by Jim C. Hines
“Sir, you need to stay back.” This was a man clearly practiced in using his voice as a tool to keep people in line, and his tone suggested he was equally prepared to use other tools if his words failed to do the trick.
I glanced back to make sure none of the reporters were paying attention. The last thing I wanted was to get mobbed by news crews looking for a sound bite. “My name is Isaac Vainio. I’m a libriomancer, one of the directors for New Millennium and a member of the Porters. We can help.”
He looked the three of us over. “Nobody gets across that line. Especially magic-using types.”
I understood his paranoia, even as frustration tightened already-tense muscles in my neck and jaw. For all he knew, we were here to finish the job the werewolves had begun.
I looked past him to the two ambulances parked on the sidewalk. Their crews were checking over a small group of people with blood on their clothes. A short distance beyond was a white FBI truck, possibly a command vehicle. I counted three other vans, another FBI truck, and six state and Lansing police cars.
I glanced at his badge. “I know your people and the EMTs are doing everything they can, Officer Blackwell. But if it’s true werewolves did this, then their victims could have been infected, and we have a very limited window to help them. I’m the only person within a hundred miles who can guarantee those people remain human.”
He jerked his chin at Nidhi and Lena. “They’re libriomancers too?”
“I’m Doctor Shah,” said Nidhi. “I’ve been with the Porters for more than fifteen years.” She touched Lena’s arm. “Ms. Greenwood is my assistant.”
“Depending on what species of werewolf did this, the survivors could be a danger to your officers,” I pressed. “I’ve consulted with the State Police in the past. They can vouch for me.”
“Don’t move.” He stepped back and spoke to someone on his shoulder-mounted radio, never taking his attention off us. I couldn’t make out the response, but a moment later he raised the police tape and beckoned us through. He patted each of us down, a process that took much longer with me, given the number of books tucked into my duster pockets. By the time he finished, two more people had joined us.
“Identification.” The speaker was a middle-aged woman in a state police uniform and vest, with the kind of focus and determination that made me think she could work this case for thirty-six hours straight on nothing but coffee and attitude.
Her companion was an older man with the face of a graying bulldog and an FBI badge clipped to his belt. Between the street lamps and various floodlights, I was able to make out that his name was Steinkamp, and he was a Special Agent from the Magical Crimes Unit in the Detroit Field Office.
Nidhi and I produced our driver’s licenses. The police officer inspected them both, handed them back, and looked expectantly at Lena.
“I don’t have one.” Lena held out one hand and grew a single green bud from the palm of her hand. “Michigan’s DMV refuses to grant a license or state ID to nonhumans.”
“She stays here,” said Steinkamp. “We’ve had too many people contaminating the scene as it is.”
“It’s all right,” Lena said, before Nidhi or I could argue.
“Sign here.” The officer, whose badge read ROWLAND, passed me a clipboard. I jotted down my name, title, organization, and the date and time, then handed it to Nidhi to do the same. “You touch nothing unless absolutely necessary. Blackwell’s going to be your police escort. You obey his instructions at all times, got it?”
I nodded, trying not to let my impatience show. “How did the werewolves get inside?”
Steinkamp scowled. “There was a fucking Boy Scout tour scheduled for six o’clock. Normally tours end at four, but the scout leader has a friend in the legislature. The werewolves waltzed right in with them.”
“Are the kids all right?” asked Nidhi.
“Define all right,” said Rowland. “They’re terrified enough they’ll be pissing their beds for a month, but physically they’re fine.”
“Four people have been taken to Sparrow Hospital,” said Steinkamp. “The rest of the wounded are being checked over by the EMTs. We’ve got agents interviewing witnesses across the street, several of whom have minor cuts and scrapes.”
“I can call Nicola and ask her to send a Porter to the hospital,” said Nidhi.
“The Evidence Response Team is inside with the coroner,” Steinkamp continued in a softer voice. “They haven’t taken the bodies away. Is there anything you can do . . .”
“Raising the dead has been tried before. It wasn’t pretty.”
Rowland clucked her tongue. “I guess there are limits to magic after all.”
“You have no idea.”
Agent Steinkamp was staring at me like I was a book he couldn’t quite read. “You’re the guy who wrote that letter a year ago. I’ve seen your file.”
“You have a file on me?” I should have been annoyed, but it was actually kind of cool. I’d have to submit a Freedom of Information Act when I got home to see if I could get a copy.
“Mister Vainio, have you ever heard of an organization called Vanguard?”
I shook my head and glanced at Nidhi, who did the same.
He handed me a business card. “Give me a call if that changes, all right?”
“Enough chatter,” said Rowland. “Get moving. Blackwell, make sure they sign out with me before they leave.”
Blackwell walked us toward the ambulances. The vehicles provided some degree of privacy, but plenty of gawkers strained to see what was happening. One of the EMTs moved to intercept us.
“They’re here to help,” said Blackwell. “He’s one of those book wizards.”
I moved toward a woman with a blanket around her shoulders. Her knee and thigh were bandaged, and blood matted her scalp, but none of her injuries looked severe. I tugged a small, mostly empty crystal vial from a heavily padded pocket inside my jacket. “My name’s Isaac. Have you ever read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe?”
