The Library of the Unwritten E-Book

A. J. Hackwith

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 607

Beschreibung

Join the library and raise hell in the first book of a stunning new fantasy series, where books unfinished by their authors reside within the Unwritten Wing of the devil's own library, and restless characters will emerge from out of their pages...Many years ago, Claire was named Head Librarian of the Unwritten Wing. Her job consists mainly of repairing and organizing books, but also of keeping an eye on restless stories that risk materializing as characters and escaping the library. When a Hero escapes from his book and goes in search of his author, Claire must track and capture him with the help of former muse and current assistant Brevity and nervous demon courier Leto. But what should have been a simple retrieval goes horrifyingly wrong when the terrifyingly angelic Ramiel attacks them, convinced that they hold the Devil's Bible. The text of the Devil's Bible is a powerful weapon in the power struggle between Heaven and Hell, so it falls to the librarians to find a book with the power to reshape the boundaries between Heaven, Hell… and Earth.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for The Library of the Unwritten

Title Page

Leave us a review

Copyright

Dedication

1 Claire

2 Leto

3 Ramiel

4 Leto

5 Ramiel

6 Leto

7 Claire

8 Leto

9 Ramiel

10 Claire

11 Leto

12 Claire

13 Claire

14 Claire

15 Ramiel

16 Claire

17 Brevity

18 Claire

19 Brevity

20 Claire

21 Leto

22 Ramiel

23 Claire

24 Brevity

25 Leto

26 Claire

27 Claire

28 Ramiel

29 Leto

30 Leto

31 Ramiel

32 Brevity

33 Ramiel

34 Claire

35 Brevity

36 Ramiel

37 Claire

38 Ramiel

39 Brevity

40 Claire

41 Ramiel

42 Claire

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise for The Library of the Unwritten

“Clever, charming, full of intricate worldbuilding and delightful characters, The Library of the Unwritten is the first book in your new favorite series.” Christina Henry, author ofThe Girl in Red

“This book is so much fun, and you should be reading it. Trust me. Stories about story are some of my favorite kinds. This book definitely makes the list. I am so glad I read this.” Seanan McGuire, author ofIn an Absent Dream

“Prepare to laugh and to cry, to have your mind bent and your grip on reality loosened as you embark on the wild ride that is The Library of the Unwritten. This is the ultimate novel about the power of storytelling. Librarian Claire, who must deal with the denizens of assorted Afterworld realms, is a stand-out creation, complex and memorable. A novel brimful with imagination, with emotional undertones that run deep. I loved it!” Juliet Marillier, author of the Blackthorn & Grim series

“The most intriguing story I’ve read in a long time. I shall never again turn my back on an unfinished book.” Jodi Taylor, author ofJust One Damned Thing After Another

“A muse, an undead librarian, a demon, and a ghost walk into Valhalla . . . What follows is a delightful and poignant fantasy adventure that delivers a metric ton of found-family feels and reminds us that the hardest stories to face can be the ones we tell about ourselves.” Kit Rocha,New York Timesbestselling author

“The only book I’ve ever read that made the writing process look like fun. A delight for readers and writers alike!” Elsa Sjunneson-Henry, Hugo Award finalist

“A tiered dark chocolate cake of a book. The read is rich and robust, the prose has layers upon layers, and the characters melt like ganache upon the tongue. A saturated, decadent treat. An unforgettable, crave-worthy experience. A book lovers’ book; a supreme and masterful concoction that makes fresh fiction out of dusty Dante and boring Bible bits. An erudite and engaging pleasure cruise through Hell. A new voice rises in the jewel-toned arena of Valente, Gaiman, and Funke. A baroquely imagined and totally unexpected original take on such well-worn topics as Hell, libraries, and the difference between what never was and what never will be. Put coins over your eyes and climb aboard with your library card in hand; this book will take you where you need to go.” Meg Elison, Philip K. Dick Award–winning author

“The Library of the Unwritten is a story about stories: ones we tell ourselves, the ones we tell others, and the ones buried so deep we hope no one ever finds them. Hackwith has artfully penned a love letter to books and readers alike and filled it with lush, gorgeous prose; delightfully real characters; a nonstop, twisty, and heart-wrenching plot; and an explosive ending that gave me chills.” K. A. Doore, author ofThe Perfect Assassin

“A wry, high-flying, heartfelt fantasy, told with sublime prose and sheer joy even at its darkest moments (and there are many). I want this entire series on my shelf yesterday.” Tyler Hayes, author ofThe Imaginary Corpse

“A delightful romp through Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, which reveals itself in layers: an exploration of the nuances of belief, a demonstration of the power of the bonds that connect us, and a love letter to everybody who has ever heard the call of their own story.” Caitlin Starling, author ofThe Luminous Dead

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The Library of the Unwritten

Print edition ISBN: 9781789093179

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093186

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UPwww.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: February 2020

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2019, 2020 A.J. Hackwith. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Levi

1

CLAIRE

Stories want to change, and it is a librarian’s job to preserve them; that’s the natural order of things. The Unwritten Wing of the Library, for all its infinite magic and mystery, is in some ways a futile project. No story, written or unwritten, is static. Left abandoned too long and given the right stimulation, a book goes wrong in the head. It is a story’s natural ambition to wake up and start telling itself to the world.

This, of course, is a buggered pain in the arse.

Librarian Fleur Michel, 1782 CE, Unwritten Wing, Librarian’s Log entry, Personal Ephemera and Errata

BOOKS RAN WHEN THEY grew restless, when they grew unruly, or when they grew real. Regardless of the reason, when books ran, it was a librarian’s duty to catch them.

The twisty annex of Assyrian romances, full of jagged words and shadowed hearts broken on unforgiving clay tablets, had a tendency to turn around even experienced curators. The librarian, Claire, cornered the book there. The book had chosen to take form as the character of a pale, coltish girl, and her breathing was nearly as ragged as Claire’s was from the run. Claire forced her shaking hands still as she approached. The book was young, and so was its character, back pressed into the bookcase, dandelion-fluff hair fluttering around thin shoulders. Muddy jeans, superhero tee, a whimper like dried reeds. “Please. I can’t—I don’t want to go back.”

