by Jim C. Hines
The gorgon—rather, the woman whose body Meridiana had transformed into a gorgon—called to me in English. Her name was Deanna Fuentes-McDowell, and she had been a Porter. She told me how Meridiana had tracked her like an animal, following the scent of her magic and exhausting her until she fell, then turning her body into a vessel for one of her ghosts.
I started to reach for my shock-gun. The gorgon touched a slender hand to the corner of her veil. I spread my hands and did my best to look harmless.
“Now that we’re all acquainted, it’s time for you to choose,” said Meridiana. “Help me, and I’ll restore you in return. I’ll remove the spell Gutenberg carved into you.”
“Sure, why not? That kind of bargain always ends well.”
She rolled her eyes, and once again, I saw flashes of the teenager who had gotten so exasperated while trying to talk to me about poetry.
The yeren leaped into the air, coming to land atop the head and shoulders of a statue. His next jump took him past me, cutting off any escape. The impact cracked the tile floor.
“An angel waits for you outside,” whispered the dead Porter, Deanna.
I could tell she was trying to help, but I had no idea what she meant. I was standing in front of a would-be destroyer of worlds, and the ghost decided it was time to play it cryptic?
One of Deanna’s memories floated like smoke across my vision. I saw Jeneta standing in a Porter archive. I didn’t recognize the facility, but the layout and contents were unmistakably ours. Deanna lay powerless and exhausted on the ground. Meridiana used her e-reader to pull up a book on Greek mythology. I saw her reach into the screen and fling something toward Deanna, like an inky cobweb made of words.
That was how Jeneta had transformed her servants. Instead of reaching into the text and pulling out a fully-formed object, she had seized the pattern of belief, using it as a template to reshape living bodies. It was as if she had inverted libriomancy.
Meridiana reached out, fingers curved like claws. I doubled over. My stomach convulsed, and I coughed up blood. The same blood I had swallowed to speak with Gerbert d’Aurillac. “You think to hide your conversations with the dead from me? Your thoughts are as simple to read as a children’s book, Isaac Vainio.”
The whispers in my head fell away. Gerbert d’Aurillac shared one last memory, and then he was gone.
I continued to heave. My mouth tasted of blood and ash.
The sight of me puking blood pretty well emptied the church. By the time I managed to stand, we were alone. My skin was clammy, and my stomach spasmed. “I finally get some magic back, and you had to steal it away.”
If Meridiana could read my thoughts, I’d just have to act without thinking. Lena would say that was one of my strengths. I concentrated on d’Aurillac’s final message, letting that memory fill my mind.
Meridiana gave an anguished cry as she saw Gerbert d’Aurillac holding his poem to the flames. “Damn him. He didn’t send the poem away. He destroyed it.”
I was already moving. I lunged at the gorgon and seized her veil. With my eyes squeezed shut, I pulled hard. Cloth tore in my grip. Angry hissing and the snapping of tiny, fanged jaws told me I had successfully unveiled one of the most dangerous creatures in Greek mythology. Way to go, Isaac.
I turned my back on the gorgon to face the yeren. The yeren who had maneuvered around behind me, putting himself directly in the path of the gorgon’s gaze. He had one enormous paw over his eyes, like an oversized “See no evil” monkey. I yanked out my shock-gun and pulled the trigger. Lightning crackled over his body, and he fell to the ground with a whimper.
I sent my next shot into the ceiling. The gold leaf conducted the charge, and the light momentarily blinded everyone who remained. Droplets of molten gold rained down, searing my skin like acid. I hoped Jeneta would forgive me for any scars, but hopefully the pain would distract her for a few seconds.
I heard shouts behind me, but didn’t dare turn to see what had happened. I sprinted toward the closest exit, emerging into a crowded stone courtyard where the church walls joined the Lateran Palace.
The crowd’s panic and confusion would give me a little cover. It looked like the commotion had caused at least one accident in the street beyond. Traffic had come to a halt. So much for catching a taxi.
