Bookburners: Season One Volume One

by Max Gladstone

  “What the hell are you doing here? Did Arturo send you?”

  “No. I came on my own.”

  “You had no right.”

  “I wanted to apologize. Face to face.” It sounded so shallow. “I fucked up.”

  “Yes.” Grace’s fist opened. She sat back on her thighs, on Sal’s stomach, then stood. “I almost hurt you.”

  “Almost?” Sal rubbed the back of her head. Grace didn’t offer her a hand. She rose slowly, with the aid of the wall.

  The candle flame danced, twinned, in Grace’s eyes. “Get out of here.”

  And then Sal understood, with the old detective’s trick. The problem opened in her mind like a lock at the turning of its key. The calendar, only a few days crossed off each month. The books on assignment, and none at home. No food in the kitchen. No time outside of work. No gym, no social life. The photo she’d seen in Menchú’s apartment, the Father looking young and Grace looking just the same. “It’s you,” she said. “You’re in the candle, somehow.” Behind her, on the bedroom wall, all those Society photos: year after year, and Grace unchanged.

  “I told you to leave. Do it. Don’t tell anyone about this. And we’ll both forget you were ever here.”

  Sal stared at her. You can’t hide this, she wanted to say, to scream. Tell me everything. I want to know.

  And that was the heart of it, laid bare. She hadn’t come here for Grace, or for the team. She’d come here for herself, not caring what damage she might cause.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it this time. The night pressed against the window. “I was selfish. Back with the bugs, and for a long time now. I didn’t want to let those people die, so I endangered all of us, and the mission. And here—I didn’t have a right to see any of this. I betrayed you because I was hurting, and because I didn’t think. Maybe I’ll earn your trust someday. For now, I’ll go.”

  She walked past Grace into the barren sitting room, and headed for the door.

  “You asked what I knew about getting hurt,” Grace said. Sal stopped moving. “There’s your answer. My friends dead. My life stolen. No escape. And I got out light, by most standards. I only lost everything.”

  A Vespa sped past on the street outside and far below.

  “I didn’t know,” Sal said.

  “Of course not. Everything’s about you, in the end.” Her voice was a wire garrote, sharp and tight. But when she spoke again, it softened. “We all think it is, most of the time.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “I’ll leave.”

  “You shouldn’t have come. But you might as well stay.” She sounded raw. “Better to tell it all at once.”

  “When did all this happen?” Sal asked.

  “A long time ago.”

  5.

  Then.

  They built a system that worked.

  It was easier than Grace expected. She slept most of the time. She learned to think of it as sleeping. He woke her every week without fail, and most of the time she snuffed the fire out again. When the sphere glowed, when duty called, she went with them. They learned. She fought. They brought what they discovered home.

  Father Hunter studied the books and artifacts they found. They collected spent wax and recast it, but those candles did not wake Grace. They carved, at her insistence, a piece of wax from the candle itself and reshaped it into a new, smaller candle—that one would wake her, but it burned faster. The magic did not admit bargains or tricks. No matter how Father Hunter searched, a cure remained outside his grasp.

  And when Father Hunter aged, and left, and Asanti became Archivist, she tried too, and charted more dead ends.

  Grace killed monsters whose gazes drove men mad. Grace tossed a demon over Niagara Falls, and followed it down. Grace wrestled with an angel—or something that claimed to be one. She healed fast, and if she made the candle burn brighter she could move at speeds no human being could match. She ran down a car, once, because she had to. When he saw how much of the candle that burned, Arturo asked her to promise never to do it again. That was the first time they fought.

  She saved the world.

  And every time she woke, the world was older.

  The young priest grew scars and a mustache to cover them. Gray colonized his hair, and pain those beautiful eyes.

  The missions came more often. In the eighties, they needed her once every few months at most. She took vacations, then. Now, the missions came month by month. Week by week, sometimes.

  And then they met Sal.

  Now.