Damn. Claire preferred them angry. Angry was simpler. “The Library has rules.”

A flicker of color swung around the corner. Her assistant, Brevity, skidded to a stop just short of the book. Her apple-round cheeks, usually a shade of robin’s-egg blue, were tinged purple from the run. Seafoam green bangs puffed above her eyes, and she mumbled an apology as she handed Claire a slender bit of steel wrapped in cloth.

Claire stowed the tool in her pocket, where it would stay, she hoped. She considered the cowering figure in front of her.

There were two parts to any unwritten book. Its words—the twisting, changing text on the page—and its story. Most of the time, the two parts were united in the books filling the Unwritten Wing’s stacks, but now and then a book woke up. Felt it had a purpose beyond words on a page. Then the story made itself into one of its characters and went walking.

As the head librarian of Hell’s Unwritten Wing, Claire had the job of keeping stories on their pages.

The girl—No, the character, the book, Claire corrected herself—tried again. “You don’t get it. In the woods—I saw what it did. . . .”

Claire glanced down at the book in her hands and read the gold stamp on the spine. The font was blocky and modern, clearly signaling this was a younger book despite the thick leather hide of the cover. It read: dead hot summer. Her stomach soured; this job had ruined her taste for the horror genre entirely. “Be that as it may, you have nothing to worry about. It’s just a story—you are just a story, and until you’re written—”

“I won’t make trouble,” the character said. “I just—”

“You’re not human.” The words snapped out before Claire could censor them. The girl reacted as if she’d been slapped, and curled into the shelves.

Claire took a measured breath between gritted teeth. “You can’t be scared. You’re not human—let’s not pretend otherwise. You’re a very cunning approximation, but you’re simply a manifestation, a character. A book playing at human . . . But you’re not. And books belong on shelves.”

Brevity cleared her throat. “She is scared, boss. If you want me to, I can sit with her. Maybe we can put her in the damsel suite—”

“Absolutely not. Her author is still alive.”

The character zeroed in on the more sympathetic target. She took a step toward Brevity. “I just don’t want to die in there.”

“Stop.” Claire flipped open the leather cover and thrust it toward the character. “This is only wasting time. Back to the pages.”

She looked uncertainly at her book. “I don’t know how.”

“Touch the pages. Remember where your story starts. ‘Once upon a time . . . ’ or what have you.” Claire slid a hand into her pocket, fingers finding metal. “Alternately, stories always return to their pages when damaged. If you require assistance?”

The scalpel was cool in her palm. It was normally used in repairing and rebinding old books, but a practiced hand could send a rogue character back to its pages.

Claire had plenty of practice.

“I’ll try.” The girl’s hand trembled as she flattened a small palm against the open pages. Her brow wrinkled.

A chill of quiet ticked over Claire’s skin. The books weighing down nearby shelves twitched sleepily. A muffled murmur drifted in the air. The wooden shelves towering overhead pulsed with movement, old leather spines shuffling against the bronze rails. Dust shivered in a spill of lamplight.

Brevity shifted uneasily next to her. An awake book was a noisy thing. Returning it, even noisier.

They couldn’t waste time. The girl startled when Claire took a quiet step toward her. “I’ve almost got it!”

“It’s all right.” Claire spoke through a tight throat, but her tone was gentle. She could be gentle when it was efficient. “Try again.”

The unwritten girl turned her attention back to the pages. It was an act of contemplation, and Claire could sense the weaving of realities. The girl was a character; she was a story, a book. She might feel like something even more, but Claire couldn’t afford to consider that. She placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Then she slid the scalpel between the character’s ribs.

Brevity swallowed a squeak. Claire stepped back as the unwritten girl fell. She made small, shocked gulps for air, twisted on the carpet, then began to fade. Within a minute, nothing was left but a small smudge of ink on the floor.

Only books died in Hell. Everyone else had to live with their choices.

“Couldn’t we have given her another minute? It’s awfully hard to feel like the good guys when we do that.” Brevity took the book after Claire snapped it closed.

“There’s no good or bad, Brev. There’s just the Library. The story is back where it belongs.” Claire couldn’t keep the resignation from her voice. She cleaned off and stashed the scalpel back in her many-pocketed skirts.

“Yeah, but she seemed so scared. She was just—”

“Characters aren’t human, Brev. You always should remember that as a librarian. They’ll convince themselves they’re people, but if you allow them to convince you, then . . .” Claire trailed off, dismissing the rest of that thought with a twitch of her shoulders. “Shelve her and make a note to check her status next inventory. What kept you so long, anyway?”

“Oh!” Brevity fluttered a hand, and Claire was struck by the eerie similarities between her assistant and the book they’d just put to rest. Brevity was shorter than the character had been, and her riot of cornflower blue skin and bright eyes was vibrant with life—not scared, not pleading—but her gaze kept drifting back to the dull leather cover in her hands. “There’s a messenger for you.”

“Messenger?”

Brevity shrugged. “From the big guy. I tried to get more, but he’s wound pretty tight. Swore he can’t leave until he talks to you.”

“How . . . unorthodox.” Claire turned down the row of towering shelves. “Let’s see what His Crankiness wants.”

* * *

WHEN THEY EMERGED FROM the depths of the Unwritten Wing’s stacks, Claire found the demon sweating holes into her rug. It was a particularly fine rug, peacock blue and intricately dreamed by an artist of the Ottoman Empire. Dreamed but never made, which made it all the more irreplaceable.

