by A J Hackwith
Or you can choose to rebel.
Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE
RAMI WAS LEARNING MANY things today.
Hell had a pet gargoyle. Ravens fought like warriors. Books bled ink. And dead bodies stank, even in Hell.
The last lesson was the most pressing on his mind as he covered his nose with his sleeve, clearing a spot on the floor of debris before the gargoyle deposited the final body on the pile. The Library had become a graveyard.
The Horrors, when slain, decomposed at an accelerated rate and had turned putrid before the fighting was even over. The young ladies—Leto had referred to them as damsels before Brevity staunchly corrected that they were their own goddamn heroes now—were fading and so fragile, their forms were like spiderweb and ash where they’d fallen. Rami had made one attempt, just one, to right a dying damsel, but the body had folded into dust. Brevity had made a wounded sound, and Rami couldn’t even bring himself to wipe the ash from his face.
Arlid and her raven folk made little effort to help, of course. The warriors were more inclined to scour the stacks, finishing off with judicial glee any Horror they found, but Arlid delegated a young leather-clad boy to tend to the injured book they called Hero.
The boy had bandaged the unwritten man’s wounds as best as possible. Brevity directed him to prop Hero on the couch near the front desk. She gathered his mangled book where it lay, but that was as much as could be done until a librarian could repair the damage. Hero lay on the couch unmoving, fading in and out of awareness, though every time he woke, his face turned toward the entrance to the stacks.
Finally, against Rami’s advice, Brevity took a few of Arlid’s folk and plunged into the stacks after Claire. Fool girl. It wasn’t safe, but the muse was frantic to find the librarian. She’d only grown more so after a discomfiting breeze had whipped through the stacks before dying down again.
The minutes had ticked by, but neither raven nor librarians emerged.
“How much more?” Leto asked, hovering by the desk. The boy had kept out of the fighting, but helplessness drained his features. The boy looked tired, scanning the death and destruction at the front of the Library. Several of the Library’s tall shelves had been damaged in the fighting, upended as much by the gargoyle’s own maneuvering as by Andras’s forces. The stacks cracked and groaned, leaning against one another like broken old men. Books, paintings, and other unwritten artifacts were scattered on the floor. Rami hadn’t allowed Leto even to help with pickup.
“That’s the last of them,” Rami said. He stepped back as Arlid approached with a blue-flamed torch. The smell drew a wince as she placed it to the bodies, but the magical fire sputtered and burned cleanly, smoke neatly drifting out the hallway to mingle with Hell’s usual ash- and anise-heavy air. Damsel and demon alike were ascribed to the elements. Rami said a silent prayer. To whom, he found he wasn’t quite sure.
“Was it worth it?” Rami muttered.
Arlid heard and arched one thick brow. “Beats me, Watcher. My kind slaughter each other, everyone gets up for sunrise again the next morning. Ask your librarians.”
“If they return.” Rami cast a look toward the still shadows of the stacks.
“They better. The little one took some of the flock in with her.” Arlid made it sound as if she would take it as a personal offense if the search party failed.
The fire did quick work, burning blue and clean, never straying toward the shelves of tempting paper nearby. They were just watching the embers when there was a pop and a familiar teenage yelp of surprise behind him. Rami sighed and turned to remind Leto not to touch anything.
The air left his chest in a rush.
A shattered star stood just beneath the arch of the Library doors. Uriel, archangel of the Heavenly Host, Face of God, proud, holy, eternal, stood straight as a blade in the chaos of the Library. Her fractal wings were fully unfurled, and razor blades of light scissored and lashed gouges into the door molding. By her side, Leto stood stock-still.
Perhaps due to the angelic fist clenched around his throat.
“Uriel!” Rami’s legs decided to work again and he jolted forward. “What are you doing?”
“What you should have done, the moment you entered this unholy place.” Her voice was silk over frozen stone. Uriel didn’t have a weapon, didn’t need one. Her pale fingers curled around Leto’s neck like a collar. It was threat enough. The whites of Leto’s eyes were wide, and his cheek twitched from the effort to breathe around Uriel’s grip.