  “Christ,” Sal said, when she finished the story.

  “Language, please,” Grace replied, with a little smile that was still more than Sal had ever seen her offer—easier, and more sad. “I’m an old-fashioned lady.” The teakettle screamed, and she poured two cups.

  “No one told me.”

  “Of course not. Even Liam doesn’t know. I grew tired of explaining to each new teammate—of being everyone’s problem.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You said that already,” Grace answered. “Can we leave it? I have a condition. Many people do. I manage mine.” Steam rose off the tea. “Talking about it makes things hard. People want to fix me. Save me. It doesn’t help. Better to be alone.”

  Sal took the tea and sipped and hissed as the water scalded her tongue. “I’ve been running around here thinking it was all just me—that I was the one on the outside of everything, of my old life and my new one.” She laughed into the steam. “Always on the outside of whatever side there was. You ever hear that Dylan song?”

  “No.”

  “You should.”

  “I’ll make time,” Grace said.

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you ever need someone to be alone with, I’m here. We could, like, go to a movie sometime.”

  Grace laughed—another first.

  “Stupid idea, I guess.” Sal set Middlemarch down on the counter. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  Grace caught Sal’s hand before she could withdraw. Her grip was firm, and warm. “I’m not.”

  Footsteps ran down the hall outside. Grace froze.

  A key rasped in the lock. The door burst open, revealing Father Menchú. “Grace!”

  Sweat shone on his brow. His chest heaved. Sal had never seen him quite so scared before—or, as he processed the scene, so confused. “Sal. Did you do this? You have to get out of here. There’s a security team on the way—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Arturo,” Grace said. “I called them off. Sal’s here as my guest.”

  Menchú closed his mouth, but his brow didn’t smooth.

  Grace waved Middlemarch at him. “She came to return my book.”

  The Father looked skeptical.

  “She knows, Arturo. And I’m glad. I’ve been in a dark place. In the end, that’s just another sort of wasting time.” She finished her tea. “Go. I don’t mind a party, but I need my rest.”

  Sal walked downstairs with Menchú in silence, and sat beside him as he drove through a labyrinth of Roman roads.

  “You’ve known her thirty years,” Sal said, after they’d been silent in the car for too long.

  “And she’s known me three,” he replied. “You, she’s known a handful of weeks. Trust takes time.”

  They passed beneath a high arch. The wall to Sal’s left was built of ruined ages: crumbled marble palaces, medieval plaster, and stolen columns.

  “Are you doing this for her?” she asked. “To heal her?”

  He signaled right, then turned. “Are you doing this for Perry?”

  She remembered the candle, and the small new smile, and the laugh, and the warmth of Grace’s hand. She didn’t have to say anything. She said: “Not just for Perry.”

  And then the night was roads, and Rome.

  Episode 8: Under My Skin

  Mur Lafferty

  1.

  Sal had seen Liam’s tattoos many times, but before sex, she usu
ally had other things on her mind, and afterward they either dozed off in the dark or one or the other of them left. This particular encounter, starting with apologies and ending up in bed, took place in the afternoon, without other demands on their time. A thread of sunlight snaked over his torso, and Sal got up to open the curtains.

  Liam shielded his face and winced. “What are you doing?”

  Sal flopped on the bed and propped herself on her elbows to study his ink, lit in delicious detail by the afternoon sun, like smoke signals from someone trapped deep within him.

  She traced her finger along his ribs, making him twitch. Wispy smoke trailed up Liam’s flank from a brassy lamp tattooed on his hip. “Why do you have Aladdin’s lamp down here when the rest of you’s covered in . . . Catholic stuff?”

  “That’s a thurible. An incense burner.”

  Sal frowned, tracing the smoke over his ribs and chest, keeping her finger on him even as he squirmed. “But all your other ink’s religious.”

  Liam caught her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “That tickles,” he said, pressing her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart beating. “Hang on. You work at the Vatican, but you don’t know what a thurible is?”

