4
HERO
Malphas tried to warn me off this foolish quest, in her way. Don’t tell anyone, old book, but I think she’s always had a fascination with, if not a fondness for, the Library. Or maybe just with souls—she doesn’t know the secret, that they’re one and the same. If she did, I wouldn’t have lasted even this long.
She’ll come for me, but she won’t dare destroy the books. She won’t dare to touch the Librarian’s Log; even she doesn’t have that much power. So listen close, Book. This is not mere indulgence; this is strategy. Hide these words from the others if you must, but listen to that which I failed to learn.
To win a war against Hell, you have to know what you are willing to lose.
Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE
Hell is a natural bureaucracy—that would figure. But don’t underestimate the threat process and paperwork can present. Good men have been felled by less. The demons have been at this game far longer than you or I, apprentice. If you walk into Hell’s courts, tread very lightly indeed.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1988 CE
Hell only ever operated on a now time frame. The time in the afterlife was always either now or never, whichever was most painful. Hero didn’t know why he’d hoped for otherwise. Claire was already conferring with Brevity, concocting some kind of plan that would surely lead them to skimming along the edge of chaos. “. . . they’ll want to see both of us, at a minimum.”
“I’m going,” Hero said. It was a fact. He was. He lifted his chin and dared Claire to deny it. Not so long ago, she would have denied the sky was blue if it fit her preferences.
Miraculously, a resigned look flickered across her face instead. Claire screwed up her nose and frowned at him for a long moment before nodding. “Fine, then, we’ll all go together.”
Together. A sliver of his unease settled at the word. He was an exceptionally skilled man—humble, too—but as capable as they all were, the story seemed to go right only when they were together. It made a fierce, protective streak bloom in his chest, as strong as any ambition he’d ever had. Together; all of this would be all right if he could just keep them together, the story in arm’s reach.
It felt like the kind of irritating, honorable rot that Rami excelled in. Hero cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see their angel pleased at the pronouncement. Instead, Rami’s eyes were trained straight ahead as if facing a firing squad. Hero hadn’t thought it possible for color to leach out of the angel’s craggy stern face, but Rami’s warm olive cheeks were pale and gray as his trench coat. Tension sang across his cheek.
“However,” Claire said slowly. She was studying Rami too. She threw a significant glance Hero’s way. He was ashamed at how long it took him to put it together—Ramiel had been cast out of Heaven. Even though he had not joined with Lucifer, he had also fallen. The Watcher took pains to differentiate himself from the demons, but he had been colleagues with infernal creatures like Malphas. He’d strived to regain his place in Heaven, only to end up here, once again. Even angels could falter when faced with past mistakes and old betrayals. Claire cleared her throat. “It would be irresponsible to leave the books unguarded, wouldn’t it, Librarian?”
Brevity had been preoccupied with her preparations but read the emotional charge of the room in a single glance. She slapped the Librarian’s Log shut. “Right. Good point. Rami, could I ask you to stay? I know the damsels trust you.”
If it was difficult to be a villain among these heroic misfits, it had to be even harder to be an angelic being in Hell. Ramiel shook his head as if waking himself. “I— Of course I can, but, ma’am, you shouldn’t go into the vipers’ den unprepared—”
“I’m quite capable of handling a few bureaucratic demons myself,” Claire reminded him. She made sure that fact was given time to be understood and acknowledged before relenting. “In any case, Brevity and Hero will be there.”
Hero knocked his shoulder into Rami’s before he could work up a proper bluster. “I can follow orders as well as you.” That was a bald-faced lie, which he softened when he lowered his voice. Their cheeks touched. “You don’t have to face them. Not today. Let me do this.”
No one was as skilled at damning himself as well as a Heavenly being. As close as they were, Hero could feel the telegraph of relief and agonizing doubt flicker across Rami’s face before his shoulders sagged. “Be careful. These demons—”
“You’re not the only one with relevant experience,” Claire said gently. She straightened as Brevity came around the desk to join her. “Besides, Hero’s sword may not set things on fire, but he’s capable enough with it.”
“Such praise! Listen, if we’re going to start comparing my sword to Rami’s, it’s only fair—”
“Hero.” He was rewarded with the way Claire’s voice was the perfect frisson of reproach and scandal. Hero grinned despite himself as they departed for a meeting with Hell.
The way to Hell’s inner court wasn’t nearly as long as Hero had thought it would be. Claire and Brevity both appeared familiar with the route, down a flight of stairs, across a burnt-out cathedral that opened into a field of swords, and up another flight. They came to a stop at a door in an empty courtyard just as unremarkable as its kin.
