A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“That is one of the more fanciful ones. Did you hear the one where I sold my soul for the promotion, danced naked with Cerberus? Never mind how I would sell my soul when I was already in Hell, but…” Claire trailed off as Bjorn failed to take the joke. She rolled her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Gregor… He was more than a mentor. He was my friend and I would have never wished him harm.”

It was true enough, Claire thought carefully, in a certain kind of light.

Bjorn was quiet for a moment, as if testing the edges of that statement. Then he turned with a grunt. “Ah! Where’s my mind? They’ll already be at the feast. Hero too, if the healers have done their work.”

“Feast…” Claire’s voice was flat. “Bjorn, I can’t tolerate another delaying tactic—”

“A feast for our angelic guests.”

“Angels?” Claire’s eyes widened in alarm. “Here? But how—”

“They arrived shortly after you. Because of what they are, the hall already recognizes them as warriors. They were welcomed in, think they even caught the last of the fight.” Bjorn hooded his eyes as Claire began to pace. “I suppose you know why they’re here.”

Claire twisted her hands, wincing as doing so pulled on her bandage. “You said there was more than one?”

“Two. One formidable lass all in white and a man in gray who frowns too much.” Bjorn paused. “I don’t hold with that lot, but they seemed a capable pair.”

“Capable and problematic. We’ll need to leave right away,” Claire muttered. “ You know why they’re here?”

“Let’s see. Hell’s librarian and two hunter angels visiting a simple storyteller on the same day, muttering disaster and all hackles up about something.” Bjorn snorted. “Even a dumb old Viking has to get the idea.”

Bjorn held up a hand as Claire opened her mouth. “Easy, lass. I am loyal to the Library, but listen. Even if I answered your questions now, worst thing you could do is go tearing out of here with the angels watching the gate. They’d be on you faster than a raven flies. Feast. Rest a while. I’ll give you your answers, and you may slip out in the morning when half the realm is still sleeping off the drink.”

Claire’s mouth shut slowly. “Do angels even drink?”

Bjorn chuckled and took her by the arm. “All warriors drink in Valhalla. Come! I’ll prove it.”

ALL WARRIORS DID, INDEED, drink in Valhalla. The arena had been invaded, lined with additional long tables and benches to accommodate the revelers, who were several drinks in already. Claire could barely move through the crowd without having to dodge sundry blades and axes strapped to backs. Valhalla’s citizens did not believe in leaving their weapons at the door, even for a party.

In truth, Claire found it maddening, the chaos, the cheer, the swells of mood and passion that roiled over the pressed bodies like a wave. She’d never cared for crowds. Crowds were messy; crowds were not predictable and not reliable. After she’d spent thirty-plus years in the quiet of the Library, dealing only with the trickle of Hell’s patrons and recalcitrant books, Claire found the chuff and churn of Valhalla’s festivities incomprehensible. It made her head hurt and her joints ache. Mercifully, Bjorn guided her to the table her companions had staked out, before he drifted away, muttering about proper drink and song.

“Oh, try the little blue ones!” Brevity had been busy in her absence. A stack of small pastries and dainty twists of meat, far more ornate than Claire would have guessed the Vikings capable of, was set out in the center of the table. She smiled despite herself. Trust Brevity to find the sweets at any party.

Claire allowed Brevity to shove a mug of something sloshing and foamy into her hand. Hero was still absent, but her assistant succeeded in coaxing Leto and Andras into sipping at their drinks. Judging by the empty mugs and the bearded grins sent their way, she had passed the time warming to the warriors at the adjoining table. Excellent work. It couldn’t hurt to win the goodwill of Valhalla’s residents.

“You did great, boss,” Brevity said.

“If you say so.” Claire kept her eyes on Bjorn and set down the mug the moment he disappeared into the crowd. “There are angels here.”

Andras choked on his drink, flecks of ale dotting his beard as his gaze darted around. “Already?”

“It seems so.” Claire recounted Bjorn’s news as quickly as she could. Leto, having run into an angel once already that day, began to exude panic, acid sweat forming on his temple and sliding down to his collar with a hiss. Frankly, Claire couldn’t blame him. Brevity pivoted in her seat to scan the crowd, covering the gesture by ordering another round for the boisterous table next to them.

“You’re certain there was no way for them to track the scrap in the afterlife?” Claire asked Andras.

“Absolutely not. It’s a piece of Hell. They could detect general demonic activity if they were in the area, but not across realms. They must be searching anywhere we were likely to seek help.”

“Which means they have an inkling of how important it is. Brilliant.”

“If so, we need to leave, pup. Sooner rather than later.” At Claire’s look, Andras’s brow furrowed. “Surely we’re not staying here while there are angels looking for us.”

“Of course not,” Claire said. “Bjorn may trust in the hospitality rules of Valhalla, but I don’t. We will just need to get around them carefully. Do you see them yet, Brev?”

“Only one, ma’am. Tall lady by the entrance, all shiny and terrifyin’ looking. I don’t think the Vikings care for her much.”

Claire raised herself from the bench just enough to spy what looked like a pale, walking storm cloud over the heads of the crowd. The crowd, despite the increasingly rowdy tone, did its best to flow away from her general vicinity. “Well, she’s not doing much to hide herself.”

“Heaven never was much for subterfuge,” Andras said with a touch too much demonic pride.

“Then that’s going to have to be our way out.”

Claire toyed with the foam on her drink, trying to develop a plan that balanced meeting their goals with getting out with their skins intact. “Brev, Leto, go extract Hero from the healers, assuming he’s not run off, and get him up to date. Then find Bjorn and get him alone in his office. I don’t care if you have to tie him up by the beard—we’re getting our answers tonight. I’ll meet you there.”

Brevity was already springing from the bench. “A rescue and Viking-napping sound fun. What’re you going to do?”

“Go find our other angel.”

Leto paused halfway out of the bench. “Pardon me for suggesting, but you don’t want to wait to take Hero with you? Last time that angel was kind of… angry. And violent.”

“I’m sure Hero will just be thrilled you volunteered him for mortal peril again,” Andras mused.

Claire remembered the lightning crack and smell of ozone from their first encounter with Ramiel. The point where the blade had rested on her chest tightened a little, but she shoved it away and shook her head. She’d risked the book enough for one day. “No. I’ll be fine. We’re all guests in Valhalla, correct? I just want to talk.”

“I’ll come, then,” Andras said.

Claire frowned at the old demon. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. This one seemed to have a hair trigger even around Leto, and he was in human form then.”

“He really doesn’t like demons,” Leto confirmed.

“You said it yourself: Valhalla’s safe.” A calculating look flickered through Andras’s red-gold eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve dealt with more than my share of Heaven’s pests in my time. And this one, Ramiel? He’s not even part of the Host—a fallen angel. I want to see why such a creature is after us, and how they came to possess the pages of the codex after all this time. I might be able to detect something from what he says.”