The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,113

wavered. In his mind’s eye the Gates opened for him, the first time in millennia. It’d been so long he could barely imagine what lay behind them, but he could feel it. He could taste it, gold and warmth, peace and absolution. He would be allowed to go home.

But even in his imagination, his step paused at the threshold.

Rami sought for some footing, some words to say. He was being dismissed. And he discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that success left him hollow. He frowned down at the carpet. He didn’t care for Hell. The whole realm could fall into the abyss for all he cared, the Library with it, though a twinge in his chest said that wasn’t entirely true.

The Gates in his mind whined on their hinges.

Uriel’s vengeance would lead to war. Her zeal would lead to fire and scorched earth. But realms would always war against realms, and Rami wasn’t made to care for realms. He was made, from the core of his being, to care for souls.

The Gates shut in his mind. And then the words were out. “Their ally they left behind. I want to try to secure him and bring him back here as an asset.”

His skin was cold, hollowed out with the first chill of his decision. His nerves pricked, but Rami looked down at his hands and found they were steady and clenched into fists. Uriel looked up with a mild frown, as if she’d already mentally dismissed him and was annoyed her office was still occupied.

“Value being . . . ?”

“Information. He was working closely with the librarian. Might be able to tell us what to expect.” Rami saw the skepticism in Uriel’s eyes. He felt a stab of reluctance but added, “He also could grant us access—he was one of Hell’s, and he may be able to get us in or draw their forces out.”

That did it. He saw the shift as Uriel’s gaze thawed from skeptical to calculating. She considered Rami for a long moment. “This is a tactical mission?”

“Yes, sir,” Rami lied.

“Fine.” Uriel waved vaguely at the door as she turned back to her maps. “The guards outside can procure your old equipment for you. See that this lead bears fruit for Heaven, Ramiel.”

For the first time in ages, Ramiel left to rescue a soul.

34

CLAIRE

At some point you just get tired. Is it possible for a soul to get tired? It has to be. I was young when I came here, and my skin never ages, but I feel the creaks inside. The poorly settled joins where time whistles through my thoughts like a sieve.

It’s not a sad feeling. I know what I’m about. I know what’s important. I know the weight and feel of my life in my own hands. I’m a rock, ready for the sling. I’m tinder, ready to ignite.

They’ll send me an apprentice one of these days; I’m sure of it. I can’t drag another soul into my fight. If I’m going to act, it has to be soon.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 49 BCE

STORIES SAID GRIEF WAS heavy. Stories lied. If grief had a weight, had a mass, Claire could have ground the crocodile god’s bones into the bottom of the river. She could have sunk her heel into the knobs of chill scale and felt a god break beneath her toes for what it had done.

But grief did not have a weight. Or if it did, it was counteracted by another force. Rage. Rage had an upward lift, was a superheated force that crawled up her throat and wanted to do all the things Claire couldn’t. Punish the crocodile. Punish this realm. Punish Ramiel. Punish Hero. Punish herself.

She’d felt it, when the scales had tipped. The crocodile’s jaws had closed, and her screams had hitched as she had felt it. She shouldn’t have. This was not her realm, not where her soul was tethered, but she had felt it like a tear in her lungs.

Had she heard a scream? Had she heard a tear of flesh? Or had she just heard the staccato sigh of a soul unraveling, winking from the universe? She couldn’t tell. Her mind was a muddle, and the only thing she knew was that Leto, the one being she’d encountered in thirty years she thought she could actually save, was gone. For her.

Claire did not fancy herself an optimist. She had been in Hell too long for that. She saw things clearly. But somewhere along the way, what she’d