The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,55

on Earth. He was with a pair of companions, a demon and a spirit he couldn’t identify but who radiated curiosity and sticky fingers.

But it was the boy who seemed the oddest of the group. He was changed, now with the pointed ears, red eyes, and sharp pale cheekbones of a minor demon, not the harmless human he’d presented himself as before. It riled Rami—further proof that all souls in Hell were liars—but he made no move to confront them. Patience was also a virtue in Heaven.

Which is how he found himself in a publike room near the rear exit of the longhouse, virtuously enjoying a mug of dark ale. It appeared to be a keg room, one of many, considering Valhalla’s infinite supply. But in front of the old barrels a high table had been set up, with several stools to form a makeshift bar. The crowd was small, an eddy in the greater raucous sea of the main hall, but it appeared even Valhalla had introverts. It was a welcome pause from the chaos of the party.

In a strange way, he felt comfortable here. These mortal souls were strange with their hairy bodies and unfamiliar gods, but they were soldiers; Ramiel could understand soldiers. He had quickly gone to work plying them with just enough ale and cheerful aggression to justify conversation.

According to the others, the visitors from Hell had arrived shortly before the angels, and with no treaty recognized, they’d been immediately challenged to combat. They’d been forced to oblige, claiming they sought audience with the storyteller. That was good, because it meant they likely did not yet have what they’d come for. Rami didn’t have a clue how Valhalla was tied to that dangerous bit of paper, but it bought him time.

It was simple to survey the impression they’d made—most had been impressed with the champion’s courage and skill, if not necessarily his appearance. “Too smooth. He’ll freeze his chin off,” one soul with a particularly impressive red beard had grumbled.

Rami also discovered, to his surprise, that even more admiration had begun to coalesce around the librarian.

“Not a bonny lass, course. Someone should tell her t’ smile,” grunted a bald and tattooed man with an ax strapped shoulder to torso. “But she got good and bloodied. And put down Uther with a word, imagine! Handy trick, that.”

“Sommat a Freyja-touched in that one. Good thing the naked babe they called a champion had her to mind ’em,” another said, bringing about another rather telling round of speculation about the fighter’s looks.

“If you say so.” It was hard not to let judgment lace his voice. The librarian seemed just as arrogant and unrepentant as every other servant of Hell he’d encountered. He could not parse the idea of honor being attributed to anyone consigned to that realm.

“Puts a man in mind o’ what stories a teller like that could tell,” added the squat, walking beard on his other side. “Or what she could do with a proper weapon. Mark my words—lass like her’s got spirit. I’d love to get her in the ring.”

“Or in bed, eh, Holfad?” And both warriors devolved into an entirely inappropriate exchange about the relative bed-warming merits of both the librarian and her champion.

But that had been two ales ago. By now the small barroom had emptied out as the more sociable warriors flowed back to the halls and the less sociable ones went to sleep. Rami took the opportunity to process his drink and his night.

Their prey had obviously made too big an impression for Valhalla to look the other way when Heaven confronted them. He and Uriel were warriors, and therefore respected in Valhalla, but from the way the Norse storyteller had taken the librarian under his wing, it seemed Hell had friends in Valhalla as well. The trick would be catching them alone.

The reflection of his frown abruptly dissolved into ripples in his drink. A fresh mug careened against his, spilling a generous portion of the contents of both across his knuckles.

He jerked his head up. The curse on his lips died as his eyes landed on the woman at the other end of the bar. She had one arm bandaged, poorly, and her braided hair was in some disarray. But that coin-flip smile was just as unreadable as on the pier. The librarian had the look of someone caught perpetually midsecret.

She raised her own mug at him. “Sorry—I’m a poor shot. Bars weren’t places for a lady when I was