  “Have you ever seen me at mass? I’m still very much not Catholic, in case you forgot.” She freed her hand and poked him in the thurible. “So what is it? I’m guessing a genie doesn’t live there.”

  “The priest burns incense in the thing, swings it around, and makes the sign of the cross. It’s used in blessings, consecrations, and the like.”

  “Oh,” Sal said. “And I guess that’s a rosary?” The beads tattooed on his neck and chest were red and black and grouped in irregular numbers. At the end, a detailed crucifix was inked over his sternum.

  “I got that one after a job where it would have been useful to have a rosary along, and I didn’t. Now I’m never without one.”

  “Did you get Menchú to bless the tattoo gun or something?” Sal asked, laughing.

  Liam looked very serious. “Every time. It’s like holy water, but for ink.” He touched the backs of his hands, first the left and then the right. Tiny crude crosses occupied the knuckles where many tattoo enthusiasts put letters. The back of his left hand sported a more detailed cross, while the right had three spirals bundled together. “Except for these. I got these before joining the Order.”

  Sal examined his other tattoos, from the lamb on his left bicep and the lion on his right to the Greek character on his forearm. More and more Christian imagery. “Why so many? You ink your faith all over you, but you don’t seem the devout type day-to-day.” She tweaked his nipple.

  Liam sat up, removing her hand from his chest. He examined his own tattoos as if he hadn’t looked at them in a while. “They’re reminders. Protection.”

  “You think God will protect you more with seven tattoos than six?”

  “Leave it,” Liam said, looking away.

  “Why?”

  “These are important to me, and you’re laughing at them.”

  “I just wondered if the number mattered,” Sal said. “I didn’t realize you took it so seriously.”

  “Sure, I cover myself with ink on a dare,” he snapped.

  “And then you have dirty premarital sex with a colleague.”

  Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

  “I just don’t understand. The Church isn’t really into this sort of thing,” she waved her hands, encompassing his room in general and their naked, postcoital state in particular. “As far as I know. You have all this holy ink, like you’re armoring yourself, and yet you’re fine fucking me. We’re not married; we’re not even in love. How does that work?”

  He looked at her sharply, as if stung. “This is why I don’t discuss my faith with you. You don’t ask—you’ve already made up your mind.”

  “Liam, I don’t assume. I don’t care, really. I’m just curious. I want to learn more about you, so—” She faltered.

  “So what?” he asked, leaning toward her, challenging her. “So we can start ‘dating’ in between saving the world from demons? So we can fall in love and maybe get to have a tragic moment as one of us dies in the other’s arms? How about we plan a wedding and have it interrupted by the Orb telling us Satan’s about to take a piss on Buckingham Palace?”

  “That’s a little over the top—” Sal began, but he didn’t let up.

  “When Menchú found me, I was damned,” he said. “I had been corrupted, body and soul. When he saved me, I opened my eyes and saw God’s hand in the world. I pledged myself to do His work.”

  Sal pursed her lips. She hadn’t heard him talk like this before, like someone from a fundamentalist documentary. I’ve opened a door I shouldn’t have.

  “What you don’t get,” he continued, “is that we aren’t normal people who can afford to have normal lives. We’re always on call, with a duty more important than any friend or lover or spouse. Since we can’t be normal, I let myself peek through the window at real life from time to time. That’s why I’m fine with this.” He waved his hand at her. They now stood, nude, the bed between them.

  The room throbbed with an electricity only sex or a furious exit could ground—and Sal was too angry for sex.

  She grabbed her shirt from the chair and looked around for her pants. “Jesus Christ,” she said, purposefully swearing. “Like I don’t know the stakes. I’m a cop, Liam. I know what it is to wonder if you’re going to live to see tomorrow, to know people depend on you. I lived like that for years. Lots of people do, and they fall in love and get married all the time.” She paused in the middle of pulling on her shirt. “It’s stressful. We deal with life and death. And magic makes our work scarier. But you grab happiness when you can. If you’re determined to be unhappy, that’s on you, not the job.”

