“Then tell me what that means so we can fix it!” Hero threw up his hands even as he felt exhilarated. To save stories. The moment he’d laid eyes on the unknown substance, a quiet voice at the back of his mind had whispered a possibility. That ink could repair his pages where the Library’s efforts had failed, so Hero could see his story again after all. That was what Probity was hinting at; it had to be. That ink was the key. The hope he’d kept firmly buried began to worm its way up his chest.
Probity appeared torn, debating before speaking again. “I’ve told you enough to unravel the lies the Library has told you. Anything more and you’ll run back to that cruel human with accusations. I might have even said too much already.” A sigh drained out of her like a surrender. Her eyes turned wet, and she diverted her gaze to the ground. “That can’t happen. It can’t. Things are too important, and moving too fast now for it to happen, no matter my own feelings. You wanted to escape Hell once, didn’t you?”
Hero was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the sudden change in Probity’s tone. At least, not until Rami gripped his shoulder in warning. “We will be missed, should we not return soon,” Rami said carefully. “We’ll be on our way.”
“Hell, one of the judgment realms.” Probity seemed to be considering to herself. “Really, they are all so very much the same. One damnation is the same as any other. I wonder how those are connected.”
“Muse . . . perhaps we can speak to a different representative before we go,” Hero said carefully.
“It’s for the stories. It’s . . . Brevity would do the same if she were here. I know it,” Probity whispered. Her voice wobbled, but her hand was firm as she raised it in front of her face. Rami jerked Hero back another step, but there was nowhere to precisely retreat to. Probity’s smile looked distinctly unhappy. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But there’s no point in that. You were never here.”
Probity’s fingertips tapped against the film of water, and there was a soft pop. Rami’s fingers dug into his arm, Hero drew a sharp breath, and the entire sphere of space dissolved into stars.
19
HERO
Myrrh. I did not hold with my senior’s suspicions. At least, not until Librarian Ji Han was gone. Now nothing seems right. But I am not a scholar. I’m here because I am a failed storyteller—what can I know of books?
Demons; demons I know. I caught a lesser infernal trying to sneak into the stacks again today, and this time I questioned him: why are Hell’s creatures interested at all in the Library? He seemed to not know himself, except the Library had always been here, and the books were irresistible to their kind, coveted by even the great dukes. Jackals.
Hell was born with a library, or evolved one soon after. Men condemn themselves to Hell, but who passes judgment on mere books?
Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 791 CE
HANGOVERS WERE, TRULY, CREATIONS of the devil. Hero felt he could say that with authority. His head thudded, dull and constant as a drum. He was under no encouragement to open his eyes, or remove his cheek from the warm wood surface supporting it.
“Hero.”
Someone leaned over him. Someone with a voice like bourbon in a cut-crystal glass. Excellent, and matching the big hand that tentatively wrapped around his shoulder and gave him a shake. “Hero,” the voice said again.
“Shan’t. Go away. Guards—”
“You don’t have guards.” The voice paused, and an amused tone crept in. “Well, besides me.”
“Then you’re dismissed. Go join the rebellion for all I care.”
“Hero—”
“But haul yourself out first. That’s an order.”
Another pause. The hand left his shoulder and Hero idly leaned for the missing warmth. There was a huff of a laugh. “Did that kind of order even work in your story?”
“I—” Hero’s sleepy mind tripped on that, and unfortunately it brought him fully awake. His eyes sprung open and he bit back a yowl as light weaponized itself like blades into his headache. Between squinted eyelids, he could just make out the uneven grain of a wood table that was battle-scarred but clean. Raising his head brought the world to a proper perspective. They were in a large room, cluttered with candles and a cheerful melancholy. Other figures were clustered in small groups at tables identical to his, but talk was subdued, words drifting through the sweetly spiced air like memories.
“Where the hell are we? I mean, obviously not Hell, but . . . and why does my head feel as if I was kicked by a gargoyle?”
“You’d be a lot worse if I hadn’t lent a hand. I believe the muse yanked the realm right out from under us back there.” Ramiel sat in the booth across from him. “Sat,” however, might have been a bit of a stretch, as the stubby, broad angel looked afraid to breathe for fear the bench would give up the ghost. “Dropped us straight into nothing, and with as long as we fell, you’d have arrived as so many paper scraps if I hadn’t had a hold of you. I’m not certain we were supposed to survive the trip.”
“And you brought us here?”
Rami looked abashed. “We . . . woke up here. On the floor.”
“Probity. That harpy reject is dead when we get back,” Hero muttered. He rubbed his head tenderly, which at least kept Rami from correcting him on the lineage of muses.
Ramiel made a sympathetic face instead and grabbed one of the cups in front of him. “Here, I think the tea helps.”
The pot was a slender silver contraption, and Hero watched with amusement as Rami attempted to pour a cup the way most men might approach defusing a bomb. The liquid ended up in the proper container, for the most part. Hero took