I slowed when I realized most of the people weren’t looking at the church itself, but at the roof. A large figure wielding a double-edged broadsword stood atop the church between the statues. Broad wings stretched from his shoulders. He jumped from the edge, and his wings turned the fall into a glide. Long, ragged red hair framed a face twisted with righteous fury. He swooped past me, cutting me off from the street.
An angel waits outside. This was what Deanna had tried to warn me about. I shot at the angel, but the lightning died before it touched him. I feinted left, then sprinted to the right, keeping close to the wall of the palace. On foot, his wings slowed him down as he fought through the crowd to try to intercept me. My feet hit the blacktop. I wove between parked cars. Two seconds later, I heard the slap of his sandals behind me.
When I reached the other side of the road, I turned the shock-gun up to level six and blasted the blacktop directly in front of him.
The angel was moving too fast to stop. His sandals sank into half-melted tar, and he fell hard. His sword slipped away and clanged against the sidewalk.
I cringed at the sight of so many cameras and cell phones. Hopefully I wouldn’t end up on the news or online. I turned a corner and searched for a place to hide. I didn’t have much time before—
I didn’t see who cast the spell, but I felt it encase my body like quickly hardening mud. The road swelled toward me as if I was falling, though I had stopped moving. I reached out to catch my balance. My arms were little more than swollen stubs of slick flesh. My shouts of alarm emerged as gurgling cries.
I fell to all fours. My clothing tightened around my shrinking body, turning a bright orange. My skin was the same shade. Weirdest of all was the sensation of a tail growing out of my backside.
A gloved hand scooped me from the pavement and dropped me unceremoniously into a jacket pocket that smelled like spearmint gum. “Don’t struggle.”
Like I had a choice. I tried to climb out, but the swift, uneven strides of my captor bounced his jacket against his body with every step. I squirmed and twisted until my tail was curled comfortably around my body, then settled down to wait. I wasn’t dead, and the way today was going, that was probably more than I had a right to expect.
A crack of light appeared overhead, and oversized fingers dropped a wriggling worm in with me. I pounced without thinking, devouring half of it in one gulp. The worst part of my instinctive response was that the thing tasted so good. I could feel the worm twitching in my throat, trying to escape. I wanted to vomit, but I also wanted to chomp down the rest, to feel its juices sliding down my gullet.
We were moving again. I crouched as low as I could, waiting for the danger to pass. There were noises nearby. Loud and sharp and dangerous. I tried to burrow, but wherever I was, I couldn’t dig.
The worm twitched in my mouth. I gobbled it down in a single movement. Had anything seen me? My eyes flitted to and fro, searching the darkness. My skin was too dry, and this hole constricted my body. Fear held me motionless.
I don’t know how much time passed before my own thoughts started to return. My captor was no longer walking. From the steady growl of an engine and the vibrations passing through my body, we were in a vehicle.
My body was covered in some sort of slime or mucus, and the taste of worm lingered in my mouth. I hoped whoever had done this would restore my clothes and gun when he changed me back, because I was going to shoot him in the face.
“We’re almost there, Isaac. Be patient.”
On second thought, maybe I would accept my indignities in silence. Gerbert d’Aurillac would be proud. Rather than seek retribution, I chose to turn the other cheek. Because while the sound was muffled and distorted—
newts lacked external ears—I recognized that voice.
Even I knew better than to try to shoot Juan Ponce de Leon in the face.
I felt the lopsided gait of my rescuer—or kidnapper, depending on the role he had decided to play today—when he climbed out of the car. As I understood the story, Ponce de Leon had been struck in the leg by a magically poisoned arrow during his conquistador days, and the wound had never fully healed.
My hearing was distinctly subpar, but my sense of smell had been turned up to eleven. While pipe smoke suffused his clothes, I could have still picked the nutmeg-and-rosewood scent of his cologne out of a lineup. His hard-soled shoes echoed against cement. The smell of oil and exhaust lingered in the air. I guessed we were in a parking garage.
A door opened, and we hurried across carpeted floor, passing voices too muffled for me to make out. We stopped briefly, until an electronic ding announced the arrival of an elevator.
