stood before the massive gates of Heaven’s inbound processing. The Gates, as they were called, stood as representation of Ramiel’s own personal angelic duty. And torment.
Rami pinched the thick nub of his stylus between his even thicker fingers and leveled his gaze at the man over the edge of the desk. He did not look at the line of souls stacked beyond him, a shimmering line of heads in every shape and color that twisted as far as he could see into the light.
He did not do a silent calculation of the amount of time the souls would take to process.
Did not feel a cramp in his calloused hands, joints much more accustomed to holding something colder and harder than a stylus.
Did not consider how many ledgers he had yet to fill with notes for judgment.
Instead, the angel took a slow breath and tried again. “Do you have anything to declare, sir? Secrets taken to the grave, yearnings never realized, visions, prophecies, perhaps?”
Rami did not anticipate much of an answer. Souls carried the baggage of their lives under their skin. Undeclared, unacknowledged, and therefore none of his concern. The rare soul ended up in front of him with some deathbed vision or prophecy. In which case, Rami dutifully recorded it for the judgment.
“No, nothing like that. I am an accoun—wait, was. Was an accountant.” The soul tapped gnarled knuckles together. Rami began marking the log when the voice interrupted him on the downstroke.
“Actually . . . does this count?”
Rami glanced up. The soul had fished a small scrap of parchment out of his suit pocket.
Paper. Real paper.
Not secrets, not dreams. Not soul-type stuff, conjured by a dying soul. Physical, linen-and-wood-pulp and human-ingenuity-type paper.
At the Heavenly Gates, the entrance to a world of souls, that was most definitely worth declaring. Rami frowned and leaned over the desk. “What . . . That’s not— How did you get that up here?”
“I’m not quite—” The skin around the old man’s eyes knit together like rumpled tissue as he searched around for an answer. “Wait, ah, yes. Black magic.”
Rami stared. “Black magic.”
“Yes, quite. Enochian, if I recall. Bit of a fuss it was.”
Figures it would be Enoch, Rami thought. It was always that bastard. “Right. Black magic. To bring scratch paper to your Heavenly reward.”
Rami reluctantly shoved away from the bench and came around. Broad but not tall, he was forced to shoulder aside some blank-eyed souls in line. Each shuffled to one side without complaint, but the contact still left a residual feeling, the psychic smudge of the dead, that made Rami rub his palms down the front of his gray tunic before facing the old man. “Well, Mr. Avery, was it? Just give it here, and let’s see—”
The moment Rami’s fingers came in proximity of the folded scrap, he heard a loud snap. He jerked back his hand with a grunt. A flare of light slowly dimmed around the paper. For a moment, ink on the inside page had glowed sickly green. It left behind the faint smell of ozone and anise.
It was the smell that alarmed Rami. Nothing at the Gates smelled. Nothing at the Gates had the physical property to smell, per se. An important and convenient fact when dealing with the recently deceased.
The old man smiled. “Well, look at that.”
“I most definitely am now.” The hairs on the back of Rami’s neck crept up as he considered the innocuous-looking scrap. “I need you to come with me, Mr. Avery.”
“Oh, did I pass?” The old man was delighted.
“You did. I just need you to hold that—not too close!” Rami veered away as Avery swung toward him with the paper. He opted to steer the lost soul by the shoulder.
“This way. And the rest of you . . . ah, well.” He spared one glance for the mass of souls behind him before shoving the old man up toward the Gates.
Mr. Avery was happy enough to be led. For an accountant and an evident practitioner of the black arts, he was an agreeable sort. Rami brought him up short a couple of paces away from a tall figure encased entirely in silver. He took a deep breath and brought his knuckles up to rap on the armor.
An ornate visor pivoted up. A perfectly formed face carried a perfectly expressed sneer. “What do you want, clerk?”
The angel’s youth made Rami’s bones ache. They seemed to staff the Gates with only the newer caste, just to irritate him. “It’s Ramiel, you know.”
“I do.