Short of better options, Hero scrubbed his face, muttered curses to every god, librarian, and damned Watcher that had led him here, and stumbled into the long grass in pursuit of a lion.
The lioness led him across a wheat field and through a valley that Hero hadn’t thought the island large enough to contain. She never allowed him to fall far enough behind to get lost, but she only waited with an air of indifference when Hero stumbled or struggled his way over a climb. By the time they reached the rise of the white-walled city, Hero had developed a fine film of sweat and grime and torn his velvet coat in three places. His favorite velvet coat, mind you. He was still picking an extra burr from the top of his boots when the lioness stopped.
Hero looked up and had to shield his eyes from the sun. Light reflected off the polished marble like a mirror, and it took a moment to identify the wide portico of the building he’d spotted from the road. A step into the shade gave his eyes relief, and he could make out that the veranda was scattered with low couches, invitingly outfitted with pillows. On each end table sat fluted ceramic cups of refreshments, which were being enjoyed by a small gathering of rather beautiful men and handsome women who paid Hero no attention. Only one inhabitant was looking his way, and when he registered, Hero’s lip curled.
Ramiel, fallen Watcher of the Creator and glorified overstuffed bulldog of a git, did not so much sit on the couch as perch uneasily on the edge of the cushion. The fragile cup of wine looked practically toylike between his calloused fingers, and he held himself with a still awkwardness. Probably entirely due to the company to his left and his right. A stunning woman, composed of lush curves, olive-gold skin, and curls the color of perfectly roasted almonds, reclined on his right, eyeing Ramiel with a look that could only be read as hungry. Her twin—brother? clone? had to be one of those—attended a fruit plate on the Watcher’s left. Hero considered him even more beautiful, which was saying something, considering Hero knew beauty, thank you very much.
It might have provided an excellent opportunity to intuit Ramiel’s preferences, if he didn’t look stoically constipated trapped between them. His eyes jumped to the door and Ramiel nearly dropped his wine cup. “Hero.”
“Oh please, don’t bother yourself with getting up.” Hero allowed acid to positively drizzle his words. Ramiel, at least, had the good nature to look ashamed and rushed to his feet.
“You told me to meet you in Elysium.”
“Yes, well, obviously you have availed yourself of a shortcut,” Hero said.
“Lord Ramiel is always welcome in Elysium. He is known here,” the pretty man with the plate said with an earnestness.
“Others are expected to pass a hero’s trial,” his presumed sister cooed. She swept her glance over Hero in a clinical way that said he’d been found wanting. “Is this your friend, Ramiel?”
“Yes—no, I mean . . .” Ramiel’s fingers fluttered along his goblet until he recovered enough to set it down and clear his throat. “Ah, Iambe, Pallas . . . Hero is an emissary from the Unwritten Wing.”
“Oh, you work for the Library, then?” The boy, Pallas, asked with excitement.
Pallas wore a chiton that looked butter soft to the touch, if cut too short. It revealed a new inch of muscled thigh every time he shifted. It would have been unseemly to modern eyes if not paired with wide, guileless blue eyes. He was the kind of innocent that was expensive, and required resources for upkeep. Just the kind of beauty that Hero might have enjoyed flirting with once. But at the moment Hero could only find irritation at how closely the boy watched Ramiel. Perhaps that pastime, too, had been ruined along with his book.
“I am a . . . part of the Library, yes,” Hero said instead.
“An integral part, even,” Ramiel muttered, and Hero was too surprised to glare at him. That he’d chosen now of all times to gain a sense of humor was really impossibly rude.
Iambe nodded. “You’ll be here to speak to Echo, then.”
“Echo?”
“The librarian—our librarian. Of the Unsaid Wing,” Iambe said, and tilted her head. “What brings the Unwritten Wing out of seclusion?”
“Just Library business,” Hero said. He knew feigned uninterest when he saw it. Gods could only hope that Ramiel hadn’t blabbed the entire predicament with the ink before he’d arrived. “Could we be brought to Librarian Echo, then? Or is there another test to pass?”
“Test?” Iambe laughed, gaze flicking briefly to the copper-colored cat that shadowed Hero’s steps. “You arrive escorted by a Fury. They saw fit to let you live—how did you pull that off, might I ask? You’re not the typical sort of hero we get around here.”
“You have no idea,” Ramiel muttered under his breath. Muttering. He’d done a lot of that since they’d got here. Hero ignored him.
“They ambushed me at the bridge—I didn’t get much time to make an impression.” Hero shrugged. “I wrestled that one, for little good it did me, and the others seemed to back off.”
“You wrestled Alecto, in her feral form?” That appeared to draw Pallas into speaking again. His eyes widened and became even brighter, if that was even possible. “Alecto is the strongest of the pride—and ceaseless in a fight. She never gives quarter.”
“Unless she finds something too familiar to her tastes to destroy.” Iambe hummed. Her voice was light and syrupy, but her gaze picked Hero over with new suspicion. “She’s the Fury of rage, did you know?”
“I didn’t,” Hero said, now uncomfortably aware of the she-beast in his shadow. He wasn’t sure whether he was being escorted or stalked. “Perhaps she just took to my charms.”
The lioness let out a low sound at that, halfway between a purr and a warning growl. It seemed to confirm whatever suspicion Iambe held. She smiled. “Have a trouble with your darker passions, Hero?”
The name
