by Jim C. Hines
ONCE NIDHI AND JENETA had left, I returned to the house long enough to change into warmer clothes and fetch my sleeping bag from the closet. Even in August, the U.P. could get chilly at night. I stopped in the kitchen and searched the refrigerator, but nothing looked appetizing. I settled for grabbing a handful of vitamins, which I washed down with a Sprite. Even that was enough to make me queasy, but I clenched my stomach until the surges of nausea passed.
I tacked a makeshift curtain over the broken door, then picked a handful of books from the library and a small reading light, slung my laptop case over my shoulder, and returned to the garden. Attempting more magic so soon would be madness—literally, if I wasn’t careful—but I couldn’t stop thinking. Our enemy knew Lena’s tree, and that meant she was vulnerable. She had survived the loss of her tree before, but while she had never spoken much about the experience, I got the sense it had come closer to killing her than she wanted to admit.
She had transferred herself into this oak. Perhaps it would be wise to do so again, to find a tree deep in the woods that nobody knew about. But would that be enough? The insects had found her here. If they could sniff out the magic of her tree, what was to stop them from tracking her down no matter where she went?
Better to defend her tree, strengthen it against attack. There were plenty of books that described magical fertilizers and spells to empower plants. With the right combination, I could grow Lena’s oak as tall and strong as Jack’s beanstalk. Though given the end of Jack’s tale, perhaps that wasn’t the best plan.
Or I could grow Lena a new tree. Did she have to live within an oak? I could grow a whomping willow from Harry Potter, giving her tree the ability to defend itself. No, Gutenberg had locked Rowling’s work. Perhaps one of the ent knockoffs from various fantasy tales, a tree with the ability to uproot itself and move about.
What would happen if I planted Yggdrasil, the world tree from Norse mythology? I doubted such a seed would fit through the pages of a book, but if I could break off even the smallest twig for Lena to graft to her oak…
“Right,” I muttered to myself. “Because nobody would notice an enormous tree growing miles into the sky.” The roots would probably devour most of Copper River. I tried to imagine how much water a tree like that would consume. It could drain half of the Great Lakes, killing off most of the surrounding vegetation in the process.
I set the book aside, jumped up, and paced the length of the garden, doing my best to avoid stepping on the plants. At the rate the pumpkins were growing, we were going to have some amazing jack o’lanterns for Halloween.
What if Lena grafted branches from her oak onto multiple trees? Would spreading herself in such a way help to protect her from attack, or would it splinter her mind?
My thoughts were scampering about with all the frantic energy of Smudge in a rainstorm. I hadn’t even begun to consider what Jeneta had done tonight. Why had my magic set things off like a rock to a wasp nest when hers merely lulled them to the flowers? I had watched her work with e-books and print alike, and as far as I could see, there was nothing unusual about her process.
I stopped in mid-step. I had been assuming it was something she was doing, a technique others could learn and master to take advantage of electronic books. What if, instead, it was something inherent in her? What if she was simply more powerful? True sorcerers could shape magic with their minds alone, and if she did possess that kind of power, it might explain why the devourers were drawn to her.
I forced myself to sit down, but couldn’t stop my legs from bouncing to an unheard beat. A bad case of post-magic twitchiness was essentially Restless Leg Syndrome for the whole body. Perhaps pleasure reading wasn’t the safest idea tonight. After ripping into so many books today, the barriers between myself and these books was dangerously thin.
Deb DeGeorge liked to describe spellcasting as shooting holes in a beer keg filled with magic. Shoot a single bullet through the keg, and you can fill your cup from a steady stream. Fire a few more, and the magic starts flowing faster than you can keep up with it. Blast the whole thing with a shotgun, and you end up soaked in the stuff.
It was an elegant trap, one which had claimed the sanity of many libriomancers over the years. As you exhausted yourself physically and mentally, your judgment eroded as well, leading you to make mistakes when you could least afford them.
Sleep was the best cure. Naturally, insomnia was a common side effect of magic use. As much as I loved being a libriomancer, sometimes magic was a pain in the ass.
