by Jim C. Hines
“You mean, do it again, please?”
She laughed and touched my throat near the jawbone. “Your lips aren’t moving, but this is. Do you have a phone in your mouth?”
I hung up and laughed. “You’re too clever for me. My team built it. They had to combine magical tech from three different books into a practical communicator with the ability to tap into existing wireless and satellite, at which point I pulled the essence of those technologies—” I could see her eyes glazing over. “Yes, it’s a magic phone in my mouth. I’m going to leave the number with you and your parents. You can call me any time you need. If anything happens, this is the quickest way to get in touch, and it’s completely secure.”
I emphasized that last sentence, and Toby nodded slightly in response.
“Can I be a libriomancer when I grow up?” asked Lex.
Hoo boy. “I don’t know. We don’t really understand why some people can do magic and others can’t.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“But if that’s what you want, the best thing you can do is read. Libriomancy is all about reading and loving books. Find the stories you love, and don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re wrong for loving them. If you want, I can send you some of my favorites to read. As long as it’s all right with your parents.”
She nodded solemnly. “I promise I’ll read them all.”
I made a face. “Don’t do that unless you love them all. There are too many books in the world to waste time slogging through the ones you hate.” I waited while she eased herself back into her chair, then grabbed Smudge’s cage. “I should get out of the way and let Dr. Simpkin finish up. Thanks for letting me interrupt. It’s great to see you again, Lex. Maybe when you’re a little stronger, I could introduce you to Kerling and the rest of the animals over at research.”
She nodded again, beaming.
Toby followed me into the hall. “Should I be worried?”
“I’m going to review all of Lex’s paperwork and double-check who selected her, but I don’t think so. I’m probably overthinking things. New Millennium has good security, magical and mundane. Much better than the capitol in Lansing.”
“No kidding. The woman in charge of security—what’s her name? Palmer? She spent most of our first day reviewing security procedures with us. This place is locked down tighter than the White House.”
“Babs Palmer, yah.”
He paused. “You don’t like her.”
“She and I butted heads a few times. She ended up trying to kill a friend of mine. I mean, that friend was trying to kill her too, but still . . . Then I had to stop Babs from creating an army and seizing control of the Porters. So no, she’s not on my Nice List.”
“Are you serious?” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “How the hell did she end up running things here?”
“A lot of things were up in the air after Gutenberg died. Whatever I might think of Babs, she’s very, very good at what she does. Nicola Pallas and the rest of the Porter Council spent a long time telepathically checking her intentions before sending her to New Millennium. She believes in what we’re doing here, and she wants to see it grow.”
“Do you trust her?”
“I trust Nicola. I wouldn’t have let you come here if I didn’t believe it was safe. But if I hear the slightest whisper that your family could be in danger, I’ll get you out.”
“Thanks.” He put a hand on the door. With his back to me, he added, “Be careful out there, eh?”
I thought about the potential clue Deb had given me, and about the blood and bodies in Lansing. With Lex and her parents safe, it was time to find some answers. “Not really part of my skillset, but I’ll do my best.”
INTERPOL’S MOST WANTED MAGICAL CRIMINALS
1.
Name:
Juan Ponce de Leon
Nationality:
Spanish
Date of Birth:
1474
Height:
Unknown
Hair:
Unknown
Eyes:
Unknown
Charges:
Murder, enslavement, theft, and other war crimes.
Ponce de Leon is believed to be a sorcerer. The International Criminal Court has issued a warrant for his arrest based on crimes committed by him and soldiers under his command in the early sixteenth century.
2.
Name:
Yvan Marchais
Nationality:
French
Date of Birth:
16/06/1984
Height:
1.59 meter
Hair:
Brown
Eyes:
Brown
Charges:
Murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, extortion.
Marchais is a mercenary and religious extremist, and is believed to be a vampire. He is wanted in connection with three large-scale massacres in eastern Europe.
3.
Name:
Samoud al-Rahman
Nationality:
Afghani
Date of Birth:
02/10/1991
Height:
1.45 meter
Hair:
Black
Eyes:
Red
Charges:
Murder, terrorism, arms trafficking, treason.
Al-Rahman is the son of an Afghani warlord. The people believe him to be part demon. He’s been implicated in more than four thousand murders and executions.
4.
Name:
Lucy Bell
Nationality:
U.S.A
Date of Birth:
28/04/2001
Height:
1.38 meter
Hair:
Blonde
Eyes:
Hazel
Charges:
Drug trafficking, blackmail, extortion, sale of prohibited magical material.
Bell ran away from her parents in 2011. In recent years, she has been linked to gang-related drug dealing in the southern United States. She is believed to be using libriomancy to create new, powerful, and deadly drugs.
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF THESE INDIVIDUALS, PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL OR NATIONAL POLICE, OR INTERPOL.
