by A J Hackwith
Claire had a momentary view of the darkening star-touched sky filled with the Hellhound’s red dagger teeth before she fell backward through the Mdina wards, Hero toppling in after her.
28
RAMIEL
I wasn’t a storyteller in life; that much I remember. No matter the stories in me, my people needed strong arms, not words. Scholars and soldiers are natural allies, though few ever recognize it. Both worship at invisible altars, one of knowledge, one of duty. It takes a certain kind of soul to protect the invisible, to protect an idea.
Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 886 CE
HELLHOUNDS, DESPITE THEIR CANINE appearance, were not deterred by thunder. The air crackled all around Rami, and the blade grew heavy in his hands as he moved, extending his sphere of reach ever farther to drive the creatures back from their prey.
Then a reprieve. The moment Claire fell back through the ward, the Hellhounds stopped. They sniffed the air, ignored Rami’s feints completely, and melted back into the night. Their absence underlined the stillness of stone, rapidly cooling in the evening air. Rami glanced behind, but the librarian and her rescue had disappeared into the city.
Rami leaned on his long sword a moment, breathing heavily. It had been a long time since he’d needed to raise his sword against anything, let alone against a foe like a Hellhound. He drew another staggered breath.
When he finally turned, he could see only Uriel’s back. She was hunched over the crumbling stone railing that marked the end of the bridge. It was crumbling more by the moment, as she slowly ground her fist into the cornice.
“What. Was. That?” The words growled out of Rami’s chest, and he found himself having to stop, take another heaving breath, and clamp down on the frozen horror sitting in his chest. Uriel still hadn’t turned, so Rami tried again, pleading this time. “Uriel! That was cold-blooded. You’ve gone too far.”
That brought her around. The archangel lurched toward him. The anger on her severe face didn’t surprise him; the tears did.
“Don’t talk to me about ‘too far,’ Ramiel of the Fallen. Not when you practically leapt to defend a demon—”
“The librarian is not a demon! That was a human soul you just unleashed Hellhounds on for no good reason. They were under our protection! You—”
“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.
A shriveling feeling crept under Rami’s lungs. The collar of Uriel’s coat fluttered; a smear of dust flinched up one side of her cheek, stopping just short of the glow of fury-banked eyes. Uriel was fastidious. She would never have tolerated dirt on her face. But her hands came up not to wipe it away, but to knot in agony in her hair.
Uriel was the Face of God, to all. But to Rami, she’d become more: she’d become the face of home. The face of hope, the hope of returning. The hope of welcome. The hope of rest. She was shattering, bleeding violence at every jagged edge, and Rami’s hope bled with it. The cost was too high. He couldn’t follow this. An angel with a thirst for vengeance . . . no. Not again. He’d already seen the devastation that caused. He couldn’t go down that path again.
Even if that path was the only one that led him home.
He would say it was like a closing door, but the Gates of Heaven had never been open for him. Instead, a dull certainty welled in his chest, and with it a realization. Rami found himself reaching out a hand, but the tremors marked Uriel’s shoulders like delicate earthquakes. He dropped his hand. “Why do you really need the codex, Uriel?”
“For the Creator, you fool. For . . .” Uriel stopped, glaring sightlessly at the warded city through her tears. The archangel went quiet. “I can’t do it for much longer, Rami. None of the Host can. I don’t know why we ever thought we could. Running things . . . It’s all falling apart.”
Fear deepened Uriel’s flawless face, lines etched where none had been, not in the ages since the birth of the world. Shadows in a being of light were far, far out of his experience. All of this was. Rami was used to falling, to running, to wandering. Not this.
“I don’t know what else would bring Her home,” Uriel whispered.
There would be no answer that way. 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.
The Creator was lost, and so was Ramiel’s way home. But he wasn’t as strong as the Creator; he couldn’t turn away, even now, not without another path presented to him. So instead, his mind numbly reached for what it knew best: duty. The codex was an obvious danger, and they couldn’t risk it in the hands of a demon like Andras, especially with the Creator absent. He sheathed his sword so as not to look at her. “What would you have of me now?”
Duty, service. It was an all-curing elixir, for angels. Especially angels like Uriel. The tracks on her face dried. She seemed to sew the broken edges of her mask together, piece by piece. She drew up straight, and her gaze came to rest on the spot where Andras had disappeared. “Our prey has split. The demon is intent on taking the pages to the Library, so I will make the necessary preparations for Hell. You will track the humans. It’s what you’re best at. The Hounds will leave a wide enough path; perhaps they will lead us to the codex.”
Rami strained to keep the uncertainty off his face. “And then?”
“And then . . .” Uriel paused to marshal her own sword. She stared at the blackened spot where it had been planted in the cobblestone. “Then all of Hell will have its reckoning.”
29
LETO
Earth is freckled with belief, positively pockmarked with it. No great idea fades from the planet without leaving a mark, and we dwell in the craters. We rely on these old lines and cracks to conduct our business. But watch out; belief changes, and so do the doorways. Walk through the wrong one and it won’t want to let you go.
Librarian Claire Hadley, 1994 CE
LETO WAS REMEMBERING THINGS about his life.
