The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,73

and barring their path. He’d taken away their only route back, and Leto, their youngest companion, had sacrificed himself for it.

It seemed like the kind of thing Hero should hold a grudge about. He knew himself and was very aware of his deep capacity to hold grudges. It was his favorite pastime. But every time he tried to rip the scab off that memory, instead of anger he got something different. He remembered clutching Claire as they’d scrambled over the crocodile god’s back. He’d tossed one wary look behind them, expecting to see this malevolent angel that had been dogging them. Instead, shadowed in the doorway of the arch, he’d seen a worn man in a shabby coat, with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Hero knew what it looked like to be lost and far from home.

Neither Hero nor Rami could go home again. It’d been hard to fault him for trying.

Sraosha shook their head. “This tearoom is simply a resting place for unjudged souls. Some dead refuse to cross the bridge without a loved one; others simply need to accept their death and summon up the courage to cross.” They paused, a thoughtful look coming upon their confident features. “Strange that you should fall here.”

“We had help.” Rami flicked a glare toward the ceiling, as if he could have struck Probity from here.

“Nonetheless, there’s nothing for ones such as you to gain by waiting here.” Before they could protest, Sraosha straightened their shoulders, pulling up authority like a cloak. “Last call.”

A faint hiss brought Hero’s attention down to where steam was sizzling out of the teapot. When he inspected his own cup, it was dry as a bone. “You’re kicking us out? Bad form!”

“I am encouraging you to move forward.” Sraosha began their ritual of wiping the booth table.

“What happens on the bridge, Sraosha?” Rami asked, intent as a hunting dog. “How can we pass it?”

Sraosha pursed their lips. “I suppose most souls arriving here would already know that much, so I may explain. One is guided through Chinvat to pass beneath the judgment of Divine Mithra and Rashnu.”

“Chinvat?” Rami stared. “This realm is a realm of Zoraster?”

Sraosha tilted their head. “It is a realm for those who know that truth, yes.”

“What judgmental nonsense is it this time?” Hero lifted his shoulders when Rami frowned at him. “What? I’m an atheist.”

“Atheist?” Rami was aghast. “You literally live in Hell. You have met literal gods.”

Hero sniffed. “Yes, and I didn’t find myself that impressed.”

The way disbelief lit Rami’s gray eyes was simply delightful. “You weren’t impressed—”

“Honored guests,” Sraosha cut in, before Hero could bait a further reaction. “This was your last call. If you are so curious about the Chinvat, perhaps you can see it for yourself and continue your debate. Outside.”

Their host’s tone brooked no argument. Rami threw Hero one last exasperated look before standing and nodding to the door. “One last question. This realm’s judgment, what is it based on?”

One of Sraosha’s brows inched up, as if Rami had asked if the sky was blue. “The primary virtues, of course. Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.”

“Oh hell,” Hero muttered under his breath. It was like the entire afterlife was built to menace him for the simple happenstance of being his story’s villain. It really grew old.

“Thank you,” Rami said without sounding as if he really meant it. Sraosha herded them between the low tables effortlessly. Hero noted that new souls had appeared during their conversation, looking around with disorientation before nervously taking a cup of tea in hand.

They pushed through the heavy doors of the tearoom, and Hero began to wish he hadn’t gulped his so quickly.

The sky was a forbidding and violent oil painting. Dark carmine reds swirled and roiled against indigo, lashed with occasional blooms of orange. It felt too thick and vibrant to be air. The clouds churned like undertow, threatening to pull them up into it. Navigating the roil like agile fish were figures on winged mounts. At least he assumed they were mounts; Hero saw them only by their silhouettes, inkblots against the oil sheen of the sky.

“We should be cautious. Stay close,” Rami said, drawing Hero’s attention back to the earth. The tearoom had emptied them out onto a simple paved square. It was the kind of open area you’d find in a historic village, pavers too uneven and chalky to be modern. It was also clogged with people. Young and old milled around the square, mostly single but sometimes in