by A J Hackwith
She did, at least, serve as an admirable distraction. He had told Uriel that he would sweep the hall for other exits and then promptly left her to her self-righteous watch.
It hadn’t taken long to find out where Hell’s servants gathered. The librarian and her champion were still missing, but Rami recognized the bewildered-looking young man who had accompanied her on Earth. He was with a pair of companions, a demon and a spirit he couldn’t identify but who radiated curiosity and sticky fingers.
But it was the boy who seemed the oddest of the group. He was changed, now with the pointed ears, red eyes, and sharp pale cheekbones of a minor demon, not the harmless human he’d presented himself as before. It riled Rami—further proof that all souls in Hell were liars—but he made no move to confront them. Patience was also a virtue in Heaven.
Which is how he found himself in a publike room near the rear exit of the longhouse, virtuously enjoying a mug of dark ale. It appeared to be a keg room, one of many, considering Valhalla’s infinite supply. But in front of the old barrels a high table had been set up, with several stools to form a makeshift bar. The crowd was small, an eddy in the greater raucous sea of the main hall, but it appeared even Valhalla had introverts. It was a welcome pause from the chaos of the party.
In a strange way, he felt comfortable here. These mortal souls were strange with their hairy bodies and unfamiliar gods, but they were soldiers; Ramiel could understand soldiers. He had quickly gone to work plying them with just enough ale and cheerful aggression to justify conversation.
According to the others, the visitors from Hell had arrived shortly before the angels, and with no treaty recognized, they’d been immediately challenged to combat. They’d been forced to oblige, claiming they sought audience with the storyteller. That was good, because it meant they likely did not yet have what they’d come for. Rami didn’t have a clue how Valhalla was tied to that dangerous bit of paper, but it bought him time.
It was simple to survey the impression they’d made—most had been impressed with the champion’s courage and skill, if not necessarily his appearance. “Too smooth. He’ll freeze his chin off,” one soul with a particularly impressive red beard had grumbled.
Rami also discovered, to his surprise, that even more admiration had begun to coalesce around the librarian.
“Not a bonny lass, course. Someone should tell her t’ smile,” grunted a bald and tattooed man with an ax strapped shoulder to torso. “But she got good and bloodied. And put down Uther with a word, imagine! Handy trick, that.”
“Sommat a Freyja-touched in that one. Good thing the naked babe they called a champion had her to mind ’em,” another said, bringing about another rather telling round of speculation about the fighter’s looks.
“If you say so.” It was hard not to let judgment lace his voice. The librarian seemed just as arrogant and unrepentant as every other servant of Hell he’d encountered. He could not parse the idea of honor being attributed to anyone consigned to that realm.
“Puts a man in mind o’ what stories a teller like that could tell,” added the squat, walking beard on his other side. “Or what she could do with a proper weapon. Mark my words—lass like her’s got spirit. I’d love to get her in the ring.”
“Or in bed, eh, Holfad?” And both warriors devolved into an entirely inappropriate exchange about the relative bed-warming merits of both the librarian and her champion.
But that had been two ales ago. By now the small barroom had emptied out as the more sociable warriors flowed back to the halls and the less sociable ones went to sleep. Rami took the opportunity to process his drink and his night.
Their prey had obviously made too big an impression for Valhalla to look the other way when Heaven confronted them. He and Uriel were warriors, and therefore respected in Valhalla, but from the way the Norse storyteller had taken the librarian under his wing, it seemed Hell had friends in Valhalla as well. The trick would be catching them alone.
The reflection of his frown abruptly dissolved into ripples in his drink. A fresh mug careened against his, spilling a generous portion of the contents of both across his knuckles.
He jerked his head up. The curse on his lips died as his eyes landed on the woman at the other end of the bar. She had one arm bandaged, poorly, and her braided hair was in some disarray. But that coin-flip smile was just as unreadable as on the pier. The librarian had the look of someone caught perpetually midsecret.