Mostly he was remembering that he hated running.
His side had stitched up, morphing into an angry, hot pinch that twisted his lungs every time he inhaled. His pulse thudded, fast and thick in his head. His feet were numb from slapping bare stone, and that made him clumsy as he clambered up and down the broken tunnel passage.
Catacombs, Beatrice had said, and Leto had imagined some stately mausoleum. Perhaps a stone building, statues artfully crumbling here and there, coincidentally lit with a mysterious torch like they were in the movies. But this was something entirely different. It was a hole in the ground that forgot to stop. It was a crooked path daggered with roots and stone and other objects that Leto tried not to consider too closely as he tripped over them. Bare crevices had been cut out of the dirt walls and held scattered bones and bits of cloth. All of this was illuminated not by thoughtful torches but by his single flashlight, splashing quivering light around as he ran.
It was a place, most important, that Leto very much did not want to die in. So he ran, scrabbling at dirt and stone and cowering every time a shower of dust fell from overhead.
The others had set out to create a diversion outside the ward to draw off the Hellhounds long enough for Leto to get to the realm gate via a second path. Claire assured him she would be fine and would catch up with him later in the realm beyond the gates. All Leto had to do was keep moving.
Leto hadn’t believed a word of it. He’d been around the librarian enough by now to see her fear. But it was his own fear, his own shameful, crippling terror at the sound of the Hellhounds, that had made him nod. It was his fear that agreed to the plan. He’d meant to follow her. Follow her forward, he’d said. But i
nstead his courage had failed him yet again and left him here, hurtling through the dark.
He hadn’t told all that to Beatrice. The unwritten woman had not been happy when Leto finally relayed Claire’s plan. She’d been distressed enough when Claire and the others had left, but when Leto explained that Claire had been suspicious of Andras and had asked Leto to carry the codex pages to Hell, Beatrice had flown into a barely contained panic. She’d stormed around the apartment and seemed quite ready to bolt after the others until Leto had added something: that Claire had said to get him through the gate, then check the outer ward for the others. Just in case.
Well. He’d said that was what she’d said. He’d improvised, ashamed of leaving Claire and Hero to do the hard part. The least he could do was send Beatrice as backup. Beatrice hadn’t needed convincing. She had regrets too. Hanging around unwritten authors had taught Leto a lot about the words one didn’t say.
They’d gotten to the cramped entrance, hidden in the sewers not far from the fountain he’d seen earlier, when Beatrice’s conscience caught up with her. She stopped abruptly at the door. Her hands flew to her head and she grunted.
“I can’t. I can’t do this, not again.”
“But Claire said to get the pages to the gate first—”
“I can’t leave her to face the consequences alone. Not again.” Beatrice’s hands fisted in her hair before dropping, still clenched with tension. She seemed to come to a decision. “I’m going after her. You can make it from here. Now, listen closely.”
Leto repeated Beatrice’s instructions in his head. Follow the tunnel, veer right when it splits, keep going, no matter what. He’d been going for a while now and was surely outside the walls, outside the ward. But being underground, among the dead, would confuse and slow the Hellhounds, Beatrice had said.
Not long enough to save him, if it came to that, but long enough for him to run, which was the important thing: to run. When Leto reached the end, Beatrice said, he would see the realm gate.
If there was an end, Leto hadn’t found it. He began to worry he’d missed a right turn somewhere in the dark. He took another aimless corner and was about to consider turning back, when a stone outcropping caught him on the shoulder.
Stone in the shape of a fist.
A hand slammed Leto against a wall, and his flashlight flew out of his grasp. Leto’s head jolted against hard-packed dirt, and stars briefly dazzled the dark. When they cleared, he couldn’t see anything—at first. Slowly, two pricks of gold light resolved out of the darkness. A gem-shaped light flared, stabbing painfully at his eyes, and Andras’s face melted into view.
“Hello, stray.”
The demon had shed all previous pretense in the dark, keeping only gaunt features, harsh and cutting edges. A sharp-toothed smile split a skull-like face, and the shadows danced wildly as he adjusted his grip. Cold, bony fingers squeezed Leto’s throat closed.
The fingers constricted again and slammed Leto’s head against the wall. Pain flickered from a spark to wildfire. Everything went gray this time. When Leto could open his eyes again, Andras was shuffling through his pockets.
He had located the folded sheaves of parchment in Leto’s suit. There was no more explanation; Andras simply took what he wanted. Leto struggled even as the world tilted hazily around him. But Andras batted his hand aside easily and tucked the codex pages in his own pocket. He made a tutting noise under his breath.
“This is mine. As is this. See?” Andras held up a thick gem, set into the small dagger that he’d offered to the ravens. That seemed like ages ago. It glittered, matching all the other gems and ornaments pinned to Andras’s clothing. Leto had assumed it was for show, some old-fashioned vanity, but now he saw how wrong he was. Each bauble glimmered independent of the light. Relics from the Arcane Wing, he realized. In the dim light of another gem—Leto couldn’t make out the color or cut—the dagger handle in Andras’s palm pulsed with energy. Something moved and bubbled beneath the stone’s surface, like a predator in deep water. Leto recoiled without thinking, earning a chuckle from the demon.
