“I don’t need help,” Hero said as Rami stooped and gently heaved an arm over his shoulder. His color appeared to peak in his cheeks as Rami hoisted him up to as polite a bridal carry as possible. “I don’t need to be carried! This is an insult.”
“And I don’t need you splitting that paper cut open before it heals and getting ink all over the halls. We’ve had enough spilled-ink problems as of late.”
“Paper cut? Are you mocking a man wounded in the line of duty, warden?”
“Always.” Claire made a dismissive wave with her good hand. “You heal like a hero, at least. I don’t want to see you down here again until you’ve earned Brevity’s forgiveness.”
Hero threw her a dark look, still a bit pink in the cheeks as Rami carried him out.
22
HERO
The best of humanity can be found in Hell. I’ll fight any theologian on this fact. Hell is a place you sentence yourself to, which by necessity requires a solid bit of self-reflection. Or, at the very least, a death’s-bed awareness. Mortality has a way of forcing one to be honest with oneself; none of the frivolous barricades we erect in life withstand it. You find the failures here, but you also find the strivers, the yearners, the eyes open enough to see the distance between where they are and where they could have been. Hell is a place for the dreamers that have woken up, and the books still asleep.
In both ways, Hell is a place ripe for stories.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1933 CE
THE CEILINGS OF HELL were an underappreciated bit of architecture. All the shadows and mismatched beams—wood, stone, was that an arch of bone there?—blurred into a smear beyond Ramiel’s chin. Which Hero had a very good view of. Because he was being carried. Like a child.
“She is being vindictive,” Hero pronounced, and plucked irritably at one of the feathers that cushioned his cheek.
Rami’s steps didn’t slow, even when he jostled his elbow up to shift Hero away from his chest. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Don’t get cute with me,” Hero muttered without heat.
“Then stop with the feathers. That tickles.”
“Tickles? Angels are ticklish?” Hero took any opportunity to be delighted, especially since it distracted from the hot throb in his twisted ankle. “Who would have guessed? Wait until I tell the demons.”
Rami slanted him a look, which from this angle was heavy with long-suffering tolerance. “As I’ve told you before, I’m technically a Watcher.”
“Angel, old-as-dirt proto-angel . . . I fail to see the distinction.” Hero startled as Rami stopped abruptly and was forced to clench a hand in his trench coat for balance. “Except possibly a proper angel wouldn’t be flinging me about—what’s that frown for?”
“The doors.” The frisson of unease in Rami’s voice made Hero crane his head around. The ceiling had been all very much the same, so it was some surprise to see they were in the foyer of the Unwritten Wing. Rami had stopped near the gargoyle, who was napping by evidence of the snore that emanated, in a couple of frequencies adjacent to reality, from his alcove. If Hero twisted his head further, he could make out the upside-down curve of the Unwritten Wing’s doors.
Which were nearly closed.
“That’s peculiar.” Hero wasn’t alarmed, not yet. He was, however, getting a crick in his neck. “Put me down, will you?”
Rami hesitated, which gave Hero the opportunity to flop back against his chest a little too heavily and pin him with his best royal disdain. “I twisted my ankle; I didn’t lose it. And I can already tell the scrape is healed closed. I’d rather not fall on my head while you’re wrestling with the doors with your hands full. Put me down and stop acting like a nursemaid.”
Rami relented, which allowed Hero to almost forgive him for the way he nonsensically set him down as if he were made of blown glass. Hero thumped his bandaged foot down to prove a point and hid the grimace of discomfort as he turned toward the door.
He cleared the small distance at a limp but hesitated with his hand above the silver curve of the door pull. Doubt flickered in his stomach. He silently willed the doors to swing on their hinges. There were many reasons why the wing might close its doors, but only one reason to lock them.
A shift of movement signaled Rami coming up behind him, cautiously, likely one hand on the pommel of his sword to charge in and save the day. It was a ridiculous thought, and enough for Hero to grasp the silver handle and yank with more force than necessary. The door parted open on silent greased hinges, and Hero thrust it aside to hide his relief. “There. The doors probably closed on a breeze by accident. Let in some fresh air, Brevity?”
His voice thudded into the well of quiet as heavy as a stone dropped in a pond. The lights were on, and across the expanse of the lobby Hero saw the productive kind of clutter that the librarian’s desk had when she was working. But a chill kind of quiet frosted the air without a response, and no one stirred from the stacks.
“Librarian?” Hero tried again at a louder volume. A feather-soft touch brushed his elbow and nearly sent him out of his skin. His injured ankle filed another complaint, which he
