A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

But even in his imagination, his step paused at the threshold.

Rami sought for some footing, some words to say. He was being dismissed. And he discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that success left him hollow. He frowned down at the carpet. He didn’t care for Hell. The whole realm could fall into the abyss for all he cared, the Library with it, though a twinge in his chest said that wasn’t entirely true.

The Gates in his mind whined on their hinges.

Uriel’s vengeance would lead to war. Her zeal would lead to fire and scorched earth. But realms would always war against realms, and Rami wasn’t made to care for realms. He was made, from the core of his being, to care for souls.

The Gates shut in his mind. And then the words were out. “Their ally they left behind. I want to try to secure him and bring him back here as an asset.”

His skin was cold, hollowed out with the first chill of his decision. His nerves pricked, but Rami looked down at his hands and found they were steady and clenched into fists. Uriel looked up with a mild frown, as if she’d already mentally dismissed him and was annoyed her office was still occupied.

“Value being…?”

“Information. He was working closely with the librarian. Might be able to tell us what to expect.” Rami saw the skepticism in Uriel’s eyes. He felt a stab of reluctance but added, “He also could grant us access—he was one of Hell’s, and he may be able to get us in or draw their forces out.”

That did it. He saw the shift as Uriel’s gaze thawed from skeptical to calculating. She considered Rami for a long moment. “This is a tactical mission?”

“Yes, sir,” Rami lied.

“Fine.” Uriel waved vaguely at the door as she turned back to her maps. “The guards outside can procure your old equipment for you. See that this lead bears fruit for Heaven, Ramiel.”

For the first time in ages, Ramiel left to rescue a soul.

STORIES SAID GRIEF WAS heavy. Stories lied. If grief had a weight, had a mass, Claire could have ground the crocodile god’s bones into the bottom of the river. She could have sunk her heel into the knobs of chill scale and felt a god break beneath her toes for what it had done.

But grief did not have a weight. Or if it did, it was counteracted by another force. Rage. Rage had an upward lift, was a superheated force that crawled up her throat and wanted to do all the things Claire couldn’t. Punish the crocodile. Punish this realm. Punish Ramiel. Punish Hero. Punish herself.

She’d felt it, when the scales had tipped. The crocodile’s jaws had closed, and her screams had hitched as she had felt it . She shouldn’t have. This was not her realm, not where her soul was tethered, but she had felt it like a tear in her lungs.

Had she heard a scream? Had she heard a tear of flesh? Or had she just heard the staccato sigh of a soul unraveling, winking from the universe? She couldn’t tell. Her mind was a muddle, and the only thing she knew was that Leto, the one being she’d encountered in thirty years she thought she could actually save , was gone. For her.

Claire did not fancy herself an optimist. She had been in Hell too long for that. She saw things clearly. But somewhere along the way, what she’d seen most clearly in Leto was hope. Hope for him had become hope for her, and she’d believed. Believed he was a good soul and that good souls would not be punished by realms. Believing was supposed to be power here, power to protect him. It hadn’t.

She hadn’t.

It felt like she was walking on Leto’s bones. But nothing of Leto remained here, not after the crocodile had judged him. She was walking on his ending, and for that, she walked lightly, calmly. For Claire was not one to throw away her life rashly for vengeance. She respected vengeance. Vengeance deserved time.

And she was already contemplating ways to return to this blighted, half-dead realm one day and burn every inch of it to the ground. She didn’t care if she burned with it.

The instant their toes touched the sand of the opposite shore, the creature began to sink. By the time Claire had gotten her bearings enough to turn around, all that remained was the dark froth of churning water.

Claire stared ahead. The beach on this side of the water was very like the beach they’d left behind, but instead of endless sand, the shore rose to a great wall of bone pale stone that staggered a dozen feet over their heads. It terminated in what looked like the craggy ruins of a temple, long in decay. Nothing but gap-toothed bits of wall and column remained.

Hero’s gaze was a physical thing, heavy and insistent like a hand on her back. She had said nothing, not since cursing the angel at the gate. No words as they walked the crocodile’s back, no commentary or speculation on the realm they were in, no orders for what they would do next. Claire felt his silence deepen, first into pity, then into worry, then judgment.

She couldn’t find the energy to care.

They struggled up the beach and stopped in front of the impenetrable wall. Without discussion, they took a right and followed its edge, trudging through sucking, wet sand. It swallowed any chance of conversation. Hero asked no mocking questions; Claire offered no confident explanations. They paused only once, when Claire’s low sneakers filled with sand, and she bent to kick them off. She tied their laces together and instinctively went to loop them over her bag. When her hand met open air, she came to a stop with a sharp, halting breath. She swung them over her shoulder instead.

Hero observed the error with quiet pity.

The sand dug grit into the tender skin between her toes. A break in the wall appeared behind the curve. It wasn’t a proper doorway. Instead its arches were shattered like a splintered bone in the ribs of the ruins. Inside, the ground turned from sand to smooth, hard-packed earth. It ran straight with thick walls rising on either side, open air above.

“A maze?” Hero ventured.

“So we’ve reached the Minoan part of our tour.” Claire wiggled her toes into the sand. It should have been warm from the sun. Instead it was cold enough to make her bones ache. “It’s a labyrinth. Souls were meant to wander until they met their demise at the center of it. Lucky us.”

“Every maze has its exit.”

“You obviously haven’t read enough Greek tragedies,” Claire said. Still, it was the only gap they’d encountered, and the sun had begun to creep down in the sky. Claire didn’t fancy the idea of spending the night on the beach, so close to the crocodile. She shook the sand from her toes and stepped onto the unforgiving dirt.

They followed its turns until they came to the first intersection of two paths. The pavers were wet with mildew and thick with identical shadows. At least Hell had the occasional gargoyle, Claire thought dully.

Hero hummed. “Left or right?”

“Left. If we keep following the left, we’ll find the exit eventually. If there is one. And if something else doesn’t find us first.”