by A J Hackwith
Beatrice leaned over the ledge. “You have to jump. Right here.” She indicated a spot in the air square off the precipice and somewhere below them.
“The hell I do!” Claire muttered.
“It’s a burial rite, Claire. The path to the afterlife. The religion might be long dead, but still—we don’t have time to debate!” Beatrice practically shouted, and stepped forward as if she was going to push them both. Claire brought up her flashlight like a club, and Hero drew his gun. Beatrice stopped. “You have to trust me.”
Claire’s lip curled. “Oh no. I made that mistake once.”
“I’ll do it.” The words were out of Leto’s mouth before he thought them through. He could feel the immense weight of the Hellhounds as they materialized in and out of the tunnel, shoving waves of air and dust in front of them. He ached everywhere the air hit him, and he just wanted it to stop, wanted not to feel as broken, as useless as he did in front of Andras.
He wanted the fear to stop. And he wanted to make a difference. “I’ll jump first.”
“Absolutely not—” Claire reached out for his good arm.
But without debate, without fanfare, without even permission, Leto walked into open air.
And the darkness had him.
30
LETO
Realms can die. I said that before. It’s rare, because humans love nothing more than holding on to an idea, worrying it in their teeth until it’s shaped into something else. But it happens, occasionally. When a realm loses access to dreams and imagination, it starves. It’s not a gentle death. A realm will attempt to preserve itself, feed itself on any unwary dream, any stray soul that wanders into its maw.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1980 CE
SAND CLOGGED HIS TONGUE and rasped against his teeth. He couldn’t breathe. Panic flared. The sand reached into his throat and threatened to draw bile. Leto came to consciousness coughing and then bolted into a sitting position. He doubled over, forcing a startling amount of silt from his mouth. When his eyes stopped watering, he found he was sprawled on a wide shore. Silty gray sand stretched in either direction as far as he could see, salted with a scruff of reeds and dunes that sloped down to a flat, strangely still sea.
Not a sea, Leto thought as his eyes adjusted to the light. The water was a dusty mirror, still but streaked with brown and algae. He squinted across to just make out a skim of pale gray that indicated land on the other side. A river. A dead river.
To his right was a particularly starved patch of reeds, and it was from this that Claire rose with a squawk. “No warning about that impact. I will murder her. I don’t care if she’s my own book. I will—” She stopped, frowning as she picked tiny seeds out of her skirts. “Can I not stay clean for one hour?”
Leto grinned despite himself, but there was a groan behind him before he could respond.
Hero rolled up and with grim distaste retrieved his boot from a puddle. He shook it out and glanced toward Claire. “At least a nap seems to have returned someone’s sense of spirit.”
Claire was getting better at ignoring Hero, it seemed. She turned a critical eye on Leto. “Everyone all right?”
“I think so.” Leto rubbed the back of his head. The moment when he hit the invisible gate had been a queer jumble, rattling his senses around like pebbles in a can. His arm was still broken, protesting movement, but he could wiggle his fingers, and his aches were less painful in this realm. Bodies were distant things. “Where are we?”
“Very good question.” Claire stopped fuming over her dress long enough to survey the area. “Not a realm I’m familiar with. River, sand, reeds . . . an old pagan culture. Not Greek. Egyptian? Oh, please let it be Duat. We’ll have fast passage back to the Library with help from the librarians there. And they have an excellent poetry collection. . . .” Claire’s eyes lit up, and she began to mutter what sounded like a bibliography to herself as she inspected the waterline.
Behind them, a strange dark arch loomed across the interminable sand. It was as if a circle of obsidian had been buried there by a wayward giant. Leto approached and leaned closer to inspect it. A flicker of white in the black material made him jerk back. The interior of the arch wasn’t opaque, he realized. It was the darkness of the underground chamber they’d just left. The other side of the gate.
Leto ran a hand experimentally over it, but the surface was solid and unforgiving. The sound from the other side was muted, but he could still hear the howling of the Hounds. Nothing stirred in the dark frame, though. No light, no gleam of Beatrice’s aluminum bat.