I set my books aside, powered up the laptop, and began filling out a requisition form for my shock-gun. Porters were supposed to avoid carrying magical artifacts around long-term, but I thought the circumstances justified keeping the gun until this was over.
My cell phone went off before I could finish. I glanced at the screen and swore. A call from Jeff DeYoung at this time of night couldn’t mean anything good.
He wasted no time on niceties, and his terseness confirmed my sick sense of foreboding. “We’ve got another dead wendigo. Right around the same area. I think this might have been the first one’s mate, come to see what happened. Two weres heard the noise and interrupted the son of a bitch, but it was too late to save the wendigo.”
I straightened. “Did they see him? Were they able to track where he went?”
“Laci didn’t see shit,” Jeff snapped. “And Hunter died before we could get him to the hospital.”
“I’m—” I bit back the word “sorry.” A werewolf wouldn’t appreciate empty words. “I can drive out with a healing potion.”
“Laci’s got a thick head. She’ll be okay. She and Hunter had snuck off for a late-night romp, and weren’t expecting anyone to try to kill them. They found the body, then something attacked them from behind. Whatever it was, he was strong. Tossed Laci into a tree, and clubbed Hunter hard enough to crack the boy’s skull.”
I hadn’t seen anything to suggest superhuman strength in either of the two figures who had killed the first wendigo.
“What the hell is wrong with these kids?” Jeff continued. “There’s no excuse for letting yourself get caught unaware, I don’t care how horny you are.”
“Did Laci notice any insects by the body? They would have been metal.”
“Not that she mentioned, but I’ll check when she wakes up.” He sighed. “How are you and Lena doing? Neither one of you looked to be in great shape this evening.”
“I think whoever killed those wendigos tried to take out Lena’s tree. We dealt with it, but she’s pretty wiped.”
“Any idea who or what we’re looking for?” There was a hunger to his words, an eagerness that made me nervous.
“We’re working on a few things,” I said carefully.
“Bad enough to kill those white-furred cannibals in our territory, but now they’ve killed one of our pack. That makes it personal. You Porters can do whatever you’d like, so long as you stay the hell out of our way.”
Vigilante werewolves. Just what we needed. “Jeff, this guy tore up two wendigos, tossed a pair of werewolves around like dolls, and has magic I’ve never seen before.” Not to mention the devourers. “This is a bad idea.”
“He jumped a pair of dumb kids who weren’t expecting trouble. We’ve hunted these woods for generations. We’ll find the bastards.”
“Or they’ll find you.” I had no idea how many insects Victor had made. I imagined metal hives hidden in the trees, a cloud of magical bugs descending upon the werewolves.
“Let ’em.”
“You don’t even know what you’re hunting.”
“What in God’s name am I supposed to tell Hunter’s family, Isaac? Not only are we burying one of our own, now you want us to lock the doors and sit around with our thumbs up our asses, hoping nobody else gets killed while we wait for you Porters to do your thing? All your magic has done so far is show us a shitty snuff film and knock you on your ass.”
I hated werewolf-style negotiation. “First of all, bit
e me,” I said. “Second, this is my investigation. One of your pack is dead, and that gives you the right to be involved, but you work with me. Be here tomorrow at nine A.M. We’re driving down to Ohio to investigate a lead.”
“What lead?” Jeff snarled.
“Do we have a deal?” When he hesitated, I added, “If these things are half as dangerous as I think they are, you do not want them coming after Tamarack. I’m going to find whoever did this, Jeff. Either be here tomorrow morning, or else stay the hell out of my way.”
When Jeff finally spoke again, he sounded almost cheerful. “Nine o’clock, you said?”
“See you tomorrow.”
As long as I was worked up, I went ahead and called Deb to arrange a deal with the vampires. By the time I got off the phone, it was almost two in the morning. I shut down the laptop and bundled it and the books into a plastic garbage bag for protection, crawled into the sleeping bag, and settled against the base of the oak.
Lena retained some awareness of what happened outside her tree, though I wasn’t sure how much. But she would know I was here, and that was enough.
