods, and once again Rami wondered why she’d left Heaven for this. Hunting was primarily a game of information, and there would be no information to be gained without the goodwill of Valhalla’s denizens.