Leto said lowly to Hero, “Beatrice?”
Hero winced and shook his head slowly. Leto’s stomach did a flip-flop. He cast a nervous glance back. Claire turned her head down. The curtain of her hair didn’t hide the injured curl of her shoulders.
“Dead?” Claire’s voice was hollow.
Hero hesitated. “I don’t know. The Hellhounds . . . should have stopped when you dragged us through.”
The distant sound of barking from the other side of the arch said they hadn’t gone back to Hell, at least. Claire stared sightlessly at the sand a moment, then nodded slowly to herself.
The pinch of concern on Hero’s face deepened. “There’s a chance that she . . .”
“Enough.” Claire cleared her throat and straightened to look toward the water. “Let’s figure out our way across, then, shall we?”
Claire wasn’t heartless. Leto knew that well enough by now. But as unflinchingly practical as she was to everyone else, she reserved the tightest reins for herself. Leto wondered if anyone else bothered to look closely enough to see the strain. He could see it now, the tic in her jaw, the way her shoulders trembled, just a flicker, before setting themselves hard against the world.
She’d been taking care of Leto all this time. Caring for him like a lost child. He ached to do something to ease the way for her. Something. Anything.
Hero exchanged a long look with Leto before following her down through the reeds. “Not to put a damper on the day at the beach, but what happens if we do manage to return to Hell? Andras already has the pages and a head start on . . . whatever.”
Leto remembered Andras’s words. “He wants the Library.”
Claire seemed unsurprised. She crossed her arms. “He wants more than that, I suspect. He wants the court.”
“The court?”
“Hell’s court of demons. Dukes, princes, the whole pit of vipers.” Claire made a face of distaste. “Andras was a duke of some influence, once. He was overthrown in a coup centuries ago. Infernal politics. I thought time had healed that insult, but I was wrong. I knew he was unusually interested in the codex. I thought it might lead to some pissing match over its curation. But I could deal with that easily enough when we got back. I never thought . . .” Claire kicked a reed, abusing it with the toe of her sneaker.
“But why the Library?” Hero asked.
Claire frowned down at the plant. “I’m not certain.”
“He said something about . . . ah, you know who,” Leto said.
“Lucifer’s our ruler, not a dark wizard, Leto. You can say his name,” Claire muttered. “He said he wanted to use the books as collateral, to buy his way back into power. But he has to assume that Lucifer will not tolerate that. Even if he has the codex, I can’t see—unless he knew something he wasn’t telling me—” Claire stopped with a growl in her throat. “Demons, angels . . . politics ruins everything.”
“Right. Sorry. I just . . .” Leto waited until Claire left her tormented reeds behind and met his gaze. “Andras had something—a soul gem, he called it. He said he could have used it but didn’t. If we stay away.”
It hung in the air a moment—the possibility of retreating. Leto saw that twitch again. That strain under pressure ignored. Claire shook her head and his chest ached. “The old man never did understand.”
“Leto
might have a point,” Hero spoke up. “He could already have won and have something unpleasant waiting.”
“He won’t have the books. Brevity is there, and the Library is not without its own humble defenses. I won’t risk the books—or Brev—to Andras’s plans. We’ll get back the pages.” She kicked a broken reed into the water. “Assuming we can leave.”
The reed barely cleared the surface when a froth of sound drew their attention. Claire leapt back from the bank as the water churned, turning from slate to muddy black. A knobby, elongated skull the size of a small island broke the surface. Green and silver veins mottled the skin, contrasting with the flat, black, bulbous eyes embedded at the top of a long snout. It reminded Leto vaguely of a crocodile, but he didn’t remember the creatures on Earth being so monstrous.
The creature regarded them, the only movement coming from the filthy water beading down its snout. Claire glanced at Hero and Leto before clearing her throat and stepping forward. She drew up her dignity, and it almost obscured her bedraggled hair and sand-caked legs. “Greetings. We are envoys from—”
BE JUDGED.