She nodded. “My niece loves those movies.”
“This is from the book. It’s the healing cordial Lucy was given by Father Christmas. A single drop will heal you inside and out.”
“You can’t use magic on her,” said the EMT.
“Except in life-or-death situations,” I snapped. “This woman was mauled by a werewolf. Do you have anything in your ambulance that will stave off lycanthropy?”
The woman’s face went pale. Nidhi shot me a think-before-you-speak look, then took the woman’s hand and began talking in a low, calm voice. “You’re going to be fine. What’s your name?”
“Margaret. Margaret Edwards.”
I peered over the top of my glasses, searching for magical residue in her bloodstream. She was clean. No trace of lycanthropy or other magical infection, but I saw no need to mention that until after I healed her injuries. I’d be damned if I was going to let anyone else suffer tonight if I could help it. “Do me a favor, Margaret, and stick out your tongue?”
She did so, and I used a dropper to transfer a tiny bead of Lucy’s potion onto her tongue. She swallowed, pain or shock preventing her from asking questions. Within seconds, her body started to relax. She poked cautiously at her knee. “That’s it? I’m . . . better?”
“One hundred percent human,” I said. “Not a trace of werewolf in you.”
She tentatively tested her bandaged leg. “Thank you.”
The EMT looked from me to Margaret and back. “I’m convinced. Bring that bottle and come with me.”
Next up was a young man on a stretcher, covered in blood-soaked bandages and shallow bite marks. The medic working on him shouted, “I can’t get the bites to clot up.”
I stepped past another man who lay shivering beneath several blankets. His sleeves were torn and his face bloody, but he appeared otherwise undamaged. “You’ll want to get that one in handcuffs until I can get to him.”
“Why?” asked Blackwell.
“Trust me.”
I stopped beside the medic and removed my glasses. My brain automatically began cataloging the different species of werewolf that might have inflicted this kind of damage, studying the height and angle of the bites, the size of the jaws, the depth of the claw marks . . .
I could only make out scraps of magical text: remnants of the werewolf’s curse swimming through the injuries, preventing the body from healing itself. I reached for the worst of the bites, a deep wound on the forearm. “How many werewolves were there?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t know what was happening until one of the kids screamed. I saw a woman fall, and then something hit me from the side.”
Someone shoved a pair of gloves at me. I ignored them and focused on the text, letting the rest of the world blur away.
“This is going to feel weird.” I pressed my fingers into the wound like it was a book.
He cried out, more in shock than pain. I wasn’t physically reaching into muscle and bone, any more than I tore the paper pages when I performed libriomancy. I felt Nidhi step in beside me, heard her whispering to the EMT and the patient both.
Heat spread up my arm. I pulled the words and their magic into my own flesh, then dissolved them into nothingness.
“Did the werewolves say anything?” I asked, my voice low.
He shook his head.
“You’re going to be fine.” I grabbed the healing cordial and gave him a drop to cure the physical wounds. “If you were hoping for cool scars to show off after your fight with the werewolves, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.”
“What do you mean, bad news?” He stared at his now-undamaged arm and wiped the blood away. “Oh!”
I was already moving back to the fellow on the ground. He was going to be harder to save. This had to be another of the chaperones for the Boy Scout tour. He was dressed too casually to be a government employee, in old jeans and an oversized pink hoodie. His scalp was a mess of matted blood and hair, but the skin was smooth and undamaged. Officer Blackwell had cuffed his hands behind his back.
“What’s happening to me?” Tears cut through the blood on the man’s face.
“Lycanthropy—werewolfism—is contagious.” I sat in front of him, out of arm’s reach. I didn’t think he could snap those cuffs, but I wasn’t positive. A low ripple of flame passed over Smudge. I shoved my coat back to keep it clear of his cage. “Some people catch it by accident after reading a book. It’s rare, but someone with magical talent who doesn’t know what they’re doing can reach into the book and draw the infection into themselves without realizing it. That’s how most strains of lycanthropy and vampirism came into existence. More often, it’s spread by bites.”
“You mean like rabies?” He held up his arms. “The doctor said the blood wasn’t mine. She couldn’t find any puncture wounds. She said I was just in shock.”
“You probably are.” I studied the infection as I talked. The text had made its way through his body, binding to blood and bones. It was one thing to counter a surface-level infection, to pull scraps of magic from an open wound. Once that magic bound itself to the victim, most strains were impossible to cure. Including this one, from the look of it.
“I was chaperoning my son’s field trip.” His voice cracked. “I haven’t seen Jaiden since the attack.”
“The children are all fine,” said Nidhi. “The attackers weren’t interested in hurting them.”
“I’ve explained that to him three times,” murmured one of the medics. “He keeps forgetting.”
Medical training, both for nonhuman patients and for supernatural injuries, was another area where New Millennium should have been doing more. I understood the need for caution with trials and research, but the average medical professional knew next to nothing about magic. How could they be expected to do their jobs in a situation like this?
