The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,80

glare to the thinnest of squints between closed eyes. “Do I get a say in this?” he croaked.

“No.” Claire finished trimming the stitches and flicked his big toe gently. “You should really learn not to eavesdrop on private conversations.”

Hero grunted and groggily rubbed at his temple. “You should learn not to conduct private conversations over my unconscious body.”

“You should learn to stop swooning like a silly—”

“You should both learn to stop taking such self-sacrificing risks!” Rami threw up his hands, looking between Claire and Hero as if they were some horrifying new form of torture Hell had devised just for him. His gaze flicked between Claire’s gloved hand and Hero’s foot before he appeared to settle his ire on Hero. “You don’t anger another realm’s gods while you are in the realm!”

“I learned it from watching her,” Hero mumbled.

Claire sniffed. “Oh no, you did this one yourself.”

“He jumped with me,” Hero insisted.

“I fell with you, fool. You didn’t even know where you would be sent! You had no way of knowing whether falling in that abyss would send you to our Hell or that realm’s equivalent.”

“I smelled anise! It was a reasonable wager!”

“Wager! Don’t take that kind of risk on a smell—”

“Gentlemen!” Claire had to clap her hands to get their attention. She got twin abashed looks in response, one light and narrow, one dark and broad. They really were going to be the death of her. Claire shook her head and began returning her instruments to her drawers. “You are going to have to continue this . . . whatever this is . . . elsewhere. Hero’s obviously recovered enough to be a petulant child, so, Rami: please help Hero up to the Unwritten Wing so he can inform Brevity of his poor choices and the sorry state of things.”

“I don’t need help,” Hero said as Rami stooped and gently heaved an arm over his shoulder. His color appeared to peak in his cheeks as Rami hoisted him up to as polite a bridal carry as possible. “I don’t need to be carried! This is an insult.”

“And I don’t need you splitting that paper cut open before it heals and getting ink all over the halls. We’ve had enough spilled-ink problems as of late.”

“Paper cut? Are you mocking a man wounded in the line of duty, warden?”

“Always.” Claire made a dismissive wave with her good hand. “You heal like a hero, at least. I don’t want to see you down here again until you’ve earned Brevity’s forgiveness.”

Hero threw her a dark look, still a bit pink in the cheeks as Rami carried him out.

22

HERO

The best of humanity can be found in Hell. I’ll fight any theologian on this fact. Hell is a place you sentence yourself to, which by necessity requires a solid bit of self-reflection. Or, at the very least, a death’s-bed awareness. Mortality has a way of forcing one to be honest with oneself; none of the frivolous barricades we erect in life withstand it. You find the failures here, but you also find the strivers, the yearners, the eyes open enough to see the distance between where they are and where they could have been. Hell is a place for the dreamers that have woken up, and the books still asleep.

In both ways, Hell is a place ripe for stories.

Librarian Gregor Henry, 1933 CE

THE CEILINGS OF HELL were an underappreciated bit of architecture. All the shadows and mismatched beams—wood, stone, was that an arch of bone there?—blurred into a smear beyond Ramiel’s chin. Which Hero had a very good view of. Because he was being carried. Like a child.

“She is being vindictive,” Hero pronounced, and plucked irritably at one of the feathers that cushioned his cheek.

Rami’s steps didn’t slow, even when he jostled his elbow up to shift Hero away from his chest. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Don’t get cute with me,” Hero muttered without heat.

“Then stop with the feathers. That tickles.”

“Tickles? Angels are ticklish?” Hero took any opportunity to be delighted, especially since it distracted from the hot throb in his twisted ankle. “Who would have guessed? Wait until I tell the demons.”

Rami slanted him a look, which from this angle was heavy with long-suffering tolerance. “As I’ve told you before, I’m technically a Watcher.”

“Angel, old-as-dirt proto-angel . . . I fail to see the distinction.” Hero startled as Rami stopped abruptly and was forced to clench a hand in his trench coat for balance. “Except possibly a proper angel wouldn’t be flinging me about—what’s that