Her hand tightened as Rami advanced. He frowned in confusion at the archangel. “How did you—”
“I followed you. Your fallen path was not so hard to find once you made me aware of it.”
“That’s— The threat is over now.” Rami raised his hand. It was difficult to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Leto is an innocent human soul. He’s not even damned—he’s Heaven’s now. We saved him. That means—”
“That means nothing,” Uriel snarled. Her arm shook for good measure, drawing a stuttering yelp from Leto. The light at her back splintered and doubled, growing from wings into a lashing scorpion tail. She was losing control. “Not when a Watcher, one of Heaven’s first creations, dear to the Creator’s heart, would turn traitor and help these things.”
“No one here is a thing. They’re human, or harmless spirits, or . . .” He trailed off, not quite sure how to describe Arlid’s ravens or the gargoyle. He caught leather-clad movement at the edge of his vision. Arlid stepped up behind him, hand dancing over her weapon, calculating the space between them and the angel.
His heart ached, already drowned in too much bloodshed today. He had to stop this before it turned foolish. “I haven’t betrayed anyone, Uriel. And I can’t condone harm to a human soul by our hands.”
“You have no standing to judge me. A failed Watcher, the sad, pathetic beggar at Heaven’s Gates.” Uriel’s grip tightened, sending a flush of strangled blue frost to Leto’s cheeks. The teenager’s hands flew up and clawed weakly at her wrist. Rami didn’t realize he’d moved until the lightning crackled up and down the blade in his hands.
Uriel’s eyes ignited and leaked flame. “You would dare draw a blade against me?”
Rami opened his mouth before he realized he couldn’t deny it. But Uriel began to bleed pale wildfire, and panic leapt into his mouth instead. “Leto! Close your eyes!”
The room flared as Uriel shed her skin. Behind him, he heard a strangled cry and a flutter of raven wings. Only Rami could stand his ground as shards of light spit from the angel’s back like needles, and her face became a mask of fire. Leto was a dark, cringing blot against Uriel’s wrath, and Rami could only hope he’d followed orders. A human mind was not equipped to see the face of god.
When Uriel’s transformation completed, her voice was splintered crystal in his ears. “You dare?”
Rami swallowed, calling lightning to his blade, which he kept pointed low. “It seems I do. Let the boy go, Uriel.” Leto whimpered, and Rami was ashamed that he was uncertain whether he could really strike the Face of God.
He didn’t have to find out.
“Rule number twenty-three. No fighting in the Library.”
A voice, infinitely weary, rang out from the front of the stacks. Rami turned. Claire’s arm was looped over Brevity’s shoulder. The muse had her eyes screwed shut against the light, but Claire leaned heavily on her assistant. It took Rami an unbelieving moment to realize she stared directly into the blinding face of god with a dull, distant stare.
“The abomination.” Uriel’s mouth hissed flames. “You will suffer for your crimes.”
“Always threats with you people,” Claire said, unblinking and cold. “You need to leave, angel. The Library is closed and Hell will not claim you.”
“I am of the High Host of Heaven and you are all in judgment.” Uriel was unhinged, burning from within. One glowing hand
squeezed on Leto’s throat, pulling a wounded noise from the teenager. “I will crush your sinner beneath—”
“Kheladgis,” Claire said. Then words started to pour from her mouth. Dark, guttural things. They must have been words, but they took on a life of their own as they left her lips. They became black holes, sucking the air from Rami’s lungs. They became embers, searing ash into his eyes. They became silk, caressing his skin before slithering by like snakes on a hunt.
A shudder flinched through the room. Uriel had time only to curl her lips in a snarl. Her light fluttered from blinding to translucent, insubstantial. Like a flame suddenly deprived of air. Her scything wings melted into mist, and her hand dissolved from around Leto’s neck like dust cleared by the wind, leaving the boy staggering.
She was gone.
