not too far away, close enough for Hero to hear. “Last call,” the newcomer said quietly.
“Can’t we stay, Sraosha?” asked an old man wrapped in gold-embroidered finery.
The figure called Sraosha smiled, and when they shook their head, there was no malice in it. “Why would you want to stay? You’ve got family waiting for you across the bridge.”
“I do.” The man didn’t seem comforted and suddenly looked at his hands. “I hope I see them.”
Sraosha didn’t say anything to that but placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone crosses the bridge sometime. Your family is waiting.”
The man nodded and drained the last of his tea in one ponderous motion. His grip was white-knuckled, but after he finished, his courage seemed restored. He nodded to his companions and left at a march toward the door.
They left their cups behind. Sraosha swept their hand over the table, and in a moment it was refreshed with clean cups and a steaming pot of tea nestled next to a comforting candle.
Hero glanced to the side to see if Rami was observing all this. He was, frown pinned with a particular kind of concern. When Hero looked back, Sraosha had turned and spotted him.
They approached the table at a glide. “Last call,” they said quietly.
Up close, Sraosha struck Hero as likely fluid in gender presentation, but not in the slender androgynous fashion. Loose linens, a long braid of hair, but that wasn’t it. Wide shoulders, wide hips, and a stance of distinct ease. They had a solidness to their presence, an undeniable individuality that drew the eye. It struck Hero that most people were not so much themselves as this creature was. It was an intimidating authenticity, and Hero drew back just a little. “Oh, no, thank you.”
That appeared to amuse their host. Sraosha tilted their head, considering. “No, I suppose you missed your call before now.”
“Kind host,” Rami interrupted, raising a placating hand. “I’m afraid there is a misunderstanding. We’re not souls awaiting judgment. Hero and I are representatives of the Unwritten Wing of Hell’s Library.”
Even after all this time, Rami still had trouble with the H word. His brow always did a microscale twitch as he stumbled over the word. Hero usually delighted in drawing it out, even if there was no time to do so now.
“Yes, I am aware who you are, Ramiel of the Watchers.” Sraosha ignored their surprise by turning their attention. “And you, Hero of the Lost Book.”
Hero’s mood curdled. “I know precisely where my book is, thank you.”
“Oh?” Sraosha tilted their head. “Is that the when? My apologies. It is easy to lose track in the tearoom.”
Unease sifted up through Hero’s confusion, though he couldn’t place a finger on it. Thankfully, Rami knew when to step in. “If you know us, then you’ll know we are not meant for this realm. We arrived here by misstep, and we can be on our way if you simply indicate the way out.”
Sraosha tilted their head to the exit with a practiced gesture. “The exit is, of course, that way.” They paused, studying them both. “But the only way is the bridge.”
Hero suspected very much that he did not wish to avail himself of the bridge. Bridges in after-realms, in his experience, had a troubling way of leading to grief and bloodshed. Symbolism was a bitch. “I don’t suppose you have a gently sloping path.”
“The bridge is quite comfortable,” Sraosha said. They appeared to scrutinize Hero for a moment. “Human souls find on the bridge only what they take with them.”
“How lucky that I am not one,” Hero said. “Souls sound like rather pesky things.”
“There’s no other exit out of this realm?” Rami interrupted before Sraosha could say something irritatingly vague and profound again. “Surely there is.”
“On the far side, past the bridge,” Sraosha offered with a gentle lift of their hand. “Once you cross, the judges might be happy to grant you audience and passage to your realm.”
“Judges are not usually our most ardent allies,” Hero reminded Rami. The irritated look he threw reassured him that the angel was well aware of the trouble Hell’s Library dragged around with them like a tin can on a string.
“There’s no exit from this side? Not even for nonhumans such as us?” Rami pressed. Hero was again reminded of the nightmare that was the abandoned realm of crocodiles and labyrinths. They’d fallen through a gate that had remained open. Ramiel himself had been there, still struggling to fulfill his role as avenging angel