anything was a potential weapon.
“Is the town contained?” Pallas asked.
Maryelizabeth, a libriomancer from New York who worked for one of the major publishing houses, tugged a small black gas mask from her face. “Diluted spray of Lethe-water took care of most of the bystanders.”
“Electronics are covered,” said John, waving a trade paperback. “Broad-field magnetic blaster. Anyone who tried to record this on their phones will have a very bad day. A few shots probably leaked onto the Internet, but we can track those down and discredit them later.”
“I intercepted the cops,” said Whitney. “They’re back at the police department, writing the whole thing up as a nasty traffic accident.”
One by one Pallas took their reports. In less than a half hour, the Porters had swept through the streets of Copper River and erased most of the evidence of our battle with the dragon. Even the dragon itself was no longer recognizable, having been carved into scrap. I didn’t know how the Porters meant to pass off the huge pile of metal in the road as a traffic accident, but I had no doubt they would find a way.
“Good.” Pallas was rocking back and forth, snapping her fingers to a rhythm nobody else could hear. She was even less comfortable with noise and crowds than I was, and music was one of the ways she coped. I wondered if it would work for Jeff DeYoung, who was looking from one person to the next, trying to watch everyone at once. He knew and liked me, but he was a werewolf, and part of his brain instinctively classified the Porters as potential predators.
Given what I had learned, I couldn’t entirely disagree with that assessment.
Pallas turned to Gutenberg. “We have between 90 and 95 percent containment. We can finish cleaning up later. Dream-manipulation should help take care of any lingering memories.”
Without preamble, Gutenberg set the last of his books atop the pile and said, “As some of you know, when Victor Harrison died earlier this year, we were unable to control the scene before the police arrived. As a result, August Harrison was able to gain access to his son’s work, including a swarm of mechanical insects. He used those insects to break into the Porter network, as well as to access Isaac Vainio’s private research notes. He also discovered a cult called the Bi 
de du 
;, the students of Bi Sheng.
“Harrison then tracked and killed a pair of wendigos near Tamarack, Michigan. Using the magic preserved in their skins, he attempted to create monsters of his own, soldiers who would be stronger and deadlier.”
“How many?” asked Whitney.
“At least twenty-four,” I said. “They’re not true wendigos, but they have most of the strength and temper. Depending on the amount of skin he used, the transformation might not be permanent.”
“The wendigos are the least of our concerns. Harrison has also created his own dryad.” Gutenberg extended his arm toward Lena like a museum curator showing off an exhibit. “Unlike Ms. Greenwood, this dryad is new and untrained. However, she possesses the same strengths and weaknesses.”
“What weaknesses?”
I didn’t see who asked the question, but I cringed as Gutenberg began detailing how the loss of Lena’s tree could cripple her, how her skin would resist normal weapons, but not magical ones. She stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the wall as Gutenberg verbally dissected her. I took her hand, offering what comfort I could. Nidhi squeezed her other hand.
“Why go to the trouble of breaking into our archives and making a dryad if he already had wendigos?” That was Whitney again.
Gutenberg nodded at me. I grimaced and stepped into the center of the ring of libriomancers. “Five hundred years ago, some of the students of Bi Sheng were able to preserve their thoughts and memories in books. Their descendants have spent centuries protecting those books, and searching for a way to restore them. When Harrison hacked into my private notes, he found the answer. Not only does Lena recreate her physical body each time she leaves her tree, but earlier this year, we discovered she can do the same for another person.”
Everyone began talking at once. New comments and questions poured forth, one atop the next.
“That’s a hell of a magical kluge.”
“Can you change the body you create? Make it younger or thinner?”
“Or better looking? Especially for Bobby over there.”
“Bite me. What about cloning? If you had access to the mind, how many copies could you make?”
“Have you examined the body at the genetic level? Are they affected at all by their dryadic birth?”
“Do they have belly buttons?”
Lena turned to me and mouthed the word “libriomancers” while rolling her eyes. I gave her a sympathetic smile.
Gutenberg clapped his hands once. “August Harrison forced Ms. Greenwood to restore a woman named Bi Wei. In her time, Bi Wei would have been a rudimentary libriomancer of limited ability, but time in her book gave her a more direct connection to magic. She was a part of magic, able to manipulate it without books or other tools. While she appears to have retained this power, the greater danger is what else Lena brought forth. Bi Wei had been touched by what the followers of Bi Sheng call 
dui. The Ghost Army.”
Maryelizabeth snorted. “Wendigos, insects, dead libriomancers…how many armies does this dude need?”
“Harrison doesn’t know about the Ghost Army,” I said. “They’re using him, not the other way around.”
“Why haven’t we heard any of this before?” asked John. The handle of his book wagon wagged back and forth like a scolding finger.
“Because libriomancers are utterly incapable of letting sleeping dragons lie,” Gutenberg said calmly. “The Ghost Army slumbered for centuries. I was aware of
“Carefully?” Lena asked. “You assigned Isaac to study this thing.”
“Only when we realized it had begun to stir,” Gutenberg said sternly. “Isaac survived an encounter with these ghosts, an accomplishment limited to only a handful of Porters throughout the years.”
He raised his hands, forestalling further questions. “Isaac was attacked when he channeled more magic than he could control. These ghosts strike when our barriers are weakest. They are awake, and they are watching. Use precision over power. Do not overextend yourselves.”
“How do we find them?” asked Whitney.
“Originally, I intended to use Ms. Warwick.” Gutenberg waved Toni forward.
“Worst assignment in years.” Toni grimaced. “If I can touch the corpses of the wendigos Harrison butchered, I’m pretty sure I can find him, or at least his pets.”
“And what do you intend to do about the war you’ll be starting with every werewolf in Michigan?” Jeff asked, his words a full octave lower than normal.
Toni looked from Gutenberg to Jeff. She was a good field agent, but occasionally neglected the research side of things. She clearly had no idea how close she was to starting a brawl in the middle of my library.
“Werewolves were originally scavengers,” I said. “They dug up graves to feed on corpses. They’ve spent centuries trying to distance themselves from that piece of their past, to the point where they’ll circle a half mile out of their way simply to avoid the smell of road kill. It’s almost a religious taboo. The wendigos are buried in a werewolf cemetery. Messing with their burial sites is a good way to get yourself torn apart.”
“But wendigos aren’t werewolves,” Toni protested.
“Which is why Jeff hasn’t tried to kill anyone yet,” Nidhi said.
Toni folded her arms and turned to Gutenberg. “You never mentioned that.” She sounded like a pissed-off parent.
Gutenberg studied Jeff, giving everyone just enough time to imagine how such a confrontation would play out. “Fortunately, we have a simpler option.” He took an old pulp novel by A. E. van Vogt from the closest stack of books. “Even unconscious, Guan Feng’s memories should guide us.”
“She doesn’t know where Harrison was going,” I protested.
“She said she didn’t know. Even if she told you the truth, the brain retains much more information than it
