read about before.”
“Hold on.”
I’ll say this much about Nicola: she was efficient. It couldn’t have been more than five seconds before my phone beeped.
“What have you learned?” asked Johannes Gutenberg. It was his customary greeting. Never “Hello, Isaac,” or “Great job cleaning up that will-o’-the-wisp situation at the strip club last month, Isaac.” All he cared about was whatever new knowledge I had uncovered, whether it was the innermost secrets of a forgotten branch of Egyptian magic or the extra ingredient Loretta Trembath used for her spicy Cudighi.
I had never been able to describe Gutenberg’s accent. I would have expected his words to be colored by his upbringing, but I heard no trace of Germanic when he spoke. Instead, his voice was simply…precise. Every word, every syllable was carefully chosen and articulated. It made sense when I thought about it. How many languages had he learned and relearned over his lifetime?
“August Harrison has help,” I said. “Three people, all young and Asian in appearance. They used books to absorb or dissipate magic. I think the books held some kind of ghost that diluted or consumed whatever we threw at them.”
“Describe these ghosts,” Gutenberg said sharply.
I did the best I could, beginning with Nicholas’ complaints about other ghosts. Nidhi and Jeff chipped in additional details. “Who the hell are these people? You said you sent me the full, uncensored history of the Porters for— For my research project. There was nothing about this style of magic.”
“Tell me about the books.”
I closed my eyes. “They were hardcovers. Larger than most modern books. Quartos, maybe, bound in red cloth or leather. They looked like something you’d keep in the rare books section of a library.” But such uncommon or one-of-a-kind editions shouldn’t work for libriomancy. Books had to be mass-produced to build up the cumulative belief and power you needed for magic. “I didn’t see any embossing on the cover. The pages looked yellowed.”
“Did you see what language the books were written in?”
Was I imagining the urgency in his words? “I didn’t get close enough.”
“It’s not libriomancy,” Gutenberg said quietly.
I waited for him to explain. Eventually, I started to realize I could be waiting a very long time. “Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
I didn’t buy it. He might not know for certain, but he wouldn’t be this pensive if he didn’t have suspicions. “So guess, dammit.”
The silence that followed gave me time to realize I was barking orders at the founder of the Porters, a man with five hundred years of magical experience who could probably fry me through this phone without a second thought. I saw Nidhi’s hands tense on the wheel, and even Jeff gave me a small shake of his head.
“I won’t know anything for certain until you bring me back their books.”
I forced myself to count to ten, in Latin, before responding. I should have gone to at least thirty. “You remember I’m a researcher now, not a field agent, right?”
“You are whatever I order you to be, Isaac Vainio. The Porters are not your personal social club. We are a guild, bound to a purpose, and I am master of that guild. I’ve given you a great deal of leeway, due to your contributions and potential. But there are limits to my patience.”
“Yes, sir.” The words slipped out automatically in response to his unspoken threat. “But can’t the automaton bring back whatever you need?”
“Normally, yes.” His anger shifted into frustration. “However, as near as I can determine, my automaton is stuck. I’ll send you the location.”
“Stuck?”
“Locked up. Paralyzed. Bluescreened. Frozen.”
“How?”
“Presumably your friends with their book-ghosts have found a way to throw a wrench into my magic.”
“Are you serious?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “If these people can overpower your spells, what exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Improvise. As you did before.”
Take control of the automaton. I shook my head. “Lena and I both could have died last time.”
“Then find a better tactic. Our enemies have shown themselves to be exceptionally good at avoiding detection. We may not have another opportunity. If you strike now, while their efforts are concentrated on containing and depowering the automaton, you may not need such extreme measures.”
“All right.” I took a deep breath. “Any other advice?”
“Yes, in fact. If I’m not mistaken, Mister Harrison has awakened. He’s sending his creatures after you. Use them to weaken him before you attack.”
“How the hell do I do that?”
Nobody I knew could pack as much weariness into a single sigh as Johannes Gutenberg. “
“Through the queen. Victor built a telepathic interface.”
Silence.
“Feedback,” I said, feeling like an exceptionally slow student struggling to keep up. “That’s why he didn’t come after us last night when we destroyed the insects in Lena’s tree. He felt it. If we kill enough of his pets, we can take him out right now.”
My phone went dead. A second later, the screen lit up with a new text message:
“What did he ask you to do?” Nidhi asked tightly.
“Stop Harrison.” I handed the phone up to Jeff, who nodded and typed the location into Nidhi’s GPS. “He also warned me we’re about to have company.”
I dug through my satchel, looking for a book I wasn’t entirely sure I could use. But if this worked, I should be able to knock August Harrison on his ass.
The roof of the car began to ring like it was raining gravel. A beetle hit the windshield hard enough to chip the glass. It clung there, boring deeper into the tiny crater.
Nidhi flipped on the windshield wipers. The beetle held tight, and the wiper blade slid over it with a thumping sound. She switched on the washer fluid next. That was enough to dislodge the beetle, but more bugs were rattling down on us.
“Speed up,” I yelled. The faster we went, the harder it should be for the insects to hold on. I tried to ignore the clatter of bugs, concentrating instead on the pages of a good old-fashioned dungeon crawl. Gutenberg locked most role-playing manuals, but there were plenty of tie-in novels out there.
The page I had bookmarked described an enormous warrior cowering in the back of a cave as a creature that looked like a super-sized cross between an armadillo and a cockroach waddled closer.
I couldn’t blame the fighter for his fear. When I was a kid, my paladin had lost a +3 bastard sword and a full suit of enchanted plate mail to this particular monster, leaving me all but defenseless against the goblin ambush in the next tunnel.
I immersed myself in the scene, imagining the mage’s laughter as he watched the burly fighter shout in fear. Even the normally-stoic cleric chuckled before raising his wooden cudgel to strike. The creature dodged the first attack. With surprising speed, it scrambled between them, oblivious to anything save the glorious feast of steel laid out before it. Twin antennae whipped out to strike the warrior’s breastplate.
Instantly, the steel armor lost its sheen. The priest knocked the monster away, but it was too late. A dark stain of pitted rust spread across the armor, and bits of brown metal fell to the floor.
I seized that moment in my mind and reached through the book, grasping one of the antennae in my hand. It felt like a dry, armor-plated snake.
The beast wouldn’t fit through the pages, and even if it did, I had no idea how to control it. Nor was I certain I could rip an antenna off and use it effectively. But if I could channel its power—
What looked like a bumblebee built from scrap metal and a broken sparkplug punched through the