She raised her own mug at him. “Sorry—I’m a poor shot. Bars weren’t places for a lady when I was around. Or, at least,” she amended after a pause, “not the kind of lady my family allowed me to be.”
Instead of responding, Rami gave the room a sweeping glance. The pub was but not quite deserted, with a few inhabitants drinking by the fire. The keg master in the corner gave them a shrewd squint before turning back to his cups. A silent warning not to start any trouble.
“Librarian.” Rami felt caught halfway between a grunt and a sigh. The woman had the knack to wear him down in a blink.
“Claire,” she corrected. “It’s Claire, by the way. If you’re going to be hunting us, threatening destruction of our immortal souls, all that, personal names seem like the proper thing.”
Rami bristled and found new fascination with his drink. The weight of her gaze on his shoulders was nearly intolerable until she pushed herself from her stool and slid down the bar. She stopped one seat away, just out of arm’s reach. So she wasn’t entirely stupid.
“What brings an angel to the halls of Valhalla?”
“I imagine the same thing that brings Hell’s servants.”
At the corner of her mouth there might have been a flutter of irritation that was quickly smoothed away. “Tenant. Not a servant.”
Rami snorted, though he found his tongue considerably looser than he liked. 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. It was beginning to strike Rami that the librarian might be both.
Rami must have muttered that thought out loud, because the woman laughed. “A fool. That might be fair. From time to time.” She surprised him by taking the insult with a shrug.
Rami tried again. “Where’s your pet demon? Tired of pretending he’s human?”
“Leto is human. Though . . . I suppose convincing you of that story would take too long for one drink,” she said. “But my other pet demon is here, so I don’t disappoint you. Say hello, Andras.”
In a blink, a figure dressed in fussy silks sat where no one had been before. Sharply pointed ears and pupils the color of blood gold marked him as, indeed, a demon, and a powerful one at that. Black-striped hair glinted like a pelt in the dim light. The taste of sulfur slicked the back of Rami’s throat and burned his tongue. The handsome demon looked harmless and familiar, in the way of the worst childhood nightmares. He gave a mild smile that was too well crafted to be sincere.
“‘Hello, Andras,’” the demon mimicked politely. “I am not a pet, by the way.”
“Apologies, Arcanist. I was merely speaking his language. We’re less than animals in some eyes,” Claire said with a cool look at Rami.
“So I hear.” Andras swept his eyes over Rami with a look that felt surgical, claws hidden in a velvet glove. A predator behind those glasses, Rami felt in an instant. He recalculated his estimation of the creature.
The Library had brought force. It seemed an odd way to show their hand. Rami shifted to keep an eye on the demon, though found he much preferred looking at Claire. “I take it you’ve found what you seek here?”
“Not yet,” she said easily and, Rami thought, a bit too promptly. “But travel is taxing on our kind. We intend to enjoy Valhalla’s excellent hospitality. Price of admission was high enough, so we
might as well get our money’s worth. Leave tomorrow evening.”
Rami doubted it. “And I suppose this visit means you don’t intend to surrender the book.”
“What book would that be, again?”
“You obviously know of what I speak. You stole it from me.”
“The scrap, you mean. A misunderstanding, really.” Claire shook her head. “You know, if you’d been just a little more patient and a little clearer when we met, you’d still be in possession of it. Here I thought angels were supposed to be forgiving and kind.”
“I’m not that kind of angel.”
“I know very much what kind of angel you are, Ramiel, Thunder of God, Watcher of the World. Question is, why is a fallen angel helping Heaven?” Claire tilted her head. “Why are you here?”
Rami fell silent. He knew there was nothing to say.
The abomination wrapped in a gentleman’s skin didn’t help matters. “Ask him what Heaven’s offered him,” Andras said.
Claire frowned. “I wasn’t aware that Heaven was in the dealmaking business.”
“You’d be surprised.” Andras shrugged.
“All right, I’ll bite. What’s Heaven offered you to jump-start a war, Ramiel?”