It took three ragged breaths of staring at the empty space before Rami’s mind could do something other than scream. He spun toward Claire, though he had the sense to lower his weapon as he did so. “You . . . Uriel. Did you just . . .”
“She was hurting Leto. There are certain words . . .” Claire trailed off. She leaned more heavily on Brevity and let her guide her to her desk. “She was not of Hell. I did warn her the Library was closed.”
“But she’s . . .”
“She’ll likely find her way back to Heaven again in a while. Give or take a decade.”
Unmade. Uriel, highest of the Host, the avatar Face of God, had been unmade by a librarian. Rami could feel the absence of her, a well in the universe that all of Heaven tilted toward. There would be aftershocks of this for decades, centuries even. For lack of any ability to process that, Rami focused on sheathing his sword. Claire leaned heavily on the desk, rubbing the space between her brows.
“You were able to look at her, yet you’re . . . ,” Rami said with wonder.
“Not mad? I wouldn’t go that far.” Claire’s smile was paper-thin. “It’s been a day for nonsense. I’m full up on madness and horror.” She took a breath and turned. “Are you all right, Leto?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” Leto sagged against the wall near the door and rubbed his neck. He was technically leaning on a shelf full of books, but Rami didn’t have the heart to force him to stand. His neck was still frostbitten, but slowly it warmed under his fingers. Claire’s eyes swept over the boy, a hundred unspoken words in her worried eyes. She said nothing.
Rami found himself glancing about the room, alone in Hell and uncertain of the weight of his conscience. An unmaking of an archangel shouldn’t even have been possible. Claire had just murdered one of the highest of the Host, his commander, in front of him. That would be a declaration of war for any angel, fallen or no.
He could draw his sword, right now, and smite all of them. He’d be in the right. They’d all be dead in the coming war between the realms, but he’d be right.
But somewhere in Ramiel’s long and winding existence, right had stopped feeling like the best place to be.
His gaze wandered until it came to Leto. The teenager smiled, tentative, encouraging, at Rami. The boy would never know why he’d ended up in Hell’s Library. A muscle in his jaw worked, and Rami took a slow, shuddering breath. He lowered his eyes to the scorch mark where Uriel had stood. His hand fell from his sword hilt.
“Do you need to go file a report or something?” Claire kept her question neutral, though the cant of her shoulders telegraphed that she was expecting a poor response.
Rami nodded stiffly. “Eventually. Heaven will need to know the archangel is . . . delayed.”
Claire blinked, and of all the impossibility of her acts, this was what surprised her. “Delayed.”
“It’s accurate,” Rami insisted.
“Delayed.” Claire nodded to herself and turned, as if surveying the damage for the first time. She sucked a sharp breath of air in through her teeth.
“We won.” Brevity had found her voice, though it sounded thin as spun sugar. She had a kind of hollow-eyed look when Rami considered her. Claire shrugged her arm free of her assistant.
“This,” the librarian said, with a particularly ruthless kind of self-loathing that Rami knew well, “this is not winning.”
Brevity didn’t appear to have a single denial for that, but she straightened. There was in her sharp features a resolve that Rami hadn’t noticed before. The kind left after a fire. “We’re here, aren’t we?”
Claire met that gaze for a long moment. Rami couldn’t claim he knew either woman well enough to know what was being transmitted without words, but he knew the look of survivors when survival was not expected.
“Right. To business.” Claire nodded, and Brevity began organizing the few remaining damsels into groups to gather the books that were yet salvageable from the battlefield around them.
Rami saw Claire’s eyes stray toward the couch where Hero lay, but she resolutely turned to face the raven captain instead. Arlid and her flock had finished greeting the ravens from the search party and held themselves near the door, obviously preparing to leave.
“Arlid,” Claire said levelly. “I see you were helpful as ever.”
“Glowy things, burning things, not our fight.” Arlid grasped Claire’s forearm in a grudging shake. “You freed our kin and asked for help fighting demons, not angels.”
“Just so. You did hold up your end there.”