The scent of rotten eggs curdled the Library’s pleasant smell of sleeping books and tea, scalding her nose. A bead of sweat fell from the nervous demon’s cuff and hit the carpet with a hiss. Claire closed her eyes for a count of five. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”

The demon jumped and twisted around. He was scrawny, all bones and amber skin in a cheap oversized suit. He appeared human, or at least human adjacent, as most demons did, save for the pinpricks of ears that poked up through an oil slick of springy black curls. He bit his lip, managing to look skeletal and innocent at the same time, and he held a thin purple folder in front of him like a shield. “Ms. Claire, of the . . . Is this the Library?”

“That generally is where librarians are found.” Claire sat down at her desk. She eyed the repair work she’d started, while Brevity returned to sorting books on a cart. “You’re in the Unwritten Wing. You may read, or you may leave.”

“Oh, I’m not here to—” The demon twitched. Claire tracked his movements out of the corner of her eye, giving the text in front of her only cursory attention. The books stacked on the corner of the desk gave a lazy growl, and the demon sidestepped quickly away. His nervous gaze landed on her hands. “Is . . . is that blood?”

Claire glanced down at the hand that had held the scalpel. She wiped her fingers on her skirts and returned to her work. “Ink.”

The book open on the desk was one of the young ones, one that still had a chance of being written by its author someday. Brevity had misfiled it with a particularly crotchety series of old unwritten novels. Whaling stories, if Claire remembered right. The impressionable young book now had all sorts of rubbish jumbled in its still-sprouting narrative. Five-paragraph descriptions of food, meditations on masculinity and the sea, complete nonsense for an unwritten tale about teenage witches in love. If its author began to write while it was in this state, she would never attempt another book. It was Claire’s job to keep the books ready for their authors in the best possible state. Tidy. Stories were never tidy, but it was important to keep up appearances.

When she didn’t look up again, the demon coughed and shook loose another bead of sweat. It hit the rug with a dull hiss.

Claire winced. She pressed her scalpel flat against the book. “You’re damaging my rug.”

The demon looked down at his feet. He stepped off the rug awkwardly, found himself on an even more complex rug, and shuffled again.

He’d be at that all day, and Claire would be at repairs all night. She reluctantly turned from the book she was working on, pressing one elbow on it to keep it from creeping off. A slow, deep frown pulled on her face as she gave him a better once-over.

Young, Claire assessed—the young seemed determined to plague her today. A junior demon, though young demons didn’t venture to the Library often. Most of Hell’s residents got reading privileges only after decades of clawing for power. He fidgeted under her scrutiny and combed through his wiry, ragged hair. It made her want to find him a brush. Suspicion tinged with familiarity tugged at her. No demon felt quite right, but there was something exceptionally off about hellspawn with anxiety. Claire raised a brow at Brevity, but her assistant just shrugged.

“You’re . . . unexpected. I understand you were sent by His Grinchiness?”

He licked his lips. “Yes, but . . . you can’t . . . you can’t call him that. His Highness, I mean. There’s a message. I got the brief here.” The demon held it out, eager to be rid of it. Claire didn’t move, so he added, “It says a book is missing. I’m supposed to tell you . . . it’s . . . ah, one of yours.”

Claire stilled. “In what way?”

“Because it’s unwritten? Early twenty-first-century unauthor, still living.”

Ah. The tension crept off Claire’s shoulders. “Stolen or lost?”

The demon pawed through the folder before withdrawing a small stack of printouts. “They suspect runaway. No recent checkouts or invocation alarms . . . whatever that means.”

She grunted. “It means my day is shot. A runaway.”

A bewildered look spread across the demon’s face. “Is that . . . ?”

Claire waved a vague hand. “It means an unwritten book woke up, manifested as a character, and somehow slipped the Library’s wards. A neat trick that I will be keen to interrogate out of it later. It is likely headed to Earth. There’s nothing stronger than an unwritten book’s fascination with its author. But a book that finds its author often comes back damaged, and the author comes out . . . worse.”

“I’ll pack the scalpels,” Brevity said, and received a dark look. Claire rubbed her temple, a fruitless gesture to forestall the coming headache, then shot out her hand.

“Just give the report here.” She released her hold on the open book, and it happily snapped shut, barely missing her fingertips.

The demon deposited the paperwork in her palm and quickly hopped out of reach. The books stacked on her desk complained with growls that ruffled their pages.

“The author’s alive? Where?” Brevity asked.

He shrugged. “A place called Seattle.”

Claire groaned as she squinted at the paperwork. “It’s always the Americans.”

* * *

NAMES WERE A NECESSARY nicety even Claire had to tolerate. The demon introduced himself with a very clumsy bow; this small bit of etiquette helped him to relax and stop sweating acid everywhere. Claire frowned at his name. “Leto. Like the Greek myth?”

The skinny demon ducked his head. “Like from the sci-fi novel.”

“So, you’re a demon of . . . ?”

“Entropy.”

“They sent a demon of entropy to a library wing full of irreplaceable artifacts?” Claire stared at Leto and then shook her head, muttering, “I will kill him. Positively kill him.”

Leto twitched. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . how, ah, how can you talk about His Highness like that?”

“Simple,” Claire said. “The Library exists in Hell; it doesn’t serve it. He’s not my Highness.”

Leto paled, and she dismissed it with a wave. “It’s a long story. Don’t worry yourself. I still follow orders. This is Brevity, muse and my assistant in the Unwritten Wing.”

“Former muse. I flunked out.” Brevity made a face and offered her hand.

If Leto was a scarecrow teenager in appearance, Brevity was of the sprite variety. Her hair was spiky and short and a dainty shade of sea glass. Beneath the cuffs of a multicolored jumper, propane blue tattoos flowed over paler cornflower skin in a shifting series of script that almost appeared readable, at least until one tried to focus on it.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Leto shook her hand shyly, taking care to keep his fingers back from the ripple of tattoo.

“Hey! A demon with manners. I like this one,” Brevity said.

“Many demons are perfectly polite to me,” Claire pointed out.

“No, many demons are intimidated by the Library, boss. There’s a difference,” Brevity said as Claire pulled out a drawer in search of tools.

