Bookburners: Season One Volume Two

by Max Gladstone

Her ears pricked as she heard a sound far off, beyond the screams of the demons and the pressure the magic had put on her senses. It was a sound like a door being kicked open.

  “Soon,” her own voice said, but she didn’t know whether she or the Hand said it.

  4.

  Decades of fighting demons and dealing with intricate Church politics (not to mention the intimidation and manipulation practiced by Team Two) hadn’t scared Menchú as much as that moment in Guatemala with the angel. In one shining moment of beauty and blood, he’d been changed.

  Still, he had found it helpful in the years following Guatemala to study body language, both of humans and demons. Humans were easier to read and anticipate.

  Keep your body language neutral.

  Let them get emotional.

  And do not speak first.

  The problem was, Hilary Sansone didn’t get emotional.

  He sat in the understated-yet-expensive office of Team Two, watching Sansone stare right back at him.

  The first time Menchú had heard the American phrase “Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” he’d thought of Sansone. Cold, and dedicated to her work. The few times he had seen her outside of the Vatican, in the guise of a civilian enjoying Rome, she had seemed friendly and approachable. But behind that desk, inside that suit, she was Team Two.

  Looking directly into her pale blue eyes could make anyone nervous. Stories about Hilary Sansone circulated around the office: People tended to blurt things to her. Once a stranger on the bus confessed, unprompted, that he was cheating on his wife. “I just have one of those faces,” she joked. When she joked.

  Rumor had it that, years ago, the monsignor of Team Two had asked Sansone if she ever thought about becoming a nun, and putting her organizational flair in direct service to God. They would have found it more convenient, she had confided in Menchú during one of their rare encounters outside work, if she were a man so she could take confession. Since she had no interest in being a nun, and less interest in becoming a man, she remained in her current role.

  After a minute, the smallest smile twitched at her lips. She had caught on to the game. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and regarded Menchú like an interesting insect.

  Menchú reviewed the list of the demons he had faced. All of them were scarier and more willing to tear him apart than Sansone. Then he said the Lord’s Prayer to himself, in many languages. He mirrored Sansone’s body language.

  Sansone was flanked by two members of Team Two whom Menchú had seen, but never met. They were large men—When did Team Two start employing nightclub bouncers?—and they did not look at either Sansone or Menchú.

  Finally, Menchú looked at his watch, quirked an eyebrow at Sansone, and rose from his chair. He was at the door with his hand on the knob when she spoke up.

  “Arturo,” she said, her voice mild and pleasant. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve been here for five minutes,” Menchú said. “You clearly have nothing to say to me, and I have responsibilities.”

  “This won’t take a moment. I only need you to tell me: Where is Sal Brooks?” Before Menchú could answer, she added, as if it was an afterthought, “Oh, and how long has she been possessed?”

  Menchú looked into Sansone’s eyes. “Sal left, for the hospital, I would guess. She went after the battle. She was injured.” All true, from a certain point of view.

  “And the possession?” Sansone asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “We’re unsure what happened to Sal. After we settle things, we will make certain she’s all right.” Menchú’s heart began to pound.

  “And the possession?” Sansone asked again, softer and slower.

  “Hilary, I can’t tell you anything I don’t know myself. If your people went off after every single suspected possession, then there would be no need for Team Three,” he said. “I will let you know when I know something.”

  That was the first lie. He started making a list for his next confession. Forgive me, Father. He broke eye contact and put his hand on the door handle to go.

  Sansone wouldn’t back down. “Father Menchú, you do realize that when we find her, we will have to remove the demon from Ms. Brooks.”

  “If she is possessed, of course you will.”

  “So, you are of the opinion that she is not possessed?”

  Menchú’s back was still to Sansone, but he heard the smile in her voice. He turned back to face her. “Hilary. Our Archives were attacked. We have injuries. Priceless books were damaged or destroyed. There are numerous, as Team One would say, ‘priority one’ demands on my attention—among them, learning our teammate’s status. When we’re sure demons won’t attack the Archives again, and that nothing inside the Archives is an immediate threat, we’ll be—””

  Sansone’s voice cut through Menchú’s like an axe. “You don’t consider Sal Brooks an immediate threat? She has had complete access to the Archives.”