“Again, not your concern—” Rami paused. “What war?”
Claire exchanged a look with the demon, but only Rami saw the look that crossed Andras’s face as Claire glanced away. Eyes narrowed, lip twitched up. Pleased. Possessive. Predatory. While Claire sat with the creature at her side as if it were a favored pet.
For the first time, Rami wondered if the librarian knew what kind of creature she had at her back. But his speculation was cut short by Claire’s sniff.
“Are you telling me you’re hunting a book whose purpose you don’t understand?”
“And what should I know, Librarian?”
The librarian’s brown eyes gleamed with amusement. “I’ll give you one thing for free, though I know you won’t believe me: what you’re after is not anything Heaven has a right to. And your interference here could cost the mortal world dearly. More than that, you’ll need to ask your terrifying partner.”
“Uriel has told me all I need to know about your sins.” The creeping, hollow unease in his chest made Rami toss out the first rebuttal he could think of. Harsh and untrue, but he knew better than to admit that to servants of Hell.
Both Claire and the demon fell silent.
“The angel out front is . . . Uriel?” Claire asked.
Rami cursed himself for rising to the bait. He pushed the still half-full mugs away from him as he stood from the bar.
“Surrender the artifact and give up this errand, Librarian.” Rami’s jaw tightened. “Don’t risk your eternal soul.”
“I find myself already damned, but your concern is noted. I’d watch the threats. We’re guests of some very nice hosts with very large axes,” Claire said, gaze falling to where Rami’s fingers brushed the hilt at his side.
Rami made a slow show of measuring the room. “You’ve found yourself some privacy, Librarian. What if my good friend the bartender decides to step out?”
The librarian looked scandalized. “My goodness. Someone is desperate. Whatever will we do? I suppose that depends.” She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “What exactly is the protocol for handling aggressors in Valhalla, Arlid?”
Rami stifled the urge to jerk back as a leather-clad raven woman dropped from a shadow in the rafters. The woman squinted her kohl-heavy eyes, none too happy at being called out. “Aggressors are fed to the flock.”
“And am I the aggressor in this scenario?”
“No.” Arlid’s lip curled. “But the night is young.”
Claire turned to Rami. “There, you see. The raven captain has been keeping an awfully close eye on me and will be making sure the only one who gets to rough me up is her. You are welcome to test that, of course, but I think you’ll find she likes her duty even more than she loathes me. Isn’t that right, Arlid?”
“You have no honor,” Arlid muttered.
“Something you two agree on,” Claire agreed. Her eyes dropped to his coat. “It’s a shame that your feathers are the wrong color for her flock.”
Rami worked his jaw but said nothing. It was the second time tonight he had been surprised by Hell. He found he didn’t care for it.
Claire shrugged and slid one of the abandoned drinks to Andras, though Rami noted she’d never touched her own. “The bottom line is this: the book is under the protection of the Library now. It belongs in Hell. Heaven should mind its own business.”
“Not when the safety of humanity is at stake,” Rami said.
“Funny, that’s why I’m here too.” The woman gave a rueful smile that was so human it made the backs of Rami’s hands itch. He wasn’t used to interacting with human souls from other realms. He’d spent plenty of time among souls on Earth during his stint as a guide for the lost, not to mention his time in exile among mortals during Earth’s earliest history. But a human soul that chose an eternity in Hell? He couldn’t understand that. Especially a soul that seemed so . . . practical. He half wished she’d be as sinister as her demon attendant. It would ease that wrong feeling at the back of his head.
Rami shook the thought from his shoulders and stood. “You work for the Deceiver.”
No one followed as he left, though Rami thought he heard a long sigh at his back before it was swept up in the increased noise of the hall. Rami hit the door hard enough to make it rock on its hinges as he waded into the sea of revelers. He needed to clear his head. He needed to form a plan.
He needed information for a plan. Answers.
Uriel was in deep conversation by the time Rami found her again in the main hall.