The mundane tools of a librarian’s trade included notebooks and writing implements, and the less usual: inks that glimmered, stamps that bit, wriggling wax, and twine. All of them went into a bag that Claire slung across her chest. Pen and paper went into the hidden pockets of her muddled, many-tiered skirts. She’d been buried in some frippery that was dour even for her time, all buttons and layers. She’d chopped the skirt at the knee long ago for easy movement, but Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea.

It wasn’t as if she had proper hours to maintain. Claire squinted at a squat copper sundial, fueled by a steady if entirely unnatural light all its own, and scribbled a new line in the Library’s logbook. It was thick and ancient, crusted with age and the oils of a hundred librarian fingerprints. It also never ran out of paper. Claire flipped from her personal notes to the “Library Status” log and ended an entry with a flourish, and the lights in the hall began to flutter.

The Library is now closed. All materials must be returned to the shelves. A disembodied voice, clipped and dull, echoed through the hall. Claire tapped her foot as the voice continued. The Library is now closed. Patrons are reminded that any curses, charms, or dreams left behind are considered forfeit to the stacks. The Library is now closed.

There were not many patrons lounging around the reading area, but the few imps that were reading put down their books reluctantly and began to make their way to the exit, much to Leto’s slack-jawed amazement. Creatures of Hell, on general principle, took to following orders as well as one might expect. Which is to say, not at all and with liberal interpretation. Most of the Library’s regulars were powerless imps and bored foot soldiers, but one beefy incubus with horns, clad in little more than chitin and scar tissue, handed his book directly to Claire with a grunt.

Claire clucked her tongue. “No sulking. You know we don’t do lending. It’ll be here for you tomorrow, Furcas. Go on now.”

Leto managed to close his mouth before his sputter could ruin another rug. “That— Was that . . .”

“Intimidated. Told you,” Brevity said.

Once the remaining patrons disappeared out the great doors, Claire closed the log and swept toward the far wall. Leto clung to her heels, and Claire bit back a smile. The Library was fickle, eerie terrain, especially to demons.

From the main desk, the cavernous space ran back into shadows in all directions, and every available surface was layered with wood or parchment of varying ages. Rows of shelves filled with books ran high over their heads, and larger tomes crouched at the end of each row in quivering packs. Plush rugs of riotous color muffled the floor. Every visible wall space carried an oil canvas, with images in various states of completion. They governed themselves with their own regular rotation and changes. More paintings hung on a monstrous series of pivoting racks at the far back, draped in shadow like a leafy thicket.

Claire’s target was the far wall, a large section of buttery pale yellow drawers. Endless rows of drawers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The Library functioned on requirement, shifting and flowing to the needs of the books and librarians. Leto eyed it with anxiety, but Claire shoved the folder back into his hands. She began to scale a ladder clipped to a rail. “Author name and story title?”

“Ah . . .” Leto opened the file. “Author, McGowan. Amber Guinevere McGowan.”

Her foot stabbed out at the wooden wall, and the ladder coasted a few feet down the row of drawers. “McGowan. Right. God, middle name Guinevere? What were her parents thinking? No wonder she never became a writer.” Claire yanked a drawer open. “Title?”

“Uh, the missing title just says ‘Nightfall.’” Leto looked up as Claire let out a snort. “Something wrong?”

“I think every writer, written or unwritten, has some glorified adventure titled ‘Nightfall’ stuck in their head. Half the residents here were a ‘Nightfall’ at one point. Even unwritten stories eventually migrate to something more original.” Claire danced her fingers over the drawer before snapping up a card. She slid the drawer closed and descended.

Her sneaker-clad feet hit the ground, and Claire headed for the exit. “Calling card says it’s definitely still in Seattle. Brev, you up for a field trip?”

Brevity’s gold eyes grew to saucers, and she stumbled forward in a little dance. Her voice wasn’t quite a squeal but flirted with the idea. “You mean upstairs?” she said breathily. “Always and forever, boss.”

2

LETO

This log is a curious thing. Previous volumes appear to date back to early Sumer. Yet I can read and understand every word. Books are a strange kind of magic in this Library.

The reading has been enlightening, no doubt. Though rambling and peppered with a plague of personalities, it chronicles the training and supplemental experiences of every librarian that has helmed the Unwritten Wing.

Ancient Egypt had her Book of the Dead, a scroll buried with loved ones to guide them and advise them on their behavior as they navigated the afterlife. I suppose that makes this our Book of the Dead Librarians. All the proper protocols for navigating but never escaping this place.

Thousands of years of librarians have kept their advice in this book. Somewhere, somewhere, there’s got to be a solution for the problem I’m faced with.

Apprentice Librarian Claire Hadley, 1988 CE

HELL WAS A SERIES of hallways. An endless series of hallways, at least to a junior demon. They wound through passages Leto didn’t recognize, broad balconies, and whispering broom closets. They passed jagged stairs and alcoves with shadows like wounds, and finally a non-euclidean gargoyle that had a troubling habit of not quite staying in the viewer’s spatial perception. Leto averted his eyes from it at the start of a wince-inducing headache.

Each hall was lined with a narrow bay of windows. The first looked out upon wide fields of wildflowers, the next on a dark cavern with endless pools of starlight, the third, a lava-drenched plain. The conflicting light painted the hallway in a rainbow of bright and dark, yellow afternoons and blue twilights spilling over them as they passed.

Finally, the librarian took a sharp right into a narrow doorway that Leto would have missed. Its wooden arch was decorated with an icon for travel: a small set of interlocking wheels, marred with the claw marks of large birds. He followed the women down a steep set of stairs, watching Brevity’s light teal hair as it bounced like a brightly colored flag. They emptied out into a claustrophobic office, taller than it was wide.