“This is Hell’s court of demons?” Hero had thought demons had higher standards than the rotting moss that dotted the cobblestones at their feet.
“Everywhere has the potential to be a part of Hell.” Claire hesitated at the door, frowning at the distressingly modern brass knob. Hadn’t it been oak and knockers a moment before? Hero mistrusted changing architecture. Which is why he listened when Claire began speaking low and urgent.
“Hell’s court is a traveling one. It never convenes in the same place. Any place that has seen the worst that humanity has to offer can host Hell’s court. They simply snip a pocket of time from it—the moment an orphanage burned, war was waged, or a boardroom voted some people not worth saving. They have a demon in their employ that can snip that moment out of the world and use it for their own for a time. I don’t know what Malphas will have chosen for this affair, but I suspect she will choose something upsetting. It may be useless to say it, but I need you to be on your best behavior in there. Brevity—I know you’ve been to court before, but that was a social call. This will be different. You’re librarian now. They will test you.”
“I’m ready,” Brevity said, with only a minor pallor to her cheeks. Hero could nearly see her counting her breaths in her head, four in, four out. Practiced and in control. Hero admired that in the little muse.
“Then, let’s go.” Claire took a steeling breath for herself and opened the door.
A familiar, musky scent assaulted Hero’s nose the moment he crossed the threshold. His childhood had been one of rural poverty, so his first thought had been barn. An ill-kept barn at that. The smell of nervous animal was familiar: urine and sweat and the vague tang of exhaustion. But it lacked any of the fresh smells of the barn. No must from old feed, no sharp cut of green hay in the mow. It was the smell of beastly treatment, lives made sour.
The ground beneath his toes was gritty concrete, however. And the lights overhead were modern and apathetic, buzzing with a canned kind of light that didn’t reach the far walls. No windows broke the gloom, and the concrete walls only radiated a chill into the air. There were no animals to be seen, but metal chain-link fencing rose in the center of the room, dividing the large space into square pens.
Concrete would be terrible for living creatures, Hero’s distant childhood reminded him analytically. Too cold, hard on the feet. Perhaps the vague shadows he could just make out on the floor were intended to be padding. When he approached the pens, the smell of urine increased. Security cameras lurched like vultures at the top of the fencing. “What is this place, a cattle pen? This is some spot of great evil?” Hero used his best sneer and made sure his voice carried.
“Yes, it is.” Claire’s voice was subdued. Hero followed the line of her gaze through the chain link. There were indeed some kind of cheap foam pads scattered amid piles of tissue-thin silver fabric that reflected and scattered the cold light in fractured shadows. Nestled forgotten under the nearest pile was one small sandal.
Child-sized.
A squelched noise escaped Brevity. She stepped back, edging closer to Claire. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know,” Claire said quietly. “It’s too modern to be anything from the Great War.”
“ ‘The War,’ as if there’s ever just one.” An old soft voice, gently creased with malice, reached them from the other side of the cages. Malphas stepped out of the gloom. The general of Hell’s forces was deceptively matronly. Gray-haired and wide-hipped in rust red leather, but the crow’s-feet at her eyes bracketed a sharp, cutting gaze. “But you’ve been dead awhile, Claire. I suppose this was after your time, and you’ve been too busy with your books. Pity you can’t appreciate it.”
“You and I have different values of appreciation, Grandmother of Ghosts.”
“Still with that nickname. You’ll call me General here.” Malphas clicked her tongue, and in an instant the title was true. She wore a dress uniform, though Hero had no hope of identifying the army. He recognized the primary-color flag patched on her shoulder. Other shapes moved in the darkness, indistinct and black-clad.
His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. A pair of children’s underthings, soiled, was caught on the chain fence closest to him. The air was tangy with sweat and sick. Hero had distinct experience with the possible evils conducted in the trappings of uniforms and authority. He’d led armies, worn crowns, once upon a story. But this place took even his breath away.
“No need for drastic action from your paper tiger,” Malphas said sharply. Hero hadn’t even realized his hand had been creeping toward the hilt of his sword until the cold metal was between his fingers. The gates on three of the pens swung open on sour hinges.
One for each of them.
“Oh, hell no,” Hero whispered with emotion.
“Is this really necessary, Malphas?” Claire did an admirable job of sounding bored.
“General.” Malphas’s smile was as chill as the cages. “Afraid it is, girl.”
“The last demon that called me ‘girl’ is now an ornament in the Arcane Wing.” Claire let the fact hang before stepping forward into the leftmost pen like an idiot. Brevity followed her lead, cautiously inching into the middle pen. Hero resisted the urge to scream at them for being foolish heroes, and stepped into his own.