by Jim C. Hines
I stared, poetry forgotten. “You wrote that book?”
“Shut up,” snapped Gutenberg.
“You have a distinctive voice,” Ponce de Leon continued. “Even after all these years. You’ve gotten much better. I thought the ongoing romance between Ron and Hermione was particularly well done.”
I had to be one of the only living people who had ever seen Johannes Gutenberg blush. “You told me you had hired a fanfic writer, a woman—”
Gutenberg lowered his head, ignoring us and pretending to read. I knew perfectly well that he could see and manipulate a book’s magic without ever opening the cover, but he buried himself in the pages, his eyes darting to and fro.
“He did,” Ponce de Leon said. “In a manner of speaking. Check online for work by ‘Darcy Nacht.’ That’s the alias you’ve been using lately, isn’t it?”
I jumped out of my chair and headed toward Nicola’s computers.
“If you so much as touch that keyboard, I will turn you into a caterpillar and feed you to your own fire-spider,” Gutenberg said.
“Don’t worry.” Ponce de Leon winked at me. “I’ll change you back before Smudge eats you.”
Gutenberg’s expression convinced me I was better off not pressing my luck. I clamped my jaw, pressed my lips together, and returned to my work.
“There’s nothing shameful about fanfiction,” Ponce de Leon said. “That piece you did about Shakespeare and Elton John—”
“Not now, Juan.” Gutenberg had picked up his copy of Harry Potter. “It’s ready.”
Ponce de Leon’s face darkened. “Johannes . . .”
“I know,” he said without looking. “But Meridiana has been fighting to return to our world for a thousand years. We’ve always known something was working to claw its way back and destroy us all. This is why I created Die Zwelf Portenære. Twelve Doorkeepers to guard the way. We cannot allow her to succeed.”
“Meridiana wants to supplant God,” Ponce de Leon said. “If you attempt to eliminate magic, to rewrite the world as you see fit, how are you different?”
“False equivalency? You’re better than that, Juan. Besides, if it comes to that and I do use this spell, wouldn’t that prove it was all part of your God’s plan?”
I turned toward Ponce de Leon. “You believe in God?”
“You sound surprised.”
I was, a little. “Everything in the Bible can be explained by magic. With all you’ve done, all you’ve seen, how can you still believe?”
He smiled at me. A little sadly, I thought. “With all you’ve done and seen, how can you not?”
“Proselytize later.” Gutenberg’s fingertips sank into the paper. He grimaced. “Never attempt libriomancy with your own work. It’s like repeatedly slamming your brain in a toilet seat, then flushing it away.”
“Lovely simile,” said Ponce de Leon. “You should use that for your next story.”
Gutenberg reached deeper, burying his hand and forearm in the book. He blinked sweat from his eyes. I couldn’t tell if his exertion was from the mental dissonance of working with his own book, or the relatively small pool of belief empowering that book.
Gutenberg stiffened as though he had been hit by an electric shock. At the same time, Ponce de Leon jumped from his chair. He turned in a slow circle, searching the room. “We’re not alone.”
“I feel it,” said Gutenberg through gritted teeth. “Isaac, fetch Nicola.”
I ran onto the balcony. Nicola was already sprinting toward the farmhouse. She must have sensed it, too.
“She’s on her way,” I said.
Gutenberg began to drag the Goblin’s Scepter from the book. From the description he had shared, the scepter was supposed to be a thing of beauty, made of carved gold inlaid with silver and jewels, and topped with a magical sapphire. The handle Gutenberg struggled to pull free looked like a blackened stick from a burnt-out campfire. Thin metal prongs grasped his wrist like burnt fingers.
Ponce de Leon stood opposite Gutenberg, his hands stretched out like he was holding an invisible glass dome over the book. “Isaac, gather the poem and get out of here.”
I nodded and began scooping up my pages and notes.
“How did she find you?” Ponce de Leon sounded calm, but his hands were trembling.
Gutenberg grimaced. “I couldn’t say. Either she sensed my attempt to use the book, or more likely, she heard rumors about its release and correctly surmised this was a Porter-sponsored publication.”