“For someone who claimed to want nothing more than to be a researcher, you certainly spend a great deal of time in the field.”
“It’s hard to concentrate on research when the world’s going to hell.”
“Yet somehow, billions of people go about their lives every day, resisting the urge to track down terrorists and conspiracies.”
“You think I should stay in my lab? Let someone else worry about whoever orchestrated those attacks?”
“Not at all. I simply think you should stop lying to yourself about who you are.”
BABS PALMER’S OFFICE was on the fourth floor of the Reginald Scot Administrative Tower, along with offices for the NIH liaison and representatives from the FBI, Department of Homeland Security, and our human resources team.
In addition to working for the Porters, Babs had been a practicing lawyer until a year ago, when the State Bar of Texas discovered her “supplemental employment.” More than half her cases were now being appealed and retried on the grounds that she could have used magic to influence judge and jury. Which, knowing Babs, wasn’t a completely implausible idea.
Her receptionist, a young Japanese woman named Kiyoko Itô, guarded the path to Babs’ office like Cerberus protecting the gates of hell. Kiyoko also acted as the main receptionist for New Millennium during business hours, and coordinated the occasional birthday party for employees.
She looked up as I entered the small outer office. “How c-can I help you, Mister V-Vainio?”
“I need to talk to Doctor Palmer.”
She cocked her head to one side. Probably sending a message to Babs via her computer link.
I had no idea where Babs had found Kiyoko, but she was no libriomancer. Kiyoko was tall, sl
ender, and looked to be in her late twenties. Her head was shaved, presumably to allow a better connection with the series of small electrodes stuck to her scalp. Thin gold wires linked the electrodes like a circlet before trailing down beneath the back of her black suit jacket.
As far as I could determine, there was nothing magical about those electrodes. They simply relayed the electrical impulses from Kiyoko’s brain through our network to one of the shielded computer servers. That was where the magic happened, translating her thoughts into commands that allowed Kiyoko to mentally manage her system without keyboard or mouse.
Her stuttering was part of a larger neurological problem that also affected her balance. I’d offered to try to get her into our medical trials, but she refused each time, saying others needed our help more than she did. She got around well enough, using forearm crutches for stability.
A black pearl pendant protected her from magical influence or assault. Babs wore a similar necklace, describing it as a necessary security precaution. The pearls came from a tank of oysters in the basement of the Rosalind Franklin Research Tower. One of Babs’ first acts as Director of Security had been to arrange the publication of a fantasy novel called Sea Change, specifically for a passage describing the magically resistant oysters.
“Doctor P-Palmer has a meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes,” said Kiyoko. “Could you c-come back this afternoon at two-thirty?”
“It’s important. I won’t be long.”
She paused again, then glanced at the flat-screen monitor on her desk. “Five minutes. Please leave your spider outside.”
I saluted and set Smudge’s cage on one of the chairs to the side. The door to Babs’ office unlocked with an audible click as I reached for the knob. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
Babs Palmer looked more like a gym teacher than a lawyer or libriomancer. She was thick and muscular, with tattoos of a tiger and a dragon on her forearms. The colorful tattoos concealed magically inked text, similar in some respects to the forehead tattoo Nidhi wore to protect her thoughts, but Babs’ ink was far more powerful. Rings decorated her fingers. Several of those were magic as well, but I couldn’t read any of it, thanks to the black pearl hanging from a thick silver chain around her neck.
“How can you stand to wear that thing?” I asked. “Cutting yourself off from magic for days at a time? I’d go mad.”
“What do you want, Vainio?” Babs looked tired. Her tanned skin had developed new lines at the eyes, like cracks spreading through concrete. Books and papers covered her desk, which was as large as my first car. One open folder held a map of Asia and official-looking documents in Chinese. Another looked like a building plan of some sort.
A map of New Millennium dominated the wall to my left. Dots of differently colored ink moved slowly over the paper. I studied it more closely. “Did you finally figure out how to make that Marauder’s Map work in the real world?”
The map from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was one of the first projects my team had worked on, but we’d never been able to calibrate it.
“We went a different route.” She rearranged the files, stacking things in several haphazard piles. “You’re down to four minutes.”
“I was in Lansing yesterday.”
“I know. I got Nicola’s report.”
I sat in the chair opposite her desk. “I want to put my team to work helping to root out whoever orchestrated that attack. I’ve got one lead already.”
She sighed and leaned back, finally giving me her full attention. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Honestly? I may not like you, but you’re good at your job. I could use your help.” I cocked a thumb at the map on the wall. “Some of the things you’ve worked out for New Millennium’s security could be adapted to help us track—”
“I have enough of my own responsibilities without taking on yours. You’re our Research Director. If you want to push for this, do it. But don’t be surprised when the board shoots it down. The slightest whiff of magic is enough to taint even airtight court cases.”
