That appeared to amuse their host. Sraosha tilted their head, considering. “No, I suppose you missed your call before now.”
“Kind host,” Rami interrupted, raising a placating hand. “I’m afraid there is a misunderstanding. We’re not souls awaiting judgment. Hero and I are representatives of the Unwritten Wing of Hell’s Library.”
Even after all this time, Rami still had trouble with the H word. His brow always did a microscale twitch as he stumbled over the word. Hero usually delighted in drawing it out, even if there was no time to do so now.
“Yes, I am aware who you are, Ramiel of the Watchers.” Sraosha ignored their surprise by turning their attention. “And you, Hero of the Lost Book.”
Hero’s mood curdled. “I know precisely where my book is, thank you.”
“Oh?” Sraosha tilted their head. “Is that the when? My apologies. It is easy to lose track in the tearoom.”
Unease sifted up through Hero’s confusion, though he couldn’t place a finger on it. Thankfully, Rami knew when to step in. “If you know us, then you’ll know we are not meant for this realm. We arrived here by misstep, and we can be on our way if you simply indicate the way out.”
Sraosha tilted their head to the exit with a practiced gesture. “The exit is, of course, that way.” They paused, studying them both. “But the only way is the bridge.”
Hero suspected very much that he did not wish to avail himself of the bridge. Bridges in after-realms, in his experience, had a troubling way of leading to grief and bloodshed. Symbolism was a bitch. “I don’t suppose you have a gently sloping path.”
“The bridge is quite comfortable,” Sraosha said. They appeared to scrutinize Hero for a moment. “Human souls find on the bridge only what they take with them.”
“How lucky that I am not one,” Hero said. “Souls sound like rather pesky things.”
“There’s no other exit out of this realm?” Rami interrupted before Sraosha could say something irritatingly vague and profound again. “Surely there is.”
“On the far side, past the bridge,” Sraosha offered with a gentle lift of their hand. “Once you cross, the judges might be happy to grant you audience and passage to your realm.”
“Judges are not usually our most ardent allies,” Hero reminded Rami. The irritated look he threw reassured him that the angel was well aware of the trouble Hell’s Library dragged around with them like a tin can on a string.
“There’s no exit from this side? Not even for nonhumans such as us?” Rami pressed. Hero was again reminded of the nightmare that was the abandoned realm of crocodiles and labyrinths. They’d fallen through a gate that had remained open. Ramiel himself had been there, still struggling to fulfill his role as avenging angel and barring their path. He’d taken away their only route back, and Leto, their youngest companion, had sacrificed himself for it.
It seemed like the kind of thing Hero should hold a grudge about. He knew himself and was very aware of his deep capacity to hold grudges. It was his favorite pastime. But every time he tried to rip the scab off that memory, instead of anger he got something different. He remembered clutching Claire as they’d scrambled over the crocodile god’s back. He’d tossed one wary look behind them, expecting to see this malevolent angel that had been dogging them. Instead, shadowed in the doorway of the arch, he’d seen a worn man in a shabby coat, with the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. Hero knew what it looked like to be lost and far from home.
Neither Hero nor Rami could go home again. It’d been hard to fault him for trying.
Sraosha shook their head. “This tearoom is simply a resting place for unjudged souls. Some dead refuse to cross the bridge without a loved one; others simply need to accept their death and summon up the courage to cross.” They paused, a thoughtful look coming upon their confident features. “Strange that you should fall here.”
“We had help.” Rami flicked a glare toward the ceiling, as if he could have struck Probity from here.
“Nonetheless, there’s nothing for ones such as you to gain by waiting here.” Before they could protest, Sraosha straightened their shoulders, pulling up authority like a cloak. “Last call.”
A faint hiss brought Hero’s attention down to where steam was sizzling out of the teapot. When he inspected his own cup, it was dry as a bone. “You’re kicking us out? Bad form!”
“I am encouraging you to move forward.” Sraosha began their ritual of wiping the booth table.
“What happens on the bridge, Sraosha?” Rami asked, intent as a hunting dog. “How can we pass it?”
Sraosha pursed their lips. “I suppose most souls arriving here would already know that much, so I may explain. One is guided through Chinvat to pass beneath the judgment of Divine Mithra and Rashnu.”
“Chinvat?” Rami stared. “This realm is a realm of Zoraster?”
Sraosha tilted their head. “It is a realm for those who know that truth, yes.”
“What judgmental nonsense is it this time?” Hero lifted his shoulders when Rami frowned at him. “What? I’m an atheist.”
“Atheist?” Rami was aghast. “You literally live in Hell. You have met literal gods.”
Hero sniffed. “Yes, and I didn’t find myself that impressed.”
The way disbelief lit Rami’s gray eyes was simply delightful. “You weren’t impressed—”
“Honored guests,” Sraosha cut in, before Hero could bait a further reaction. “This was your last call. If you are so curious about the Chinvat, perhaps you can see it for yourself and continue your debate. Outside.”
Their host’s tone brooked no argument. Rami threw Hero
