The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,52
rubbed a sore arm before glancing at her. “I heard about what happened, of course.”
The fire twitched behind the grate. Claire found her breath tripped up in her throat before she could let it out again. “There were a hundred tales about my ignominious rise to librarian, Bjorn. You’ll need to be more specific.”
“The rumor that goes against the tale. The one that says Gregor didn’t retire to his greater reward. The rumor that says he was attacked. Attacked by something with the power to unmake a human soul. Your mentor disappeared under . . . unusual circumstances, we shall say.” Bjorn said it calmly, as if recounting last night’s dinner. “And the attacker was never found, of course, so the retirement line was the one that took. Left you to take on the mantle far too soon, by most folk’s estimates.”
“That is one of the more fanciful ones. Did you hear the one where I sold my soul for the promotion, danced naked with Cerberus? Never mind how I would sell my soul when I was already in Hell, but . . .” Claire trailed off as Bjorn failed to take the joke. She rolled her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Gregor . . . He was more than a mentor. He was my friend and I would have never wished him harm.”
It was true enough, Claire thought carefully, in a certain kind of light.
Bjorn was quiet for a moment, as if testing the edges of that statement. Then he turned with a grunt. “Ah! Where’s my mind? They’ll already be at the feast. Hero too, if the healers have done their work.”
“Feast . . .” Claire’s voice was flat. “Bjorn, I can’t tolerate another delaying tactic—”
“A feast for our angelic guests.”
“Angels?” Claire’s eyes widened in alarm. “Here? But how—”
“They arrived shortly after you. Because of what they are, the hall already recognizes them as warriors. They were welcomed in, think they even caught the last of the fight.” Bjorn hooded his eyes as Claire began to pace. “I suppose you know why they’re here.”
Claire twisted her hands, wincing as doing so pulled on her bandage. “You said there was more than one?”
“Two. One formidable lass all in white and a man in gray who frowns too much.” Bjorn paused. “I don’t hold with that lot, but they seemed a capable pair.”
“Capable and problematic. We’ll need to leave right away,” Claire muttered. “You know why they’re here?”
“Let’s see. Hell’s librarian and two hunter angels visiting a simple storyteller on the same day, muttering disaster and all hackles up about something.” Bjorn snorted. “Even a dumb old Viking has to get the idea.”
Bjorn held up a hand as Claire opened her mouth. “Easy, lass. I am loyal to the Library, but listen. Even if I answered your questions now, worst thing you could do is go tearing out of here with the angels watching the gate. They’d be on you faster than a raven flies. Feast. Rest a while. I’ll give you your answers, and you may slip out in the morning when half the realm is still sleeping off the drink.”
Claire’s mouth shut slowly. “Do angels even drink?”
Bjorn chuckled and took her by the arm. “All warriors drink in Valhalla. Come! I’ll prove it.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
ALL WARRIORS DID, INDEED, drink in Valhalla. The arena had been invaded, lined with additional long tables and benches to accommodate the revelers, who were several drinks in already. Claire could barely move through the crowd without having to dodge sundry blades and axes strapped to backs. Valhalla’s citizens did not believe in leaving their weapons at the door, even for a party.
In truth, Claire found it maddening, the chaos, the cheer, the swells of mood and passion that roiled over the pressed bodies like a wave. She’d never cared for crowds. Crowds were messy; crowds were not predictable and not reliable. After she’d spent thirty-plus years in the quiet of the Library, dealing only with the trickle of Hell’s patrons and recalcitrant books, Claire found the chuff and churn of Valhalla’s festivities incomprehensible. It made her head hurt and her joints ache. Mercifully, Bjorn guided her to the table her companions had staked out, before he drifted away, muttering about proper drink and song.
“Oh, try the little blue ones!” Brevity had been busy in her absence. A stack of small pastries and dainty twists of meat, far more ornate than Claire would have guessed the Vikings capable of, was set out