Or, rather, the broad-shouldered creature with a pair of double axes on his hip was in deep conversation. Uriel looked distinctly unamused. Not that Uriel was in the habit of being amused ever, but she held a glare for the Viking man that she usually reserved for improperly tempered blades and disappointing reports.
“No. I am not interested. Thank you.”
“But a maiden like yourself—”
“Move. On.”
“Trouble?” Rami asked as he slid to fill the space vacated.
“Humans.” Uriel grunted the word like it left a bad taste in her mouth. “It defies logic that their base interest in reproduction lasts beyond death. And the entitlement to it! Arrogant, all of them.”
“Hmm, yes. The arrogance. Imagine.” Rami guided Uriel into a quiet corner. “I encountered the librarian and her people.”
Uriel raised a brow. “Demons?”
“At least one. I don’t know him from . . . before. But powerful, dangerous.”
“What did you learn?”
“They do not have possession of the artifact, but their hunt led them here, and the librarian considers it under the jurisdiction of the Library.”
Uriel waved that away too easily. “Heaven’s claim supersedes that of any other realm.”
“She also implied that there’s more to this artifact than powerful magic.” Rami said it with a dismissive air but watched Uriel’s reaction carefully. She tilted her chin but looked out over the crowd, hiding the pull of her expression.
“Is that so? How curious.”
“Is it true?”
“Acquire the artifact and we’ll know.” Her answer only seeded the doubt in his gut. Uriel turned back to him. “Their plan?”
“I gathered that they were waiting for something they needed here. She said they would be leaving tomorrow,” Rami said. “She was lying, of course.”
“Glad to see your time in the wild hasn’t made you entirely soft.” Uriel narrowed her eyes and searched for something in the crowd. “We will need to intercept them.”
“Any attempt to confront them will get us expelled
from Valhalla. Or worse,” Rami said, thinking of the raven captain and her guard.
“Not if they stray someplace where Valhalla isn’t watching. First rule of demons, Ramiel: you can always rely on servants of Hell to be where they shouldn’t.”
16
CLAIRE
It’s not magic, what we librarians do. It’s the same as what our imaginations tried to do when we were alive; the realm just takes a more literal interpretation of it. The pen and paper are a librarian’s tools of office. With them, we can weave stories back together by force of will. Guide lost ink, draw a plot back to its true north.
Without ’em, we’re just exceptionally long-lived busybodies.
Then again, sometimes busybodies are the only ones to get anything done.
Librarian Fleur Michel, 1735 CE
THE FEATHERS FROTHED AND churned like a small storm cloud clinging to the Watcher. Claire kept her eyes on it until he disappeared through the swinging door. Then she allowed herself to let out a long breath.
“Well, that was bracing.” Andras drew a fingertip over his lip, amusement ill concealed. He took a neat sip of ale.
Claire, on the other hand, was too much on edge to drink, unlike the demon and the damned angel. Ramiel had been in easy conversation with the warriors when they’d found him, forcing Claire and Andras to hang back until his drinking companions had left.
He was comfortable here, Claire realized as they’d waited. Comfortable and with a stronger natural connection with this place than Claire or even Hero could hope for. If it came down to forcing Valhalla to choose a side, Bjorn’s allegiance to the Library wouldn’t be enough. Brevity’s charm wouldn’t be enough. If the angels pushed, it was only a matter of time before Valhalla’s hospitality showed cracks.
“We need to get out of here.” The conclusion brought her up out of the chair.
Andras nodded as he followed. “We should have time if they think we’re staying the night.”
“He didn’t buy it.” Claire had seen it in the angel’s eyes. All angels had keen eyes, but Ramiel seemed particularly tuned to reading mortals. At any other time, she would have found it interesting, a deviance in the angelic personality type, but right now it was a significant threat. She would need to avoid revealing too much next time they crossed paths. “We need to leave as soon as we speak to Bjorn. Before they have time to plan.”