Nicola burst through the door, breathing heavily. She took one look and began to sing.
I had heard her sing before. I realized now that I had only heard a fraction of her power. Her voice flooded the room, every word pounding through my body, shaking the bones from within.
It was also the first time I had heard Billie Holiday’s “Ill Wind” sung in the style of a professional opera singer.
“Thank you, Nicola.” Ponce de Leon relaxed whatever it was he had been doing, snatched his cane from the air, and pressed the tip to the scepter.
I wasn’t sure how I could hear him over the sound of Nicola’s singing. Perhaps it was something deliberate on her part, to make sure we could still communicate.
“It’s digging into my flesh,” Gutenberg said tightly. “And it appears to be growing. Severing it from the book won’t—”
“You’d prefer I remove your arm?” Ponce de Leon put a hand on the side of Gutenberg’s head. For a second, I saw the ghost of a long, silver blade extending from his cane. He slashed downward, cutting through the scepter. Gutenberg stumbled back, the broken artifact still clinging to his wrist.
A shadow squeezed up from the book, tearing pages loose from the spine. Blackened paper swirled through its body. It flew past me to slam the door, then paused as if assessing the room. Charred pages continued to rip from the book, flowing after the shadow as it moved toward Nicola.
I pulled my shock-gun and brought the lightning. The gun’s magic didn’t hurt the ghost, but if nothing else, maybe magic lightning would keep the damn thing preoccupied while it countered my attack. For a few seconds, at least.
“I had hoped going print-only would allow us to escape Meridiana’s notice.” Gutenberg grabbed the blackened stump of the scepter and tried to pry it from his arm. “She didn’t try to stop me from creating the scepter. She simply redirected its power to try to use it against me. I should have anticipated this.”
“She does have twice your experience,” said Ponce de Leon. He had set his cane aside and was probing the skin of Gutenberg’s wrist, like a doctor examining a wound.
A second shadow started to climb from the book. Nicola walked toward us, her song a palpable force hammering the ghost back.
“Johannes . . .”
“I know.” Gutenberg grimaced. “Give me the book. I might be able to reshape the scepter back to its proper form and salvage this mess.”
The false Harry Potter book fluttered through the air like a bird, alighting in Ponce de Leon’s outstretched hand. I couldn’t see what he did, but the second ghost vanished through the pages like it had fallen into a pit.
“She redirected the scepter’s power?” I asked. The scepter was designed to lock away the world’s magic. Meridiana had turned it against Gutenberg. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s unraveling my spells, one by one,” said Gutenberg.
Ponce de Leon stepped around behind Gutenberg. With one hand he held the open book steady. With his other, he guided Gutenberg’s hand and the scepter back toward the pages. “Read, dammit.”
I heard pounding from the other side of the door. The ghost must have locked or reinforced it. Moments later, Lena’s fist punched through the wall beside the doorframe.
Ponce de Leon helped Gutenberg press the broken scepter against the page. “If you can’t separate it, I may need to temporarily remove the forearm.”
I waited for the scepter to vanish back into the book, but all that happened was the jagged metal tore a hole
in the page.
“I can’t. She’s locked away too much of my magic.” Gutenberg looked toward me and started to laugh, a sound that blended despair and genuine amusement at the irony. “It seems I need another libriomancer to assist me.”
Ponce de Leon was powerful, but he had never learned or mastered libriomancy. Nicola was a bard. I didn’t know if the Porters had a single libriomancer in all of Wisconsin. Even if they did, by the time someone got here . . .
Gutenberg’s hand was pale. The scepter had cut off the circulation. He looked up and nodded. “Do it.”
Ponce de Leon tossed the book aside. His belt slid loose like a snake and coiled around Gutenberg’s arm: a makeshift tourniquet. Ponce de Leon lowered him gently to the ground. He grabbed a ballpoint pen and used it to draw a blue ring around Gutenberg’s arm below the elbow.
“Modified fairy ring?” asked Gutenberg.
Ponce de Leon nodded. “Infused with fire, so this will hurt. I’m hoping to cauterize the wound as much as possible.”
