The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,12
to allow.
“Uriel.” Rami nudged the old man to sit in an armchair of dwarf stars, cold and lumpy, but stable. “There’s an abnormality—”
“You’ve served well, so far,” Uriel continued. “I’m glad you’ve found your place, my friend.”
Rami’s jaw clenched. “I don’t recall our last parting as exactly friendly.”
Uriel dismissed it. “Foolish failure, but one that I’m pleased to see you’re moving past.”
Rami’s cheek twitched. The Watchers, sympathizing too deeply with the fragile mortals in their care, had granted humans forbidden knowledge. The cost had been exile with Lucifer’s minions, though the Watchers had not rebelled themselves. Heaven called it justice.
But Rami remembered the impoverished years of war and anarchy among the fallen Watchers, seeing the oldest witnesses to the universe feud and scrabble for survival, soaking men’s dreams with enough blood of Heaven to drive them mad. Rami had stayed sane only by walking away.
Being a fallen angel meant he belonged nowhere, but being a Watcher meant he had access everywhere. Somehow, he’d found himself back at the Gates, looking at the one place he no longer could go. It was after an eon of walking that Ramiel realized the only thing he wanted was to be able to call a place home.
It’d taken him another century before the archangels had deigned to notice. Another before he was given a chance. Serve Purgatory, faithfully process the mortal souls entering Heaven, and the unspoken offer had been maybe—just maybe—one day he’d pass the Gates himself.
So he had. So he did. All rather uneventfully, until today.
“What have you got there, little man?” Uriel snapped Rami out of his thoughts as she approached Avery. The soul had relaxed even in the surreal surroundings, no longer hunching over his curious scrap of paper.
Avery looked up at the angel. “A barter.”
“And what do you hope to barter for?”
“Forgiveness.”
“Well, now.” A sharp gleam set over Uriel’s eyes. “That’s a big trade.”
It really wasn’t—every soul in Heaven was forgiven. The judgment had always been for show; the only one who damned you to Hell was yourself. But Rami saw Uriel’s tactical mind turning that for information. “What would be worth such a trade?”
“Just a piece of paper. From something I heard was valuable.” There was a sharpness, an awareness, in the soul’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. As if the prospect of negotiation had woken him up. “The Devil’s Bible.”
The same change came over Uriel’s gaze that had transformed the guard as well. “Ramiel, I’ll need a moment with the human soul.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS,” Ramiel said.
“I am always serious.”
“But I’m not even an angel. Not anymore. I’m—”
“Thunder of God. Shepherd for the lost.” Uriel marched her hand over the desk as she spoke, and stars eddied around her fingertips. The office was empty, Avery divested of his treasure and sent Heaven knew where. “Well suited to chasing after a powerful artifact. Or you were once.”
“Not anymore. I can’t . . . I’m not. I am in exile, at best.” Rami begrudged even having to say it aloud. It was a barbed twist in his chest. “I can’t even enter Heaven, let alone complete its work.”
He refused to meet Uriel’s eyes. Until her next words snapped his head up.
“Bring the pages of the book back, and that can be changed.”
Rami stared. No angel or Watcher that had followed Lucifer had ever, ever been forgiven. Heaven did not forgive. It wasn’t its nature—not when it came to angels.
He didn’t want to ask, but the words were out of his mouth. “What kind of paper would be worth that kind of offer?”
Uriel stilled behind the desk, but she met Rami’s gaze steadily. “It could be nothing more than a remnant. Something left over from the time of Enoch that the Betrayer’s people missed.” There had been a time of miracles, when the divine had still held an active interest in . . . anything really. That had been a long, long time ago. “But—that paper whispers power, Rami. The mortal named it the devil’s. The stories on Earth were thought to be . . . Well, whatever it is, it will be something our Creator would have a vested interest in.”
“You’ve . . . spoken to the Creator about this?”
“No. You know that . . .” Uriel caught herself, clenching her hand around the pommel of the blade at her side. “Or perhaps you don’t. The Creator has grown . . . distant during the past age. Even to those in the holy presence.”