Leto stumbled to a stop behind Brevity and turned in a slow circle. The office was tall, he realized, in order to accommodate the dizzying rows of shelves that reached from the floor up into the shadows of the ceiling. Unlabeled jars of various shapes lined each shelf, putting out a faint but steady colored glow that was the room’s only light.

Brevity grinned at Leto with ill-concealed amusement. “First time traveling?”

“Yes, er . . .” Leto shot her an alarmed look. “Rather, no. I’m not going with you, am I? I just deliver the paperwork.”

Brevity shrugged and turned to tap at a glass jar that swirled with plum and sickly orange mists. Leto stepped toward Claire. “Miss . . . eh, Head Librarian?”

“Not now, kiddo.” Claire slapped her hand on a dusty bell sitting on the counter. Instead of a simple chime, a trio of vibrations pinged hard out of the metal and made all the jars tremble on their shelves.

Leto most certainly was not a kid. Demons didn’t really have childhoods. Soul-shuddering inductions, nightmarish hazings, yes; childhood, no. Leto started to form his protest when a walking mountain in a tight tailored suit came trumbling out of the gloom behind the counter.

A pale head, the size and shape of a boulder, floated above a starched collar. Leto quailed. He retreated toward the door as he took in dark pits where the monster’s eyes should have been. The creature opened its mouth to reveal a row of jagged red edges that almost, but not quite, passed for teeth. Its voice rumbled in a timbre that shook the shelves around them.

“ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO—”

“Yes, yes, hope abandoned, Walter,” Claire cut in. “We need transport.”

The creature’s face fell, serrated teeth disappearing behind a quivering lip. He straightened his tie and blinked bottomless-pit eyes at the librarian. “Aww, miss! C’mon, let me do it proper-like. Ever since the Reformation, I never get mortals in here no more.”

“If you must, but do please be brief. And quieter.”

“Bully, ma’am. Thank you.” The giant straightened, and his shoulders nearly hit the rafters. He cleared his throat, opened his razor-filled mouth again, and launched into his speech.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here! Beyond me lies the city of woe. Before me waits the sleep which ye earn. None shall pass unless the soul be light; none shall pass out of the dark. I am that which stands; I am that which waits and shall not falter; I am that which keeps the fates. Weigh now your soul or turn back to thine sleep.”

It struck Leto as a little flowery, but echoed in a howling baritone, it did the job. The jars trembled on their shelves, so that a hundred glass voices seemed to echo the words. The vibration reached in to jostle Leto’s organs unpleasantly.

Claire did not appear impressed. She propped her elbows on the counter, her back straight even in the middle of a bored recline. She tugged at one of her many braids, fussing with a stray bangle.

Brevity twisted her hands and risked a shy smile at the beast behind the counter. “I think that was awful terrifying, Mr. Walter. That trembly bit on the end is a nice touch.”

“Thank you, Miss Brevity. It took ages to get the acoustics just right.” The beast appeared to shrink and glow under the praise. He caught sight of Leto and leaned over with a dagger-filled grin that was something out of even a demon’s nightmares. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’re—”

Claire cleared her throat. “We’re here on business, Walter.”

The creature turned his sightless gaze back on the librarian. “Sorry, ma’am. How can I help you, Miss Claire?”

“We’re on an errand up top. I need one pass for Brevity here and two summoning candles for me and the boy.”

Leto bristled, forgetting his original protest about the trip. “I’m not a boy. I’m a demonic messenger of—”

“Yes, yes, two summoning candles for me and this most esteemed and powerful messenger of our fearless leader.” She raised her brows to Walter. “White should do. Don’t you think?”

Again, Walter leaned over the counter, peering above the librarian’s head to scrutinize Leto. Leto squirmed his toes and forced himself not to fidget and definitely not to meet the gaze of those bottomless black holes that threatened to swallow him up.

After a pause that did not seem at all short, Walter nodded. “White summoning should do ’bout right, Miss Claire. Coming right up. Miss Brevity, you’ve used summat like this before, yes?”

“Yep, I know the routine. Hauling the chief’s butt out of Hell is why she keeps me around.”

Claire cast her assistant a sour look as Walter thundered back into the halls behind the counter. “I do not get ‘hauled’ anywhere. You are merely fulfilling your duties, Brev.”

“You maybe want to summon yourself, then, boss?”

Leto glanced between the two women, a fresh layer of confusion coating his already stewing anxiety. “I don’t understand. Why does anyone need summoning? I thought you were going to Seattle.”

Claire turned as if suddenly remembering his presence. “You really are new, aren’t you? It’s because I’m human.”

At Leto’s blink, she gave a weak chuckle. “You assumed a mere demon could make sense of the tangled, unfinished dreams of humanity? Not likely. Too messy. Last demon assistant I had ran screaming after one full inventory. No, librarians are nearly always mortals, and nearly always unwritten authors themselves. Brev here being an exception worked out by the Muses Corps.”

“When they kicked me out,” Brevity muttered.

Leto nodded uncertainly. He had heard the rumors, of course. The whispers about the unwritten works by Hell’s librarian. Claire hadn’t held the position that long—thirty years was a blink in Hell’s terms—but she’d become a whispered name in demonic courts for the stories she’d left uncreated, filling the shelves, worlds unmade. The rumor said there was a whole annex of the Unwritten Wing that housed her works, under lock and key, never visited. Buried under the fog of some old and quite horrible scandal.

Of course, Leto thought, any good rumor always had a scandal.

“Right,” he said, attempting to recover, rubbing the back of his neck, and looking anywhere but at the stern woman. “I just . . . Well, shouldn’t you be doing your time to get out of here? Isn’t that the only reason mortals are here, to, y’know, work through their . . . their . . .”

“We all get the afterlife our soul requires. I’ve heard the sales pitch,” Claire supplied with an impatient cluck of her tongue. “This is mine. Lucky me. The trick they don’t tell you is that the longer you’re here, the harder it is to remember anywhere else.” She paused as Walter lumbered slowly back out of the gloom. “It’s quite inconvenient. As are these questions.”