I figured this was either an office building or a hotel, but it was impossible to be certain while trapped in Ponce de Leon’s pocket. I waited impatiently as we left the elevator and limped a short way. I smelled wine and cleaning solutions. Another door opened, and we hurried inside.
“Welcome to the Westin Excelsior.” His hand dipped gently into his pocket, closing around my body and carrying me to the bathtub. My feet found little purchase on the wet ceramic, and then I was doubling over as my body returned to its normal size. I remained fully clothed, thank Heaven for small favors.
I looked up at the man who had snatched me from Meridiana’s grasp. This was the first time I had seen Juan Ponce de Leon in the flesh. He had a long nose and a narrow face, and was more disheveled than I expected. His wrinkled, ivory-colored suit looked like it cost more than I earned in a year. Stubble blurred the edges of his black goatee. He rested heavily on a cane of flawless black wood with an opera-style hooked chrome handle. Veins of gold were spread through the cane’s handle and collar.
It was his eyes that made me nervous. They were constantly searching, examining every corner of the room, even checking the mirrors to make sure nothing could take him by surprise. If Juan Ponce de Leon was jumpy, we were in serious trouble.
I ran my hands through my hair and rested against the tile wall above the tub. “You turned me into a newt!”
He tilted his head and said, deadpan, “You got better.”
“Oh, no. Quoting Monty Python isn’t going to make this go away. Why would you—wait, don’t tell me. Meridiana could hear my thoughts, right? Forcing me into that form, making me eat a worm, was your way of overriding my human thoughts long enough for us to escape without her finding us.”
He brought his hands together in a silent golf clap.
“Am I confined to your bathtub, or am I allowed to get up?”
He stepped back and offered a mocking half-bow, gesturing with both arms. “Watch your step. Remember, you’re walking on two legs again.”
I pressed the wall for balance. The ground did seem awfully far away, and my butt felt oddly light without a tail. I stepped slowly, determined to make it out of the bathroom without asking for help or falling and breaking my nose.
I emerged into a room that could have swallowed my first apartment. Thick white carpeting covered the floor. Heavy gold curtains hid tall windows. A flat-screen television, fifty-two inches at least, hung flush on the wall opposite a queen-sized bed with a red velvet canopy. The ivory-and-gold wallpaper looked like something out of a mansion, as did the crystal chandelier over the small dining area.
I settled into a leather sofa, the cushions stuffed with softness and extravagance.
“Make yourself at home,” Ponce de Leon said dryly. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Anything that will wash the taste of worm out of my mouth.”
He retrieved two tulip-shaped glasses and a bottle. “Scotch, I think.”
It was fortunate I was sitting down, because the first swallow would have knocked me on my ass. I blinked hard as the vapors seemed to rise through my head, leaving a layered, smoky taste. “How old is that bottle, and where can I find one?”
“Older than you. Not as old as me. And you couldn’t afford it.”
I took another sip. “Thank you, by the way. For getting me away from Meridiana.”
He raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Meridiana, is it? I thought the girl was named Jeneta. She’s your student, if I’m not mistaken?”
“She’s going through an identity crisis.” I set my drink on a marble end table. “So there I was. Isaac Vainio exits stage right, pursued by an angel. When suddenly one of the world’s most powerful sorcerers just happens to wander by. The same sorcerer who refused to answer my calls. What a coincidence, eh?”
Amusement peeked through the fog of his fatigue. “I truly had no idea you were in Rome. I was more interested in why both the Porters and your friend Meridiana had set magical wards to watch over an old church.”
I rubbed my arms. I knew it was all in my head, but I still felt like I was covered in newt slime. “She’s a thousand-year-old princess who consumes and commands ghosts, and plans on killing off half the population and setting herself up as empress of the living and the dead. Gerbert d’Aurillac trapped her in a miniature bronze universe. She’s spent the past millennium searching for a way out and working to capture the minds and souls of other magic-users. She’s trying to escape into the world, and has been using Porters and the students of Bi Sheng as vessels for her deranged ghosts. Oh, and Gutenberg fired me last month.”