I awoke with a stiff neck, sore back, and Lena looking down at me with a crooked smile. She showed no sign of pain or weariness from yesterday. Lucky dryad.
“I need a shower and a change of clothes,” she announced, grabbing my hand and hauling me to my feet. “And so do you.”
The shower took a bit longer than usual, but it was certainly rejuvenating. By the time we emerged and dressed, I felt almost human again. I filled her in on the call from Jeff, then checked my messages to make sure everything was set for today.
In exchange for helping us talk to Victor, the vampires wanted either a Shipstone—a battery from Heinlein’s work that would power their underground lighting needs for a century—or an official apology from Gutenberg for the incident in Detroit. A message from Nicola Pallas confirmed that the Shipstone was the more feasible choice, and authorized me to take care of it when we finished in Ohio.
My biggest concern was that the vampires would try to turn the Shipstone into some kind of weapon, but if they were foolish enough to try, they would most likely just blow themselves up. I had stressed that fact repeatedly to Deb on the phone. Even if they succeeded, Gutenberg’s automatons should be able to deal with any magic-fueled weapon.
Both Jeff and Nidhi arrived as I was restocking my books. In addition to my book bag, I had retrieved a brown leather duster from the hall closet. I had lost my old jacket during the troubles earlier this year, but in at least one respect, the new one was even better. This one was fireproof.
“How’s Jeneta doing this morning?” I asked as I shoved books into the various pockets sewn into the lining, trying to plan out the tools and toys I might need.
“Frightened and trying not to let it show. She spent the first hour curled up on the couch, teasing Akha with her braids.”
“Sounds like she was in good company.” If anyone could help Jeneta to relax, it was Nidhi’s cat. Akha was, in Lena’s words, a total attention-slut. She would curl up in your lap and purr until she drooled.
“Will she be safe at that camp?”
“Safer than she’d be with us. Her e-reader was destroyed, and as long as she doesn’t do any more magic, there’s nothing to attract attention.” I tucked my microrecorder into a front pocket to make sure we could review everything we learned. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring along a few potential weapons that would work against the undead, just in case. “She has Nicola’s number as well as mine.”
Nidhi watched me prepare. “Jeneta was exhausted, but she looked better than you do.”
“Sleeping outside isn’t as much fun as it used to be.” I double-checked the safety on the shock-gun, switched it to setting four, and slid it into an outside pocket. I also grabbed books that would allow us to avoid attention and persuade any bystanders to cooperate. The final pocket got a box of Red Hots for Smudge.
Nidhi stepped away to greet Lena, leaving me with Jeff. An old-style Bowie knife was strapped to his belt, and he had holstered a revolver on his opposite hip. I doubted either was legal. Werewolves tended not to worry overmuch about things like laws or permits.
“Nidhi filled me in on those metal bugs,” he said bluntly. “She also tells me we’re going to talk to the ghost of the guy who made them.”
“That doesn’t mean one of us is behind this.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it was your man who put the weapon in their hands.”
I transferred Smudge into his traveling cage, a thin rectangular box with steel mesh walls, which I clipped to a loop on the outside of my jacket. “If someone kills you, takes your knife, and stabs the first person they see, who’s responsible?”
Jeff tightened a fist, deliberately cracking several knuckles. “A man chooses to carry a weapon, he’d damn well better be strong enough to stop anyone from taking it away from him.”
That was when the curtain I had hung over the back door flew aside, and a rush of air passed between Jeff and myself. Jeff staggered back, and a young man in a black trench coat seemed to materialize out of nothingness, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter like a gargoyle with a predilection for goth fashion. He held Jeff’s gun in one hand, the Bowie knife in the other.
Jeff’s upper lip curled back, and he snarled, an incongruously deep-throated sound for a man his apparent age. Lena pulled both of her bokken and started forward.
“You must be Moon,” I said hastily, trying to defuse things before they wrecked my place and each other.
“Sorry, man. I heard you two talking, and I couldn’t resist.” Moon twirled the knife and grinned, black-lined lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth.