“S’why boss needs a summons,” Brevity said. “Spirits and demons can come and go on business. But mortals can’t leave Hell if their souls haven’t freed them yet. But with a bit of ritual magic, library folk get a day pass.”

“A day, no more,” Claire said. “Not everyone gets access to a ghostlight, but since it’s part of the Library’s duties, King Crankypants has to make an exception.”

Leto couldn’t help but twitch every time she did that: refer to Lucifer with a horrific pet name. It was disrespectful. Undignified. Not done. He’d begun to suspect that was why she did it.

Walter reached the counter and paused to pat delicately at his suit pocket. He whipped out a pocket square the size of a bath towel and wiped the counter before carefully placing two waxy candles on it. He then heaved one of the large glass jars filled with colored fog and set it next to them on the counter. “Modern-day Seattle area, aye? Where you want t’ be set down, Miss Brevity?”

Claire answered instead. “City center is fine. Space Needle, if you need a landmark.”

“The base of the Space Needle, this time,” Brevity added with a scrunched-up face.

“Oh yeah, sorry ’bout that . . .” Walter furrowed his brow and twisted the jar sharply, once, twice, three times. Each time, the swirling mist inside changed color slightly, darkening from sky blue to navy, brightening from forest green to spring. The colors settled into a slate blue and lime swirl, and the eyeless creature seemed satisfied. “That should do it.”

Brevity stood on her tiptoes to reach over the counter and inspect each white candle before sticking them in one of the many pockets of her cargo pants.

Leto eyed the swirling jar and edged another step toward Claire. “Pardon me, Miss Librarian, but I don’t think I’m authorized to travel. I was just supposed to—”

“Deliver the assignment and assist with completion. This is assisting.”

“I don’t think I’ll be much help—”

“It’s just a summons, Leto.” It was the first time the librarian had bothered to use his name, and the demon felt irrational heat in his cheeks. She offered him a trace of a smile. “A summons to a relatively boring time and place on a relatively boring errand. If you’re new, it’ll do you good to learn how these things work. I imagine that’s what High Grump had in mind. Unless you want to return to him to check?”

“No! No. I mean, if . . . you’re sure, ma’am.”

“You have matches?” Claire asked her assistant, and Brevity nodded.

“And spares.”

“Right. Walter, whenever you’re ready.”

The giant nodded, rubbing his gnarled palms on his pants once before twisting the lid off the jar. Leto caught what sounded like a whisper of seagulls as Walter set down the lid with a clang. The giant took the oversized jar carefully in two hands, leaned over the counter, and upended the jar over Brevity’s head.

The mists swirled out, not so much in a downpour, but like roots seeking purchase. They snaked around the muse’s head and swiftly raced around her, thickening as the room filled with the smell of briny sea and petrol, concrete and rain.

The navy and lime fog seemed to envelop her and then constrict, squeezing the girl-shaped fog into unhealthy proportions. Leto gasped, but Claire set a placating hand on his shoulder. The fog rippled and, in the next second, neatly withdrew back into the jar Walter held. There was a faint smell of ozone and sulfur, and Brevity was gone.

“Thank you, Walter. Now comes the unpleasant part.” Claire stepped toward the clear space in the center of the lobby. The giant nodded and set to screwing the jar closed and bustling with things under the counter. Walter seemed to make a point of averting his eyes, which did nothing for Leto’s nerves.

“Unpleasant?” Leto stayed close to the librarian and began to wonder why he couldn’t have traveled with Brevity instead.

“Well, unless you really love roller coasters.”

Claire straightened and locked her shoulders back. The air around them began to take on an odd quality. Leto frowned as the floor tilted under his feet. A heavy sensation pressed on his collarbone.

“What’s a roller coas—”

And then the world dropped through his skin.

* * *

LETO HAD NEVER HAD his liver pulled through his ears, but he could now imagine the experience. It was as if a force had reached through the walls of the little room, through his skin, through every atom in his body . . . and ripped. Not up, not down, but betwixt, shouldering aside reality as it went. Leto’s vision faded and his equilibrium reported movement in one direction, then another, before giving up entirely.

Something hard bit into his knees, and fresh air hit his face. Rather than helping, this reminded his innards that he was no longer dying, and Leto felt the peculiarly mortal need to lose the contents of his stomach.

“He’s okay! Too much excitement.” A voice chirped to his right. “We’re okay—thanks! Have a good day.”

Leto forced open one eye and saw Brevity waving off a cluster of humans. The group was clad in loud nylon jackets and showed polite, if flimsy, concern before shuffling off. Tourists. Leto found the term in his mind, though he didn’t know where the word came from.

They stood in a large outdoor space, paved with concrete and studded with a line of round marble shapes. Milling humans cluttered the area around glass sculptures and souvenir stands. Behind them, dull metal struts rose to form a towering, spindly landmark that disappeared into an eternal gray.

Leto gripped a marble sphere and slowly wobbled to his feet. “Shouldn’t we be worried someone saw us?”

“If they did, they’d just as quickly forget,” Claire said. “Summonings are tough to remember. Wouldn’t be a useful means of transit otherwise.”

Leto turned and saw the librarian had fared the summoning just slightly better than he had. She leaned on a concrete bench. Her skin, normally a rich nut brown, was waxy around her flushed cheeks. Her dark hair, once full of tiny and impressively complicated beadwork, was now a thatch of simple braids tied away from her face. Her complex layers of clothes were also simplified into a vaguely Bohemian mix of a blouse, thick skirts, and sneakers.

Brevity, too, had undergone small mortal changes. Her skin no longer held a propane blue glow, her gold eyes were a plain brown, and roiling tattoos had resolved to a generic knotting pattern up each arm. Her hair, Leto was surprised to note, was still pastel green.

Leto glanced sharply down at his own hands but saw little change. Running fingers over his head revealed a long tide of faintly curled, mostly tangled dark hair, less oily and thornbush-like than it was in Hell, and his pointed ears were blunted to fleshy circles.