  “That remains to be seen. We will let you know what we find,” Menchú said, and opened the door.

  “We’re not done, Arturo,” Sansone said.

  “You may not be done, but I have to lock down the Archives, and I am finished playing games. If you have a genuine complaint with me or my team, take it up with Monsignor Angiuli. Now—I have a job to do.” He left.

  Before he shut the door, he heard Sansone say, “So do I.”

  • • •

  “Give me a challenge, why don’t you?” Liam grumbled, fingers stabbing at his laptop. The R kept sticking, which made hacking into “secuity cameas” difficult.

  First he accessed the ones outside Sal’s apartment building.

  “No record of her entering the building,” Liam said, scrolling through the archived video of the last hour.

  “The demon disappeared,” Grace reminded him. “It likely teleported her somewhere— Wait. There she is.” She pointed at the screen, where Sal was leaving the building. “But that’s not her.”

  “Of course it is. She’s even wearing the same clothes she had on during the fight,” Liam said, glancing up at Grace’s stony face.

  “No, look at the way she’s walking. That is not how Sal moves. That’s not her. It’s still inside her.”

  “Now maybe Menchú will listen to me,” Liam grumbled, and was rewarded with a slap to the back of his head.

  “Do you want her to die?” Grace asked.

  “I want you to realize she’s already dead. The next step will be hard enough.” Liam’s throat went dry as he watched Sal walk in that very un-Sal-like way.

  “When she gets better, Sal will never forgive you. I hope you can live with that,” Grace said. Then, as if they hadn’t been arguing, she pointed to where Sal had left the camera’s view. “She’s turned north. Follow her.”

  For the next few minutes, Grace looked at a map while Liam hacked the security cameras along Sal’s route. Most of them caught her, striding purposefully down the sidewalk. She made a call, and then kept going.

  When she approached the doors to Monroe Shoe Designers, the Monroe security cameras went black. Liam tried to access the other street cameras in the area, but all of the cameras cut out at the same time: when Sal reached the doors.

  “Well. Now we know where she is,” Liam said. “Nothing makes cameras go dark like considerable magical activity. “

  “Let’s tell the others,” Grace said. She cast a withering eye at Liam as he was closing his laptop. “And by that I mean Asanti and Arturo.”

  “Lay off me, Grace,” Liam said in a low voice. Grace left, and it was clear she expected him to follow. Liam sat down once again and opened his laptop, scrolling through the various surveillance they had found showing Sal. It was her, but it clearly wasn’t. He wouldn’t let himself hope. She was gone. And now his job was to keep his team safe.

  • • •

  “Where’s Liam?” Asanti asked as Grace entered the library.

  “Bathroom, maybe? He was right behind me when we got to the Vatican
,” Grace said, looking back over her shoulder. “But he should be here shortly. We need to move. We found Sal.”

  “Please tell me she’s close,” Asanti said.

  “Monroe Shoe Designers,” Grace said. “A few blocks from her apartment.”

  Asanti frowned at the Orb, still dark and silent on her desk. “I think Liam and I will have to knock this thing about a bit when all this cools down. It’s not telling me anything.”

  “And then I will fix a computer, because I used Liam’s once,” Grace said.

  Asanti smiled at her. “Fair enough. But the Orb’s all we have, and if we don’t fix it, we’re sitting in the dark.” She looked up at the ruined ceiling, where some lights flickered bravely among the shattered bulbs. “Literally.”

  Menchú entered the room and winced at the destruction, as if he had forgotten its extent. “Please someone tell me something good,” he said.

  “We found Sal, and she’s close,” Grace said.

  “That will do,” Menchú said. “Get Liam and let’s get down there.”

  Asanti nodded at Grace. “Go ahead. I need to gather a few things,” she said, and Grace walked toward the ladder.