“A good fight.” Arlid’s kohled eyes glittered with amusement. She nodded at the chaos. “Your place looks almost as bad as the storyteller’s now.”
A ghost of a smile hit Claire’s lips. “Just missing a few drunken Norsemen.”
“We could spare them.”
Claire glanced to the gathered raven folk. “Any losses?”
“Two. A hurt for the flock. But your saga women fared worse.”
“The damsels, yes.” Claire’s eyes slid to Brevity, and the muse looked down, eyes carefully turned away from the pyre. “They were characters, not warriors, but they defended their home.”
“They fought bravely. It was a good death.”
“Good deaths exist only in stories.” Claire’s voice was grim with loss, a sound Rami knew well. “In any case, thank you again. This wasn’t Valhalla’s fight.”
“It wasn’t. Consider yourself indebted, feather and bone,” Arlid said before her smile grew sharp. “But the chance to strike against the demon who had imprisoned and experimented on my flock for so long and abused the raven roads? Anytime, Librarian.”
They shook once again, and the ravens departed, maintaining their human forms until the sound of wings filled the hallway.
Claire sank down on a chair with a deflated sound. She stared at nothing for a moment before turning her look to Rami.
“You’ll be taking him again.”
The hurt in her words made it obvious she was speaking of Leto. Whatever had happened in the stacks—not to mention all that had led up to it—had drained her. The weight of it was recognizable to Rami, the discovery and immediate loss of family she hadn’t even known she’d had. Claire looked drawn, but she was waiting for an answer. Rami nodded. “I have to. He needs to enter Heaven before he risks corruption.”
Leto hovered near the couch, not seeming to know where to put himself without touching anything. He furrowed his brow at Rami. “I feel fine. Surely I can stay and help—”
“No.” Rami was firm on that point. “However, after Leto’s processed . . . I would like permission to return.”
Surprise startled the grief from Claire’s face momentarily. “Return?”
“To the Library. I should . . . I would like . . .” Rami was confounded by his own words. To like, to want anything. To seek anything beyond forgiveness was something he hadn’t been faced with in many, many years. It felt weightless, and terrifying. There had been a time when he’d still had the right to wings; he hadn’t always been earthbound. The memory came to him unbidden
, that breath in flight, when you’ve stepped off solid ground and your mind hasn’t quite made up whether you want to fly or follow your shadow to the ground. He abruptly wanted to cry, but he grunted instead. “I would like to return to . . . discuss. How I can help.”
Claire’s brows remained a few inches too high, but some humor gleamed in her dark eyes as she considered. “Return, and we’ll see what happens.
“Brevity,” she called over her shoulder as she drew herself up from the couch. “Come say your good-byes to Leto.”
“Don’t I get a say in this?” Leto sulked, his eyes on his feet as Brevity approached him. His cheeks were pink as he glanced at her teary face. “Ah, c’mon. It’s not like I’m dying . . . again.”
“That place better treat you good.” Brevity sniffed, and it was obvious it took great effort not to swing her arms around his neck in a hug. “If not, you just go ahead and damn yourself all over again.”
“That’s . . . that’s not how it works,” Rami muttered, mostly to remove the pained grimace from Claire’s face.
Leto just flushed. “You’re going to be a great librarian someday, Brev. The best.”
“You bet.” Brevity rubbed a tear off her cheek. “The Library will always have a place for you.”
“Only if he remembers how to brew a proper pot of tea.” Claire made a face as she hobbled over. Injury or not, her limp was more pronounced as her energy flagged.
“I’ll practice in Heaven,” Leto said. “You’ll tell Hero I said . . . bye?”
“I’ll improvise on that with a little more eloquence, but sure.”
Leto drifted for a hug, but caught himself when Rami shook his head. Leto let out a long sigh and rubbed his neck. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Still calling me ma’am.” Claire drew herself up, voice aloof and eyes wet. “I give up. Rami, get the kid out of here before I decide to keep him.”
“You heard the lady.” Rami squeezed Leto’s shoulder.
“I mean it. Thank you. I was . . . The Library saved—”