He also felt clammy and smelled vaguely of meat.

“Don’t worry—it’s not permanent.” Claire brought him out of his self-inspection.

“I don’t know if I like being this . . . squishy,” Leto said. It brought thoughts to mind, disquieting feelings, mortality, flashes of laughter and starlight and loss no longer felt. It was uncomfortable, like wearing someone else’s suit, but also faintly familiar in the way all the worst things were.

“Confusingly squishy. That’s humans in a nutshell.” Brevity shooed off the last concerned bystanders and held out a small object to each of her companions.

Leto took the small plastic canister. It was blue, with metal workings on top, and translucent. Inside, a delicate flame, no bigger than a speck but brighter than it had a right to be, bubbled in a clear liquid.

“Your ghostlight candles. They’ll last about a day. Don’t lose ’em,” Brevity said as she saw Leto’s puzzled look. “We can’t exactly carry lit holy candles around here. Basic camouflage. Candles down below turn into cigarette lighters up here. But don’t let anyone borrow a light. It’s kinda your passport while you’re here.”

“You do not want to get caught outside of Hell without your ghostlight. Very bad things happen. Now, then, about that book . . .” Claire tucked her ghostlight into a skirt pocket without looking at it. She paused to dig the tiny calling card out of her leather bag. “We’ve got some ways to walk.”

“Ooh, taxi?” Brevity squeaked. “I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those!”

“You’re a muse—you always want to do everything,” Claire said. “If it will save time, I suppose I can fold enough for a cab. Let’s go.”

To Leto’s surprise, the taxi driver paid no attention when what appeared to be a brightly colored rave kiddie, a dreadlocked hipster, and a malnourished teenager in an ill-fitting mortuary suit crawled into his cab. Nor did he blink as Claire spent the entire ride industriously ripping strips of paper out of an ancient-looking notebook and making complicated folds. One more oddity in an odd human world, just passing through.

Claire frowned at the card before directing the cab to drive “downtown” and not stop until they lost “the smell of fish and commerce.”

The driver squinted into the rearview mirror, probably rethinking his fare. “Uh, Pioneer Square?”

Again, the librarian consulted the tiny card. “Sure, close enough.” Over her shoulder, Leto was surprised to see the neatly printed type moving and shifting across the tiny square card, reorienting with new (poetically vague) directions each time the cab turned.

As the cab pulled up to a curb, Claire finished her folding and held the slips of paper out to the driver. “Keep the change.”

The driver frowned. “What the f—”

“You dreamed of a big house.” Claire’s voice dropped, odd and strangely formal, as Leto slid out of the car after her. She leaned through the window of the cab and caught the driver with her gaze. “With a big porch and a fireplace in the bedroom. Hearth, heart, hurt. You want to take her there and kiss her in the kitchen at the end of the day, food cooking, fire inside. Secure, solid, someday. Steps. This is your first.”

The driver watched Claire’s face and blinked slowly; then a fragile smile slid over his rough features. “Yeah, the house . . .” He nodded and tucked the slips of ragged paper in his pocket. “Thanks for the tip, ma’am. You have a good day.”

Claire straightened and tucked the notebook back into her bag.

“What—” Leto began.

“A story.” Claire watched the cab pull away. “I paid him in a story, his story. It’s all most souls want, really, so it’s easy for them to accept.”

It didn’t sit right with Leto. “But we cheated him. It’s a lie.”

“A lie. A dream. Good stories are both,” Claire dismissed. “Is it so bad? He’ll remember the story, turn it over carefully in the back of his mind, feel the edges of it like he would a lucky coin. A story will change him if he lets it. The shape and the spirit of it. Change how he acts, what dreams he chooses to believe in. We all need our stories; I just fed him a good one.”

“But he’s got bills to pay. His tally will come out wrong. The money—”

“It doesn’t do no harm.” Brevity nudged Leto. “Besides, don’t get boss started. If there’s one thing librarians know, it’s stories.”

“Still doesn’t seem right.” But Leto let it drop.

They were no longer in the gleaming tourist center of the city. All around them crowded old brick giants, thick buildings with drooping rows of narrow windows, papered with faded posters of all kinds. The main street maintained an infestation of shops, windows displaying discounted baubles or closeout-sale signs. There were fewer people down here, but there was enough foot traffic that no one seemed to pay their trio much mind.

Claire scowled at the calling card before handing it to Leto. “It’s getting vague. Keep an eye on that, and let’s look around.”

* * *

WHEN THE SCRIBBLES ON the calling card finally changed, they evolved into . . . nothing. An inky, irregular period filled the tiny card under the title information. Leto held the card out to Claire for her to see. She nodded and paused on the sidewalk, then began turning slowly in a circle. “It’s nearby.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Leto asked.

“A leather-bound book, like the rest of our collection. It’ll think it’s being sneaky, but it should stand out pretty clearly against modern-day paperbacks.” Claire frowned into store windows as they wandered a few yards up and down the sidewalk. “Or since it is awake and manifested, it could be a person.”

“A person?”

Claire frowned into a coffee shop window. “They look like anything, but you can tell by the . . . oh, hell and harpies.”

Both Brevity and Leto turned and peered over the librarian’s shoulder. The shop was a popular spot, filled with an assortment of creative and business folk jostling for table space and power outlets.

Leto didn’t see what had caused the librarian to utter increasingly dark and esoteric oaths under her breath until Brevity pointed. “There. We got ourselves a hero.”

Leto followed the girl’s finger to a table by the window where a young and attractive couple perched. The woman sipped at a tall glass while she flicked animated, slender hands around in her conversation with what Leto assumed, from the smitten look on the man’s face, was her boyfriend.

He was a composition of fine tailoring and good genes. He leaned conspiratorially over the table and offered the woman a practiced smile. The man’s fingertips rested artfully at his temple, where bronze hair ruffled in a nonexistent breeze. Leto was no judge of such things, for many reasons. But even he could tell in a moment that the hero was, frankly, perfect.