  “No, you have to stay here,” Menchú said. “The Archives are compromised. We need someone here we can trust.”

  Asanti resisted the urge to snap back. “Let me at least give you three some equipment.”

  “What equipment?” Menchú asked, suspicion in his voice.

  Asanti rolled her eyes. “Nothing dangerous. New silver crucifixes. Yours are probably tarnished black by now.” She went to a file cabinet that sat beside her desk. It had survived the battle, but only barely. The side had been smashed in, and black soot covered it. She unlocked the top drawer and struggled with the handle. The dent in the side made it impossible to remove.

  Grace and Liam returned, Grace’s face a mass of storm clouds.

  “Grace, can you open this for me?” Asanti asked.

  Grace trudged over, put one hand on the top of the cabinet and one on the handle. With a yank that looked halfhearted and a screech of metal, the drawer came free. It was full of files, all badly scorched.

  “How were these damaged?” Asanti asked out loud. Then she reached behind the folders and found a box made of carved cherry wood. She glanced up and saw that Menchú and Grace were badgering poor Liam. The boy didn’t deserve this—he was grieving, but couldn’t show it. Stupid, but understandable. She opened the box and removed four shiny silver crucifixes with her right hand. One remained in the box. With her left hand, Asanti picked up the small silver knife that lay under the necklaces.

  It was about the size of a letter opener, but very sharp. She didn’t know where it had come from; she had received it from Seamus before he left the Order. She once kept it on her desk, trying to hide it in plain sight, but its proximity made the Orb malfunction—some might say made the Orb nervous—so she hid it with her spare silver.

  She had used it once, the last time the Archives were attacked—during the few days between Seamus’s handoff to Arturo, when they were short-staffed. The team had brought in a book that wasn’t locked down. Asanti had put it on a stack for shelving, but when the team left the Archives, the book popped open and began reading itself with eyes and a mouth drawn on the inside cover. Sticky webs began covering the wall, and Asanti had had no time to alert anyone. She searched through her silver for anything she could use, and she found her knife.

  In retrospect, she was relieved that the cabinet hadn’t been damaged, because, though the webs covered her skin to wrap her up, she was able to retrieve the knife and slice herself free. The web shriveled where the knife touched, and Asanti slashed her way through the fibers until she found the book, teeming with tiny spiders. She couldn’t close it, since the book began chanting even louder, so she stabbed the knife straight into its pages.

  The book exploded. She never wanted to feel anything like that again, especially at her age. The knife pierced the open book and the volume on which it rested, mixing the magic inside them and destroying both.

  The team found her sitting, dazed, among the ruins of two books. She had told them the books exploded when she tried to move them, and they believed her.

  She had asked herself why she didn’t put the knife, which didn’t tarnish like normal silver, in the Archives with the rest of the artifacts, why she didn’t give it to Menchú after she learned to trust him, or even offer it to Grace. She told herself it was because she didn’t know how it worked, but Asanti knew it was an excuse. The knife was a gift from Seamus, and she didn’t want to have to give it up. They might also take it away from her based on the fact it was a magical artifact she shouldn’t have. But Sal was alive, and Seamus was gone, and anyway, the man’s other parting gifts hadn’t gone so well. Memories were enough.

  Asanti handed necklaces to each team member, and then pulled Liam aside.

  “You going to tell me how selfish I am, too?” He pushed his chest out and lifted his chin.

  “No, I’m sure you’ve gotten an earful already,” Asanti said. “I wanted to give you this trinket.” She handed it to Liam, handle first.

  He accepted it. With a glance over his shoulder to see if Grace and Menchú were looking, he shielded the knife with his body and gave it a careful inspection.

  “Asanti,” he said, his voice sounding more like his old sardonic self, “have you been hiding a magic weapon? That’s against the rules.”

  “Desperate times, Liam,” she said, smiling at him. “Careful, it’s sharp. The sheath was lost years ago, I’m told. Now listen. I’ve only used it once, and the results were . . . unexpected. I can’t tell you when to use it, I can just tell you it’s powerful.”