“He’s the other part of my arrangement with the vampires,” I explained. “He’s Sanguinarius Meyerii. A sparkler. He’ll be guarding the house while we’re away.”
“Moon?” Jeff’s voice remained an octave lower than usual.
Moon laughed. “Weird name, I know. My parents were old-fashioned Ann Arbor hippies. You should have met my sister, Starshine.”
“The weapons?” I said.
“Right.” He handed the knife and gun back to Jeff, then brushed off his coat. He wore a black kilt and a heavy metal T-shirt underneath. “No hard feelings, old man?”
“This is who they sent? A child half stoned out of his mind?” Jeff sniffed derisively. “I can smell the pot on his breath.”
“Only because I need ten times as much as I used to,” he complained. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to prep that stuff? First I’ve got to brew it into blood tea just so I can metabolize it, and by then you’ve boiled off half its potency. Not to mention the work I had to do to find an anticoagulant that didn’t taste like filtered diarrhea. And then the stuff barely gives me a buzz. I just drink it to take the edge off the day, you know?” He winked at Jeff. “You look like you could use a hit yourself, gramps.”
“Not today,” I said, cutting in before they could go any further. “Moon, I’m not sure how much they told you downstate, but the people we’re hunting killed a werewolf last night and sent another to the hospital.”
“Shit.” Moon sobered at once. “Sorry, man. I didn’t know.”
“Just keep an eye on the place. Call me if anything happens.”
Moon gave me a two-fingered salute. “Cub Scout’s honor.”
Having spent six years in scouting as a kid, somehow that didn’t make me feel better.
I spent much of the drive asleep in the back of Nidhi’s car. I awoke with my mouth dry and my shoulder damp from drool. Wind swirled through Jeff’s open window, and a Hindi pop song was playing softly on the satellite radio.
I rubbed my eyes, then wiped my face on my sleeve. It was strange not being able to understand the words of the song. Normally, the telepathic fish in my head, courtesy of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, translated other languages automatically. But there was no mind in this case, no thoughts for th
e fish to latch onto. Just cold, dead electronics.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’ll be leaving Michigan in about fifteen minutes,” said Nidhi.
According to the dashboard clock, I had slept well into the afternoon. On the bright side, I had missed crossing the Mackinac Bridge. Strange how that bridge—particularly the fear of plummeting off of that bridge—disturbed me more than the idea of meeting up with vampires to talk to a dead man.
I checked the back window and spotted Lena following on her motorcycle. She could have joined us in the car, but had chosen to let me sprawl out and nap in the back seat. Or maybe she just wanted an excuse to ride the bike. Though the idea of taking that thing over the Bridge would have given me nightmares.
Nidhi turned down the volume. “We picked up lunch for you.”
Wordlessly, Jeff passed a paper sack into the back seat. Neither cold fries nor the greasy burger smelled the least bit appealing, but I managed to force them down without puking, which was a good sign. Between the food and the sleep, by the time we reached Columbus, I felt almost human.
We made our way around the edge of the city to a street with a row of brown townhouses on one side and a public park on the other. The houses looked identical to me, but Nidhi didn’t hesitate. As far as I knew, she had been here only once before, when she was called down to help the Porters examine the scene of Victor’s death.
A blue minivan with a dented door sat in the driveway, and a sedan with dark-tinted windows was parked across the street. We pulled in behind the sedan. I heard the growling of Lena’s bike as she parked behind us. For one very tense moment, I thought the sound had come from Jeff.
I grabbed Smudge’s traveling cage, slipped on my jacket, and waited for Nidhi to pop the trunk so I could fetch my book bag as well. I didn’t need a fire-spider to know what was in that sedan. My gut churned with the instinctive need to flee. The smell of death and rot fouled the air as we approached.
Deb DeGeorge was first out of the car. While not a true vampire, she was no longer human, either. She was Muscavore Wallacea, a so-called child of Renfield. Like the character from Stoker’s novel, she consumed the lives of smaller creatures, which made her stronger. Faster. Better. A magical six-million-dollar, bug-eating woman.