I continued my attack on the remaining ghost. Lightning seared the wallpaper behind it and started a small fire on the wall, but the ghost itself was still strong, diverting or dissolving every shot.
I glanced down, both horrified and fascinated, as Ponce de Leon prepared his spell. I had read of fairy rings being used as a form of gateway. In this case, the ring would open a gate through Gutenberg’s arm, which should instantly and cleanly sever flesh and bone.
Ponce de Leon kissed the back of Gutenberg’s head, and then the blue ink flashed orange. Gutenberg cried out. The flames died instantly, but the smoke remained, filling the air with the smell of burnt meat.
Ponce de Leon was already dressing the stump with bandages he seemed to have pulled out of the air. “Hold still, mi amor.”
Gutenberg’s head sagged against Ponce de Leon’s chest. His face and lips were pale and covered in sweat. His remaining hand shook uncontrollably.
I had cataloged countless books with the power to regrow an amputated limb, but the physical loss would be secondary. I kept shooting, trying to keep the ghost at a distance. “What about his magic?”
Ponce de Leon looked over as though he had forgotten I was here. “Gone. Locked in a fashion similar to your own.”
Gutenberg opened his eyes. “It’s a remarkably unpleasant sensation.” His voice trembled. “I’ve not felt this vulnerable for centuries.”
“It can be reversed?” asked Ponce de Leon.
“Possibly.” He looked over at the book. “I can’t see the damage. How bad is it?”
“The book is charred beyond use, and continuing to ooze raw magic.” Ponce de Leon picked up his cane. “Don’t move.”
He stood and walked toward the remaining ghost. I stopped firing.
The ghost attacked, but Ponce de Leon was faster. His cane impaled the thing through what might have been its heart. He didn’t break stride, pushing it backward until he pinned it against the wall. He twisted the cane, and the shadow writhed in pain. Blue and green flame crackled outward.
Gutenberg looked over at me and tried to sit up. “It looks like we’ll need to find you another libriomancer to assist with the poem.”
“Be still,” said Ponce de Leon. “Don’t make me use magic to force you to rest.”
Gutenberg grimaced. “It stings. All those words, melting away.”
A month ago, I would have called this justice. I was the final entry on a long list of people Gutenberg had robbed of their magic. Wasn’t it right that he finally understand what he had done?
But knowing what he was going through made it impossible to feel any kind of satisfaction over his loss. “I’m sorry.”
He pressed his lips together, then sighed. “As am I.”
Nicola had stopped singing at some point. I hadn’t even noticed. She crouched beside Gutenberg to examine the bandaged stump and began a new song. A little of the tightness eased from his body.
“Thank you,” he said. “Isaac, would you and Nicola please help me to my feet?”
“You need rest, dammit,” said Ponce de Leon.
“Meridiana now knows we’re here,” he said, reaching for Nicola’s hand. “We have little time.”
Ponce de Leon shouted something in Spanish, and the last remnants of the ghost disappeared. The fire from my lightning died as well. At the same time, Lena finished ripping through the wall. She stepped inside, swords raised. Smudge crouched on her shoulder. “What happened?”
“Gutenberg tried to create the scepter.” I stared at the man who had revolutionized the world of magic. He could barely stand. His pale, damp face and trembling body suggested he was slipping into shock. “Meridiana—”
Ponce de Leon raised a hand. “Don’t move.”
“I hear it, too,” said Nicola.
The room was silent. Ponce de Leon gripped his cane with both hands. I readied my shock-gun, though I didn’t know where to aim.
Ponce de Leon spun, his eyes wide. “Johannes, get away from—”
What remained of Harry Potter and the Goblin’s Scepter opened of its own accord. A broken shaft of blackened gold shot through the air to embed itself in Gutenberg’s chest.
The impact knocked him to the floor. His dead eyes stared in surprise and confusion.
UNLIKELY ALLIES
WASHINGTON, D. C.—The National Rifle Association has joined with the American Civil Liberties Union to protest a bill proposed yesterday in the United States Senate.