Leto nearly startled off his feet. It was not so much a voice that had spoken but an assault of concept. Something had ripped open his skull and shoved the essence of the words directly into his brain, jumbling all thoughts of his own. The words had no voice, no tenor, no personality. Just the power of age and a hunger that was never refused. They pulsed through his head for several breaths until finally easing into a thudding headache.
The shudder that whipped through Hero and Claire said they’d received the same treatment. Hero’s hand flew to his side, where his gun had returned to its form as a fine sword. Claire shot him an alarmed look and shook her head until his hand dropped away again.
Claire straightened into her librarian demeanor: shoulders back, spine straight, chin tilted so she could fix her gaze on whatever held her disdain. But she eyed the crocodile creature with new caution, and Leto caught her fingers making nervous little taps at her skirts as she tried again.
“You mistake me. We are not the dead seeking judgment. I am the head librarian of the Unwritten Wing in Hell’s Library. We happened here while on Hell’s business. Can I know what realm we’ve entered?”
BE REFUSED.
Claire flinched. “Then may I speak to your master?”
BE REFUSED.
“Then what god or pantheon rules this place?”
BE LOST.
“You have no god? Or no god currently?” Claire asked. Pain jabbed Leto’s head with each answer. It was becoming the worst game of twenty questions he’d experienced.
BE LOST.
“Your god is the god of loss or . . . oh.” Claire fell quiet. “Your gods died with their believers. I hadn’t thought a realm could remain after that.”
Leto considered. They’d seen Valhalla, and the only things he associated Norse gods with were superhero movies and those racist assholes on the internet. But Valhalla survived by evolving into something more in line with the legend than with the religion. It existed, if skewed slightly by the pop culture fantasies. If Valhalla thrived and these gods had died, then this had to be a place older and more forgotten than he could imagine.
He swallowed nervously, and the very air tasted different on his tongue. Different from Valhalla or Hell or anywhere previous. No smell, for one. Not the anise and ash of Hell, nor the pine and stone of Valhalla. It felt . . . empty.
It echoed across the empty space inside Leto, and he shivered. He’d felt better, inch by inch, since talking with Claire. The time in Mdina had been a human time, for all its horror. He’d felt the empty blackness shrink, but it wasn’t gone. Perhaps it never would be. It was one thing Claire couldn’t protect him from.
But maybe he could protect her.
Claire tried again. “We simply need passage to Hell. Or the closest realm to it. We can leave you in peace.”
BE JUDGED.
“We are not in need of judgment! Some of us aren’t even human.” Claire flung a hand in Hero’s direction, but the crocodile did not so much as blink. Though it quieted a moment before responding.
BE PASSED.
“Yes, passage. Finally.” Claire crossed her arms. “I assume there is some price for passage?”
Waves shuddered up the beach as the head suddenly moved. Reptilian skin flexed, and the head rose slightly as its great jaws opened, sending them all backing up a step. Leto flinched, expecting great rows of teeth or even the bloodred spikes that filled Walter’s mouth. But the contents of the creature’s mouth made him blink. Suspended between its jaws, held by no support that he could see, was an oversized metal structure. It was dark bronze and consisted of two platforms connected by a lever. A tiny puff of white sat on one platform. A feather. A bronze chain shifted slightly with the sway of the wind, producing a tinkle that sent a shiver over Leto’s skin.
“Are those scales . . . ?” Hero identified it under his breath.
Claire stiffened, staring at the construction as if she would have preferred a jaw full of teeth and snakes. When she glanced back at them, Leto saw that all warmth had drained from her brown face. She turned her head again and shook it hard enough to send the tiny braids in her hair flying.
“No,” Claire whispered. Then louder: “No. You have no authority to judge us. Our souls—”
BE JUDGED.