“Is the woman the author?” Claire had finally exhausted her cursing. “Brev, grab me the photo from the author profile.”

Brevity ruffled around in the librarian’s bag before flipping open the file. “Yeah, looks like Miss McGowan to me, boss.”

Leto suspected, from the stormy look that crossed Claire’s face, that the author’s presence was a very bad thing.

The librarian heaved a sigh. “Why couldn’t it have been a damsel? This is going to make things significantly more difficult. We need to corner it and keep the contact with the author to a minimum.”

“Wait—I thought we were here for a book,” Leto said.

“We are. He is the book.” Claire’s explanation was peevish as she scanned the shop. “When unwritten books get too wild, too loved, or just too hungry, they get it in their fool heads to be real. They leak into the world, usually in the form of one of their characters. They aren’t the most creative lot on their own. That guy is obviously the hero—did you see those cheekbones? All he’s missing is a sword and a white horse. That’s our character.”

“And he’s talking to his author?”

“Violating every rule unwritten works have. When I get that book back to the wing . . . Bugger. Why’d it have to be a hero?”

“What’s wrong with heroes?”

“Everything.”

“Boss ain’t exactly fond of characters that decide to wake up, ’specially heroes.” A thoughtful look flickered across Brevity’s face. “He’s just a representation of the story, of course. The physical book still exists. He can’t stray too far from the rest of his book, so it must be close.”

“Hopefully, Mr. Nightfall here is fool enough to keep it at hand, and we can wrap this up easy,” Claire said. “All right, a plan. Brevity, I’m going to need a distraction that gets the author’s attention.”

The former muse positively glowed. “Wild, public display of drama? That I can do. What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s keep this classic.” Claire turned to Leto with a smile that made him gulp. “Leto, time to earn your keep.”

3

RAMIEL

I’m glad I’m here! I’ll be the last librarian, for all I care. Think of it: what is more boring than paradise?

Apprentice Librarian Brevity, 2013 CE

The realms of the afterlife are long-lived, but not static. Realms function off belief, and will change as beliefs change. Realms can die if starved of souls, but more often they morph into something closer to legend than to religion. Eternity bends to the whims of mortal imagination.

I wonder what we would do if we knew we held such power when we were alive. It’s an opportunity.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 51 BCE

THERE’S A FIRST QUESTION that anyone who lived a good life hears after they die. It’s a simple question. And it was Ramiel’s duty to ask it.

“Anything to declare?”

“What?” The soul was a thin man, his hairline meandering that border between middle-aged and elderly. He was confused, as they always were, wobbling slightly as he 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. I just don’t care,” the guard said.

“I need to speak with an arch.”

“Arches don’t speak to the Gate, especially not to you.”

“I’m well aware.” Rami fought not to grind his teeth. Because he was a fallen Watcher, his position among the angels was complicated and barely tolerated. “There’s an abnormality they’ll want to hear about.”

“Is that so?” the angel said. The old man next to Rami shifted and finally caught the angel’s gaze. “What have you got there, mortal?”

It was a question that Rami had forgotten to ask, what with all the glowing and the fuss. The old man looked lost for a moment, gazing down hard into his hand at the trembling bit of scrap. He looked up with a brilliant smile. “It’s the Devil’s Bible.”

The silence that hung between the two angels was louder than all the shuffling of a million souls past the bench. Rami was the first to recover.

“If that’s—”

“I’ll get an arch.”

The guard disappeared through the Gates. Effortlessly, as Rami had once been able to do. But instead he was left to wait, occasionally shooting out a guiding arm whenever Avery wobbled too far away.

He sighed at the mass of milling souls that stretched out across the featureless plain. They would be backing up without processing, he knew. It struck him as entirely unnecessary. And tiring. This was Heaven. Souls judged themselves. No one found their way up here unless they were meant to be here. The processing, the Gates, the judgment, it was all a performance someone—likely the only Someone that mattered—had decided was necessary. Once, very long ago, when Rami was allowed past those vast shimmering gates and came and went from the Heavenly court at will, he might have agreed. Now he was just tired.

And he wanted back in.

“Uriel will speak to you.” The angel guard appeared at his elbow.

Rami stifled a groan. “It would be her.” He ignored the guard’s scandalized glance as he pulled the old man along. Avery was busy grinning at his pockets again.

A door appeared in the wall next to the Gates, revealing a narrow pearl staircase. At the top, Rami and Avery stepped out into a nursery of stars.

The dimensions of the room followed the general idea of an office: four walls, a smooth floor, and a high ceiling. But it was as if one had tried to explain the idea of an “office” to an elder god and this was the result. Everywhere, upon almost every surface, clung a thin film of the universe. Stars burst across the floor; an orange nebula cloud of color gestated new suns in the curve of a bookcase accented with brass spindles. It wasn’t a painting or a model; the office was molded out of life. It was a miniature, breathing existence that bloomed color and expansion. So much color, so full of texture and movement after the unrelenting sterility, it was dizzying. Rami blinked his eyes against it.

The only mundane surface in the office was a deep oak desk, but even this was held up with pillars of stars. Rami recognized the angel seated behind it.

Quite tall and nearly as powerfully built as Ramiel, Uriel was all light. Her white-gold hair was trimmed short, and her uniform was impeccable, where Rami’s was dark and faded. The uniform was not much changed from the last time Ramiel had seen it, despite the centuries that had passed. Outrageous buttons and tassels had been replaced with clean military trim, but it was still a leader’s uniform. Still assuredly Uriel. Five seconds in her presence left Rami feeling shabby and mismatched.

Uriel was always as inerrant in her presence as she was with her purpose. Rami had once chalked this up to the confidence of youth. Ramiel was from the original Watcher angels, made before the Fall. Uriel belonged to the batch of angelic creatures made after.

But as the centuries went on, the difference in age became