“I see.” He stepped closer and rubbed his thumb gently over my forehead, in exactly the spot where Gutenberg had inscribed his spell. “I’m sorry.”
He sounded like he meant it. Only another magic-user would understand what it was like to have that part of yourself ripped away. “Thanks.”
“What prompted Johannes to do this?” he asked.
“Meridiana was trying to get into my head, to possess me the way she had the others. Locking my magic locked her out, though it obviously wasn’t enough to stop her from reading my mind.” I took another swallow of Scotch. “Also, Gutenberg was pretty pissed at me. I kind of allowed the students of Bi Sheng to escape.”
“Johannes’ conflict with Bi Sheng’s followers was before my time with the Porters,” he said. “He never spoke of it.”
“Five hundred years ago, Gutenberg sent his automatons to destroy them,” I said flatly. “Only a handful survived, trapped in limbo until earlier this year.” I stared through my glass at his elongated form. “Do you know how to counter Gutenberg’s spell and restore my magic?”
I didn’t want to ask the question, but I couldn’t not ask. Ponce de Leon was the one person who might have both the knowledge and the power to undo Gutenberg’s magic.
But the question was like Schrödinger’s box. Just as Schrödinger’s cat was potentially both alive and dead until you opened the box, so was my hope for restoration. One way or another, his answer would collapse the possibilities into unforgiving reality.
Though hope didn’t really fit, thematically speaking. Hope had been Pandora’s thing. All right, fine. It was like Schrödinger opening Pandora’s box.
The weariness and sadness in his eyes told me his answer. “I’m sorry, Isaac.”
With those three words, the damn box imploded, splinters piercing whatever hope I had clung to for the past month.
“I always believed removing the memory of magic was a kindness,” he continued. “Better not to know what you had lost.”
“Better for whom?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. “I assume Bi Wei is one of the survivors you permitted to escape? Her letter to the world was impetuous and poorly timed. I see why the two of you would have gotten along. I can only imagine Johannes’ dismay. Not to mention poor George R. R. Martin. Many of his fans believe the letter is a publicity stunt foreshadowing a new series by Mister Martin. Their reaction has been . . . passionate, to say the least.”
“I und
erstand why she did it,” I said. “The students of Bi Sheng are as terrified of the Porters as they are of the Ghost Army. But in the process, Bi Wei gave Meridiana the address of every Porter archive.”
He sat down on the other end of the couch. “From what I’ve observed, Meridiana would have found them without Bi Wei’s help. Though most of Meridiana’s energies have been focused elsewhere.”
He pointed a finger at the television, which turned on. Apparently his index finger was a magical remote. Nice.
A map of the world filled the screen. Red dots appeared like chicken pox. Not just a television, but a computer monitor as well.
“The National Library of China,” he said. “A museum in Cairo. Three Porter archives, including the Library of Congress. Even the Bibliothèque nationale de France, though the French police have kept that out of the media.”
“She’s searching for a way back into this world,” I said. “And creating pet monsters along the way.”
“Yes, I wondered how she had recruited an angel into her ranks. They generally prefer not to intervene in mortal affairs so openly.”
That comment raised a thousand questions, temporarily derailing my train of thought. Reluctantly, I pushed them aside. “Libriomancers—even Gutenberg—can only access one book at a time. Jeneta could potentially draw on millions of books through her e-reader. She was just learning to use her magic, but Meridiana was trained by Gerbert d’Aurillac, not to mention what she’s learned from the dead.” I thought about how easily she had petrified Mahefa’s hand, then took another drink of scotch.
Ponce de Leon’s finger twitched, and the screen filled with photos and video feeds showing the chaos at the basilica. Someone had gotten a jumpy three-second clip of the angel leaping to the ground, sword drawn. Another photo showed the yeren stumbling around, one paw covering its eyes.
“Meridiana knew d’Aurillac wouldn’t tell her how to free herself,” I said. “She waited for someone else to come along. Someone d’Aurillac would trust with the key to her prison. Someone whose thoughts she could peel open.”