“A simple soul gem. Perhaps you recognize it. It’s a cousin of the ghostlight. It also latches onto a dead soul, but this one consumes.”
Leto couldn’t tell if the movement in the stone was increasing or if it was just a trick of the wildly flickering light. He tried to pull away out of instinct. A clawlike thumbnail caught under Leto’s throat, pressing until the skin was taut. A pleased chuckling sound came from the demon. “I could have used this against you, against all of you, at any moment during our time together. I didn’t, for Claire’s sake. I want you to tell Claire that. Give my pup a message. Tell her to stay away from the Library.”
Leto bit his teeth together to stifle a whimper as Andras drew a thin line of blood on his neck where he pressed down. Leto worked his throat, holding himself still as he tried to speak around the claws in his skin. “You won’t win. You aren’t a librarian. You’re not even human.”
“Of course not. I have no intention of administering the Library. What would be the point?” Andras’s tone turned silky and dark. “But the court is always hungry. That will secure what I do want. I’ll have it all.”
“You can’t—” Leto cut off as a claw broke the skin at his neck again.
“Now, now. Lesson time is over. None of this needs to get messy if you remember your message for Claire. But I need to ensure it carries the proper . . . gravitas. It would be wise to hold still, child.”
The medallion in Andras’s hand burst into sickly orange light. Leto began to struggle, ignoring the claws sinking into his neck. And then he began to scream.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“MERCIFUL JESUS.”
The oath floated through Leto’s sluggish head. He couldn’t place the low feminine voice. His eyes fluttered open, and he momentarily panicked when he saw only darkness. Then a light flared, and it came back to him: the catacombs, the tunnel, Andras . . . the codex. Leto jerked, but a cool hand stopped him.
“Easy, Leto. Hero—give me a hand here. Help him up. We have to keep moving.” Claire’s voice hovered somewhere to his left.
Larger hands gripped his arm, and there was a grunt as he was hauled to his feet. “Up you go, kid.”
The movement brought the sensations of his body flooding back to him. Hot pain shuddered up his limbs, pulling a jagged sound from his throat, and Leto would have collapsed again without Hero’s support.
“Gently help him up. Did I really have to specify that?” Claire’s voice was sharp even as a cool hand checked his cheek and ran down his shoulder, inspecting wounds. “Bea, a little more light.”
The flashlight swung around and seemed to pierce Leto’s skull. But he was finally able to make out the faces above him. Hero and Claire clustered to either side, and Beatrice was a tall, dark shape hovering behind them. Claire scowled thunderclouds at Hero, who was keeping him upright.
“You said we were in a hurry.” Nonetheless, Hero loosened his grip slightly and glanced at him. “You all right to walk, kid?”
“I think so.” After the initial wave, the pain faded to a bone-deep ache. Most of the pain, that is. Leto winced. “I think I broke my arm.”
Claire’s hand drifted to the injured arm. Leto managed to make only a mangled squeak as she probed it. Her voice was taut. “I doubt you broke it. You’ll be all right, just as soon as we get to the Library.” She hesitated. “Andras did this?”
Leto nodded. The glint of claw and gem came back, in a rush. The loss. The crush of codex pages in a jeweled fist. He found a lump had developed in his throat and he had to swallow hard. “He got the pages. I failed. . . . I—I’m so sorry.”
Claire started waving her hand before he even got the apology out. “Not unexpected. We can deal with it. I’m just glad you’re alive. We’ll just—” The earth walls around them lurched, showering clo
ds on their heads. Baleful howls vibrated from afar—but not far enough. Without a word, Beatrice began shoving Claire down the hall. Hero hauled Leto into a stumbling pace.
“We’ll just run—that’s what,” Hero finished. He shot a grim look at Beatrice. “How much farther?”
“Nearly there.”
Every step made his arm shoot with electric bolts of pain, but Leto forced his feet to keep up with Hero. They turned another corner. Leto heard a strangled yelp, and Beatrice brought the flashlight up to show Claire backing away from a dark ledge. The tunnel emptied out onto an abrupt precipice. The light did not reach far, but wind whipped at the edges of Claire’s skirts. Leto could feel the enormous space in front of them.
Claire snatched the flashlight from Beatrice’s hand and craned her head. The light disappeared into aimless darkness above them, but when Claire swung the beam down, it hit on something white. Leto leaned forward as far as he dared to peer over the ledge. Far, far below them, the light bounced off dull ivory surfaces. Like seashells, an ocean of seashells.
It took Leto’s brain a moment to accept that the shells were, in fact, the human kind.
“A mass burial,” Claire breathed. She swung the light up into Beatrice’s face. “A dead end. Is there a way across?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Beatrice looked uncomfortable.
“What . . .” Claire’s eyes widened. “This is the realm gate?”
Beatrice opened her mouth, but her explanation was drowned in another hail of dirt. A clear howl came from the depths of the catacombs now. Closer. Much closer. The Hellhounds had their scent, and though the ancient catacombs had slowed them down, it wouldn’t be for long. Leto edged nervously toward Claire.