  She left before he could reply.

  • • •

  She didn’t make it to her apartment. She had stopped in her favorite pastry shop to pick up some comfort cannoli when her phone buzzed. She considered ignoring it, not wanting to talk to Liam, but checked it anyway.

  “Hey Asanti,” she said, the knot in her chest loosening.

  “Enjoying your day off?”

  Sal wondered again whether Asanti knew what was going on with Liam. The Archivist had a keen eye—but then, she rarely hinted when she could say something outright. “Just buying some cannoli. What’s up?”

  “We have some activity that might interest you. In the US again.”

  Working with the Order was the first job to give Sal the full-on roller-coaster thrill/dread cocktail. A trip to the US meant home, burgers and pizza—American pizza, the stuff she grew up eating—and English spoken all the time. And these days, it meant Tornado Eaters and demons and demon worshipers. Oh my.

  “More storm-eating monsters?” she asked, paying for the cannoli. The woman behind the counter raised an eyebrow, overhearing her. “Creative writing student,” Sal said, covering the phone with her hand.

  “Not quite,” Asanti said. “I’m still looking into the details. But it’s definitely coming from Las Vegas.”

  Sal had never been to Vegas. She put the pastry bag into her purse and pushed the door open. “Sin City? I’d love to see Grace play poker. That woman has no tells.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so,” Asanti said, sounding amused. “Go home and get a good night’s rest. We’re leaving tomorrow. I’ll brief you when I have more information.”

  “You don’t need me to come by the Archive or anything?” Sal asked, frowning.

  “Not right now. We won’t leave you in the dark, Sal, we just need more information. Trust me.” She hung up, leaving Sal glaring at her phone in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “I’m getting a burger this time, dammit,” Sal muttered, and headed home.

  2.

  Sal was hanging clothes on the line when she heard a knock on her door.

  Liam stood there, smiling awkwardly, wearing a black T-shir
t, his leather jacket, and his backpack. He carried a grocery bag under one arm.

  “Time to go already?” Sal asked, not moving out of the way to invite him in. “I thought Asanti didn’t need us till tomorrow.”

  “Not quite. I’m here for both work and pleasure.”

  Sal opened her mouth to say she wasn’t in the mood for pleasure, but Liam raised his free hand to stop her.

  “Not that kind of pleasure. Asanti wants us to do some research for our trip. And I thought I could cook dinner while we research.”

  “Because you’re hungry,” Sal said.

  “Because I want to apologize,” Liam said patiently.

  Sal stepped aside, feeling small for trying to bait him. “What’re we having?”

  “Bolognese,” he said grandly, leading her to the kitchen.

  “Really? Not bangers and mushy peas and blood pudding?” Sal asked, following him.

  “You can’t get good mushy peas this far south. I think it has to do with the climate,” he said with a grin. “We work with what we have.”

  Sal poured wine while he puttered around her kitchen. “I didn’t know you cooked,” she said, handing him a glass of Shiraz.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he said. “I started cooking after I woke up.”

  Sal nodded. “You can trust food you cook yourself.”

  Liam looked surprised, but nodded. “Exactly.”

  Sal sat down in a chair to watch him cook. “What do we know about this job?”

  Liam judged Sal’s kitchen knives one by one, found them all dissatisfactory, produced his own knife from his backpack, and began chopping onions. “You’ll love this,” he said, focusing on the chopping. “The strange activity is coming from a tattoo parlor in Las Vegas.”

  Sal took a long drink of wine. “Of course it is.”

  “It gets weirder,” he continued, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Half the problem is recorded and online—or rather, the lead-up is. Turns out our monster’s on a tattoo reality show.”

  Sal held up her hand. “Wait. We have research that doesn’t involve dusty books or listening to Menchú and Asanti fight? We can prep with wine and trashy reality TV?” she asked in wonder.