“You’ll be back with Jaiden soon,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Will. Are you a doctor?”
“Better. I’m a librarian.” The magic was strongest near his throat. I touched my fingertips to the skin of his neck. His pulse was far too rapid. I tried reaching for the text as I’d done with the other victim. When I touched the magic, he jerked and stiffened like I’d jolted him with an electric shock. Both the EMT and Officer Blackwell moved in to catch him by the arms.
“What did you do?” snapped the EMT.
“Just getting a sense of what did this.” The text of his curse was different from what I’d read on the previous patient. That confirmed at least two werewolves, then. “What did the werewolves look like?”
“You’re supposed to be healing them, not interrogating them,” snapped Blackwell.
“If I have a better idea what kind of werewolf did this, it’ll be a lot easier to heal him.”
“Tall and lean,” said Will. “Like a man, but with a wolf’s face, covered in black fur. I thought he was wearing a mask at first, like this was a gag or something. He was wearing sweatpants and a Red Wings jersey. Oh, and blue Crocs.”
“Loose-fitting clothes. He’d planned on changing forms.” Not all werewolves could change at will. The fact that this one had an intermediate, more-or-less humanoid form narrowed things down as well.
I grabbed a Star Trek novel from my jacket. “Do you read science fiction, Will?”
He shook his head.
“That’s too bad. Because this is going to be really cool.”
His eyes went round as my fingers disappeared into the book.
“What else you can tell us about the attack?” I asked.
“I heard they killed two guards,” Will said numbly. “Someone said the governor and attorney general were both in the building. There was so much screaming . . .”
Governor Sullivan and Attorney General Duncan were strong proponents for anti-magic legislation. If this attack was about them, it meant someone had known they’d be here this evening. Either by hacking into their schedules, or because someone on the inside passed the information along. Possibly the same someone who’d arranged this after-hours tour for the Boy Scouts?
I focused on the book, drawing the magic of a particular scene into myself and once again walking the line between fiction and reality as I worked to bend the story’s magic to my particular needs.
A few years back, I’d have said what I was hoping to do was impossible, but recent crises and conflicts had shown how little we truly knew about the rules and limitations of libriomancy, and of magic in general. If things continued at this pace, we could be looking at a magical revolution in more than one sense of the word.
“Is there anything more we should know?” I asked.
“Last warning, Mister Vainio,” said Blackwell. “Just do your job and let us do ours.”
Will shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I gave him a reassuring smile and touched his chest, leaving a vaguely hand-shaped collection of golden sparks.
“What’s happening to him? Did you set him on fire?” Officer Blackwell shoved me to one side and reached toward Will.
“Keep your hands back if you don’t want to lose them,” I snapped.
Will’s entire torso was glittering now. Light passed through him, growing brighter. A high-pitched hum filled the air. Will screamed.
“You’re all right,” I shouted. “You’re not on fire, and you’re going to be fine.”
Blackwell reached for my arm. “Whatever you’re doing—”
Nidhi moved between us. “Would you interrupt a doctor in the middle of surgery?”
“Will isn’t in pain. He’s just scared.” I kept one hand outstretched, channeling the book’s magic. “Probably because a cop just told him he was on fire.”
The screams began to fade. So did Will himself. Seconds later, he vanished completely.
Blackwell stepped back and drew his sidearm. “Isaac Vainio, stand up and place your hands on your head.”
“If I do that, he dies.” The humming sound returned, bringing with it the golden
outline of my patient. I heard shouts and people running toward us, but I couldn’t look around to see what was happening. I hoped nobody shot me before I finished. It would be great if they didn’t shoot me after, either.
The light and sparks died, and Will sat before us once again. He was completely whole and completely baffled.
“What happened?” He looked around, then down at himself. His clothes were intact. The handcuffs were gone. “Did my blood sugar drop? I checked it after lunch, but I can’t remember—”
“That’s probably for the best,” I said. “My name’s Isaac. You’re all right. Your son Jaiden is waiting for you. I’m sure one of these people would be happy to take you to him.”
Blackwell seized my jacket collar and hauled me to my feet. Sweat dotted his face as he swung me around. He jammed the barrel of his gun into my ribs like he was trying to stab me. “What the hell did you do? Why doesn’t he remember anything?”
The walls wavered around me. Between healing Will and Blackwell’s manhandling, I felt like I’d just stumbled off the world’s worst carnival ride.
“I’m guessing this is your first close experience with magic?” Nidhi said calmly. “It can be disconcerting.”
“Stand down, Blackwell!” Officer Rowland stood about eight feet away, along with several other police officers and two FBI agents, most of whom had drawn their own guns.
“It’s an old Star Trek trick,” I said slowly, trying not to move. “In the book, one of the crew was infected with an alien virus. They use the transporter beam’s pattern buffer to restore her to an earlier state, before the infection. It’s a complete deus ex machina, but—”
“You waved your hand, and he fucking disintegrated!”
“I what?” asked Will. “I’m sorry, who are these people? What’s going on?”
The EMT who’d been checking Will rose. “Isaac just saved this man’s life, Officer.”