The proposed bill, which sponsor Susan Brown called the “Magical Security Act,” would set restrictions on the use of magic within the United States of America. The law would make all magic illegal for anyone under the age of eighteen. Individuals eighteen years and older would have to apply for a license to practice magic.
A national poll earlier this week suggested that roughly fifty percent of U.S. citizens were somewhat skeptical or very skeptical about recent reports of magic throughout the world. The other half believed something supernatural was indeed happening, though theories ranged from magic to aliens to religious miracles.
“I have seen proof of magic with my own eyes,” said Brown. “If I’m wrong—if the growing body of evidence turns out to be a hoax—then we lose nothing by passing this law. But if magic is real, and if it presents as serious a threat as recent events suggest, then we must act immediately to protect the safety of the American people.”
Dwayne Williams of the NRA disagreed. “This is a clear Second Amendment issue.” Williams appeared at a press conference wearing a T-shirt showing a bearded wizard in robes and a pointy hat, along with the words, “You can take my wand when you pry it from my cold dead hands.”
“Every American has the right to self-defense. I don’t believe in witchcraft, but the truth is, we don’t know what’s out there. If magic is real, this legislation would cripple our ability to protect ourselves. We’ve been down this road before. They imprisoned Japanese citizens in World War II because people were afraid. They impose burdensome regulations on law-abiding gun owners because people are afraid. Now Susan Brown wants to lock up magic-users, not for any violation of the law, but because they’re afraid.”
Karla Henson of the ACLU had a slightly different view. “This bill is a blatant attack on religious freedom. Will Wiccans, Pagans, Vodouisants, and others whose belief involves the practice of magic be expected to register with the U.S. Government? Magic, if it exists, isn’t a weapon any more than my hand or foot are weapons. A martial artist can kill with a single strike, but we don’t require them to be licensed by the government. Magic is a part of who these people are, as much as their blood and bones. This is a critical junction in our history. We have the opportunity to set an example for the world, to show that we value freedom over fear.”
Williams encouraged NRA members to rally at both the state and national level. “The choices we make today will shape our country and the world for decades to come. Let’s make sure our leaders do the right thing.”
&n
bsp; BLOOD SEEPED FROM THE wound in Gutenberg’s chest. Nicola crouched beside him and sang a low hymn. “There’s no pulse. No mental activity. He’s dead.”
With all the experiences I’d had since the Porters found me, those two words marked this as the most unreal. It was like she had announced the sun would no longer rise each morning.
“He died almost instantly,” she continued. “He would have felt the impact, perhaps a split second of pain, but nothing more. The scepter is no longer magically active. I’m not sure about the book.”
Ponce de Leon raised his cane. “Get back.”
His words were utterly cold. We scrambled out of the way. He pointed his cane at the book, and death poured forth. White fire disintegrated a three-foot hole through the floor, but the book floated in the air, pinned by magic. Another ghost tried to crawl from the pages. The light seared it to nothingness as it emerged.
The air smelled of salt and ice. Floorboards crumbled like sand. The lamps flickered and died. I backed away and shielded my eyes from the light of Ponce de Leon’s assault. It was like looking into the heart of a star.
When the flames finally disappeared, nothing remained of the book. White hoarfrost covered Ponce de Leon’s cane, though why frost should be a side effect of such intense heat was beyond me. Perhaps some sort of backlash.
Magic could cheat death, as Gutenberg and Ponce de Leon had done for all these years, but no spell could reverse it. Ponce de Leon turned toward the body, raising his cane as if he was determined to try anyway.
I turned so that my shock-gun was hidden behind my body and adjusted it down to setting four, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. He knew what would happen if you tried to restore function to a corpse, but he wasn’t thinking rationally. At best, he would probably just create a host for another of Meridiana’s ghosts. At worst . . .
“He’s gone,” said Nidhi. I hadn’t noticed her joining us. Her face was drawn. She watched Ponce de Leon like he was a pacing tiger.
Slowly, he lowered his cane. He limped to Gutenberg, moving more heavily than I had ever seen him do. He gripped the bar in Gutenberg’s chest. Metal scraped bone as he pulled it free. He tossed the inert bar aside. It struck the floor with a dull clunk. “I know.”