  “Might as well give me a flamethrower without telling me which end the fire comes out of,” he said, his grip on the knife becoming more tentative. “Why are you giving this to me, not Grace?”

  “You want the lie that makes me look good, or the truth that doesn’t?” she asked.

  Liam actually considered the answer. “The lie first, then the truth.”

  “Grace can handle herself. She already has magic on her side. It’s a curse, but it’s magic and it helps her in these scenarios. You don’t have that.”

  Liam frowned. “That actually sounds like a plausible reason. What’s the truth?”

  Asanti stopped smiling. “If I give it to Grace, Menchú will know, and he will take it away from me.”

  “If I use it, he will probably notice,” Liam pointed out. “He tends to pay attention when we’re fighting.”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” Asanti said. “For Sal. I believe in her. I want you to believe as well.”

  Liam took a shirt out of his backpack and wrapped the knife in it, then put it in the front pocket of the bag. “I can’t promise belief, Asanti. That’s impossible. But I can promise I’ll do everything I can as if she were still alive.”

  “That will have to do,” she said. She gave his crucifix a little tug. “And don’t take this one off, either.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Liam said. Then, suddenly, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Asanti.”

  She put her palm over the place he had kissed and stared at him. “Miracles do happen, Liam. You’re proof of that.”

  • • •

  Liam knew the knife was a test of something. He just wasn’t sure of what. Was Asanti testing if he would tell Menchú? Or not tell Menchú? Was it a test of his loyalty to Team Three? He could easily tell Team Two about the knife. They’d be interested in Asanti’s other secrets, too. Was it a test to see if he turned to a crutch in a fight?

  The knife made him feel heavier as they barreled through the city streets in a cab. It felt odd, just the three of them—odd already, after only a few months.

  He had been magically tied into the internet, and they’d gotten him out. Grace had been locked in a box for decades, and she’d been rescued. Why was he so reluctant to admit Sal might be saved?<
br />
  He knew the reason. Like Asanti, he knew the lie he told himself, and the truth underneath. When Sal had changed, when she had become the Hand, he saw a look in her eyes of pleasure and triumph, and he’d seen that look before, when they were in bed together. And that scared him. How long had she been like this, more Hand than Sal? Had he been close to the demon? Had he made love to it? He shuddered.

  And if he couldn’t tell a demon from Sal, he was in the wrong line of work. Sal’s betrayal made him question everything—everything—about his own life. No praise from Menchú would help. No confession, no drunken bar fight, no violent video game. No sparring with Grace. He couldn’t trust any of them.

  Grace and Menchú were reviewing their plans, and Liam stared out the window and thought about the knife in his bag. It was a test. But what kind?

  • • •

  Monroe Shoe Designers’ corporate offices were in an older building. It had been spruced up with security cameras, but the door was still locked with an old-fashioned bolt. Menchú ordered Liam to pick the lock, and he set to work. Liam had to put away his computer, which was ready to hack the security code, and get out his seldom-used lockpicks.

  As he inserted his tools into the keyhole, he thought again of what a waste of time this was. Dealing with possessions was Team Two’s job. What was Grace going to do, anyway? Not hit the demon controlling Sal?

  The pin inside the lock slipped off his tools and he patiently went in again. He expected Grace to get impatient, but she waited a few feet away, giving him space. She and Menchú watched him work.

  One more try and the bolt was free, letting them into the offices.

  Their ears were attacked first, with the screams of what sounded like hundreds of demons down the hall. The hall carpet was sticky with blood and ichor. “Oh, no,” he said.

  “It may not be Sal’s blood,” Menchú reminded him, and sprinted down the hall, followed by Grace.

  Liam felt dizzy. He fell to his knees, his backpack sliding off his shoulders, screaming inside—Stop being paranoid, don’t feel, just do your job. The collapse could come later. For now, he had demons to fight. And if one of them was his ex-lover, then so be it.