The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,40
loan.”
“I know that much,” Rami said stiffly. Brows knit as he studied the sheet. Hero had taken the liberty of filling out most of the details. Title and catalog information for his own book, each detail triple-checked. Just two blank spaces remained. “Is this how you escaped the first time?”
“Sort of. It was easy, once I thought of it. Took a few months to convince a visitor to risk taking a slip back with him to Earth—suspicious lot, demons are—but, well, I’ll show you.” Hero shrugged and rifled for a pen. “Your signature goes at the bottom, of course, and—”
“Elysium?” Ramiel squinted at the sheet, then back up at Hero. “Why there?”
“Why not start with the Greeks?” Hero made a broad gesture. “I’ve had a lot of time to study the Librarian’s Log lately. A shake-up—the last big shake-up—happened under the tenure of a Greco-Roman librarian. Claire and Brevity are astonishingly tight-lipped about it. Seems as if she tried to start a bit of a war. If this rebel librarian was sent packing to the Library wing in Elysium, we can get some answers.”
Even Ramiel had to admit that the logic was sound. “But you’re stamped, part of the permanent collection. Doesn’t that mean you’re not lendable?”
“Not to patrons. Not anymore, a shame.” Hero made a face. It would have been so much easier if he was. “But the rules are less strict for esteemed colleagues of the Library. Like, say, an assistant curator of the Arcane Wing.”
Ramiel began to crumple the sheet. “So that’s why you need me.”
“Only partially! Though I admit your charming company is leaving something to be desired.” Hero stopped Ramiel’s hands with his own. “You want answers, don’t you?”
Whether it was the question or Hero’s hands on top of his knuckles, Ramiel stilled. A complicated look washed over his face, but before Hero could blink to read it, it was gone. Rami yanked his hands free and took the pen. “I want solutions, to help Claire. We go, we ask if anyone’s encountered such a thing as this ink before, and we get out. No games.”
“No games,” Hero repeated solemnly. Bless the sweet man, he almost seemed to believe him.
Almost. Rami shot him a reproachful look again and scribbled a signature on the bottom of the sheet. He allowed Hero to take it back along with the pen. “And now what?”
“Oh, now.” Hero flashed a smile that was nervy and peaked with a touch of fear. He was already feeling it, that slow, seeping feeling, like he’d more than gone pale. He patted the square spot where his book always rested tucked into his vest pocket, just to be sure. Gods, Hero hated this part. “You know the way to Elysium, right?”
“What?” Ramiel sputtered, and was too shocked to stop him as Hero reached out, sank his fingers into Ramiel’s dour, dusty overcoat, and came away with a fistful of gray feathers. His hand was so pale the feathers looked nearly black in comparison. His book, tucked inside his vest, felt like a hot ember pressing and burning a solid rectangle into his own chest.
“Never mind. Do your best.” Hero’s voice was faint, raspy as old paper even to his own ears. He clenched his eyes shut. This was his very least favorite part of cleverness. “I’ll leave a light on for you.”
The solid weight of the book turned cold. A heat raged through him, and his insides felt turned from solid to liquid to ash. Ramiel made a baritone squawk of protest, and Hero was swept away.
11
HERO
Hell is a place for forgetting. Kind enough, really, because anyone who lands here has plenty they’d be happy to not recall. But makes you wonder, donnit? Where those forgotten memories go when they’re gone from life and death? Maybe there’s a life of “after” for memory too.
Librarian Fleur Michel, 1771 CE
PARADISE WAS NOT GOING according to plan. Not at all. Hero had expected to appear in some elegant version of the Library he’d just left—artful marble pillars, airy, maybe some grapes and wine? Surely at least a comfortable spot and refreshments to wile away the time in comfort until the angel found his own way to Elysium. But no, instead, he’d come to in tall wheatgrasses, which had fought back as he clambered his way out to the field’s edge. Cockleburs clung to his jacket and were working their way into other places, and Hero was unimpressed with this realm’s entire concept of idyll.