“I’m not talking about building a legal case. I’m talking about saving lives. This is the kind of thing we started New Millennium to do. Either one of us could have stopped those werewolves if we’d been there. We should be working to prevent or resolve future attacks, like Gutenberg used to do with his automatons.”
Her eyes tightened, and she started fiddling with one of her rings. “Don’t tell me you want to rebuild the automatons.”
“Hell, no.” True, Gutenberg’s constructs would have made short work of most magical terrorists, with spells worked into their metal-block armor to allow them to travel at the speed of a sunbeam, create fire and brimstone, warp magical attacks, and generally bring the pain to whoever Gutenberg sent them after. They also required the enslavement of a human soul, which was one of the reasons I’d destroyed the damn things.
“I’m sorry, Isaac. I have too much on my desk already.”
I didn’t answer right away. She was trying to brush me off. That much was standard procedure between us. But she lacked her usual confidence. I wished Nidhi was here to observe her reaction. “Whoever orchestrated yesterday’s attacks, we both know they’ll try again.”
“You’re our lead researcher, and your work is here,” she said firmly, but her hands trembled as she spoke. She pulled them into her lap where the desk blocked my view.
“Think of the PR,” I said. “If New Millennium helps bring a bunch of terrorists to justice—”
“Leave it alone, Isaac.” Each word was clipped and tight.
What the hell was going on? I’d seen Babs angry. She could be as loud and bombastic as a grizzly. This was different. She was almost pleading.
She glanced at her watch, and the cold mask fell back into place. “If you want to help with PR, work with medical to make sure their patients are camera-ready, and get your team prepared to show off their flashiest projects. We’re planning a press conference in two weeks. The more oohs and aahs you can bring, the better.”
I lowered my voice and asked something I never would have imagined saying to Babs Palmer. “Are you all right?”
She stiffened. “I have a meeting to get to, and I believe your five minutes are up.”
“Right.” I stood. “Thanks for your time.”
I left her office without another word. Kiyoko smiled at me as I passed her desk. I nodded absently and grabbed Smudge.
I’d told my brother that Nicola and the rest of the Porter Council had vetted Babs Palmer before appointing her to this position. I hadn’t been lying when I said I trusted Nicola and her judgment.
But Nicola wasn’t perfect, and while our security measures scanned for hostile intent, Babs had helped to create those measures. She was the most qualified person I knew to bypass them.
“This is exactly why I can’t just concentrate on my research and leave the fieldwork to somebody else,” I muttered to no one in particular.
I stopped on the way out to pick up my newest batch of hate mail.
Most of the nastiness we received came by email. It was easier to send threats and bile via the keyboard than to write it all out by hand, and for most of these people, their laziness was second only to their poor spelling.
I took the handwritten ones more seriously. These people were invested in their hate. They took the time to scrawl page after page of graphic, grammatically tortured prose describing the evils I and New Millennium represented, and the horrific fates we would all suffer for our sins.
All physical mail was screened by security before delivery. We made sure law enforcement received copies. Those letters were also scanned and saved on our servers as evidence in case anyone tried to carry through on their threats.
I’d begun posting the most creative, interesting, or bizarre letter I got each month in a place of honor outside my door, where all could marvel at the people with far too much time on their hands. Last time, it had been a gentleman who was a
ngry about our use of animals in magical research. He apparently thought our PETA protesters were too laid-back and easygoing, and suggested my team should be skinned alive, our hides tanned into leather, our meat processed into McNuggets, and our bones ground into gelatin to be fed to little children in Easter jellybeans.
It was the jellybean bit that earned him a spot by my door. That and the crude drawing he’d included of the Easter Bunny skipping along, carrying what I assume was supposed to be my bloody head, but looked more like a hairy pumpkin in oversized glasses.
The nice thing about people like Jellybean Man was that I knew exactly where I stood. There was no subtlety, no subterfuge or second-guessing. It was a refreshing change from talking to politicians.
I waved my ID at the scanner in front of the main doors to the Franklin Research Tower. A musty odor greeted me as I walked past the guard at the front desk. Patricia Bordenkircher was the only zombie on site. She’d been infected from a zombie romance novel, a subgenre I never would have imagined being popular enough for libriomancy.
As long as she fed regularly—and we had an ongoing contract with a butcher from Vegas, along with a week’s supply of cow brains in an industrial freezer—she appeared as human as the rest of us. She was significantly stronger, with a powerful sense of smell, and teeth strong enough to crush bone. She looked up from her knitting as I passed.
“How’s the grandkid?” I asked.
Patty beamed and held up her half-completed blanket. “Bobbi’s turning one in November. She’s been babbling up a storm. She’s a talker, that one. Just like her daddy.”