“No.” Claire’s voice couldn’t match the command of words in their heads, but the tremble in her shoulders said she was trying. Leto didn’t understand what was significant about the scales. They’d had to prove themselves in Valhalla, and Claire had been willing, if reluctant, to comply to gain entry, but this was different. It was a difference that unnerved Claire and sent a well of foreboding through him. There was no time to ask as Claire spun, heel digging into the sand. She scrambled back up the beach toward them.
“What—”
“Burn this place. We’re leaving.”
“And going where, exactly?” Hero asked.
“Back to Mdina. We’ll . . . get back inside the walls. Figure something else out.”
“Back to the Hellhounds’ teeth, you mean.” Hero’s voice was harsh.
“At least we have a chance with them. Better than— Piss and harpies.” The oath came out with the force of surprise. Claire jerked to a halt as they approached the black arch. It was no longer dark. The cavern they’d just left was lit by strange globes of light. The field of bones was now fully illuminated, like ghastly cobblestones. And at the center of the arch, just on the other side of the flat, dark surface, was the angel in a gray trench coat. Ramiel.
Claire, rather than concerned, was incensed. She accelerated, stalking up the sand, leaving Hero and Leto no choice but to follow. She got her nose up to the arch. Ramiel watched her expressionlessly, and Claire gave a mockery of a smile. “Trouble with the lock, angel?”
“Some.” Ramiel stepped to the side and motioned with his hand. “Perhaps you could come across and show me the trick of it.”
Claire cast a glance back at the waiting monster and the scales behind them before responding, “After which, I’m sure you would offer to hold off the Hounds and allow us to be on our way.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Librarian. Uriel . . . My superior acted in haste. But my duty is to ensure you do not interfere.”
“Do you always do your duty, Watcher?”
Ramiel gave no reaction. Claire turned away abruptly to confer with Hero and Leto a few paces away.
“He won’t be getting through. Beatrice had me to pull Hero through, so if I don’t miss my guess, you need a mortal soul to enter. But we need a way past him.”
“I could challenge him,” Hero suggested, but Claire shook her head.
“He’s a Watcher, one of the originals.” She raised her eyes to the crocodile scales again. “Our last hero may h
ave died getting us this far. I won’t have any more foolish sacrifices today.”
“What do the scales do?” Leto asked.
“They weigh the purity of a soul.” Claire’s face was grim. “This realm must have had influences from Egypt. Maybe a splinter cult, or even a predecessor. It’s not Duat—if it were, there’d be a bunch of other monster-headed creatures here ready to record judgment, and be much more sensible. There were rules about these things. But the symbolism is easy enough to assume. The feather represents goodness, purity of spirit. If your soul does not shift the scales, you can pass into their realm. If it’s heavier . . . the crocodile god will likely consume you.”
Leto frowned. “And you, what . . . die again?”
Claire shook her head. “I know this is a hard concept to wrap your head around, but there are worse states for your soul than death. It’s like the Hellhounds, or the words I told you I spoke to banish Librarian Gregor. I don’t know what the scales do, but it would be nothing good. A soul may not die, but cease to exist.”
“That’s not so bad,” Leto muttered before he realized he’d said it. He looked up to see Hero and Claire staring at him with matching alarm. “I mean, no! Not us, of course. I meant . . .” He stopped, not sure what he’d meant, but the terrible thought had come to him too fast to be one he hadn’t had before. An echo of a memory tugged at him, chalk white stars, exhaustion and despair. He’d made this choice before. Cold pooled in his stomach.
Claire scrutinized Leto before shaking her head. “It’s beside the point. I suspect the creature has no real interest in finding us worthy. Without a god to rule the realm or believers to nourish it, it likely hasn’t had a good meal in eons. It’s half-dead and starved. We are not going to be the ones to feed it. I’m going to go see if I can make the cursed angel see sense. Stay put, both of you.”
They nodded and watched the librarian stalk back to the arch. Hero clasped Leto’s shoulder and squeezed as he looked up and down the featureless beach. “We’ll figure something out, kid.”