by Jim C. Hines
The writing inside was identical to that in Bi Wei’s book, at least the beginning. I turned to the middle, where carefully formed Chinese characters were replaced by English. “This is your handwriting.”
“I found it in the roots of my tree,” Lena said. “They made it for me. I think it was a gift from Bi Wei. When I pulled her from her book, she must have seen more of my thoughts than I realized.”
Nidhi pressed close, reading over my shoulder. I turned the page and read, “The oak is ever divided…”
Lena stared at the ground. “I’m not saying it’s good. I never claimed to be a poet.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Jeneta would—” Only I was forbidden from talking with her.
“They used these books as an escape,” Nidhi said. “A way to survive in a time of war.”
“I want the same thing,” Lena said. “To survive.” She took the book back and held it almost reverently. “I’m not done with it yet, and I don’t know if it will work, but I want to try.”
Lena’s nature couldn’t be rewritten. Gutenberg had said so himself. Then again, Gutenberg had said a lot of things that turned out to be untrue or incomplete. If these books could sustain the students of Bi Sheng for so many years—if they could give them a foundation even now to stave off the madness of the Army of Ghosts—who was to say it couldn’t do the same for Lena?
“I’ll need you both to read it,” Lena continued. “Each day, if you can.”
“Of course, love,” said Nidhi.
“Twice a day on weekends,” I promised.
“Thank you.” She kissed each of us, then returned the book to the safety of her tree. When she returned, her eyes were somber. “When do you think the Army of Ghosts will return?”
Not if, but when. “They’re awake now, and they’ve planted their seeds in Bi Wei and the others. If the ghosts can’t take control of them, they’ll look for another way into our world.”
And when they got here, they would certainly remember who had derailed their plans. Twice.
I thought of the armored woman I had seen in my madness, and my hand went to the shock-gun in my pocket. Technically, I should have turned that in when they kicked me out of the Porters.
On the other hand, screw them.
“This isn’t over, is it?” asked Nidhi.
I peered through the telescope and adjusted the knob until the stars came into sharp focus. “The world is about to discover magic. This is only the beginning.”
Epilogue
JENETA DREAMED SHE WAS back in the car with Myron Worster, a white-haired Porter in a suit and tie, with sharp wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. For a glorified magical babysitter, he was nice enough, if you could get past his penchant for show tunes and the perpetual smell of pipe tobacco.
“Are you sure we don’t have time to see Isaac?” Jeneta asked. “Just to say good-bye, and to thank him.”
“I’m afraid not. Pallas’ orders.”
She could have used magic to influence him, but it wasn’t worth the risk. He had demonstrated his magic in her cabin at Camp Aazhawigiizhigokwe, pulling various potions and magical ointments from the books in his suitcase. He explained in excruciating detail how he had spent fifty years studying the effects of different potions, learning how to combine them for maximum potency, from flight and invisibility to speed and strength. Given a few minutes to mix his magical cocktails, he was all but unbeatable.
He had spent several days watching over her, his senses and reflexes magically enhanced. As far as Jeneta knew, he hadn’t slept once, nor would he until she was safely on the plane home.
Only he hadn’t kept her safe. She remembered finding a dead butterfly in her cabin, the body the size and shape of a bullet, with wings of milky glass. Worster reassured her that August Harrison’s insects had all died with the destruction of the queen, but he had destroyed the butterfly to be safe. He snapped the wings and broke the body in half.
Only after he left to dispose of the remains did Jeneta notice the tiny bead it had left behind, like a dull metal egg. The bead clung to her finger when she touched it.
She recalled the pinprick of legs crawling through her thoughts. They chipped at her mind, consuming her memories one by one, and the more she tried to protect herself with magic, the quicker they fed.
“Sleep, girl.”
The voice in her head was her own, but she hadn’t spoken. She fought the compulsion to obey, to sink deeper into dreams and nightmares. Terror helped her to kick toward the surface long enough to glimpse her surroundings.
She was on a moving sidewalk, striding through a tunnel with curved walls. Colored light rippled along the wall in time to music. At the end of the walkway, the crowd split apart, following overhead signs directing passengers to the proper terminals. This was an airport. How had she gotten here?
“The Bì de dú demonstrated you could survive death in a book,” said the other voice. “Even one so small as a computer chip. Assuming you found someone who could touch its magic.”
“I know you,” said Jeneta. The devourers had found her first through her nightmares, and then through the insects in Lena’s tree. She had known they wouldn’t stop.
The scent of cinnamon rolls attracted her attention, and she paused in front of a small shop. Her lips curved upward. She pulled out her phone and brought up Maya Angelou’s “Amazing Peace.” Seconds later, the customers and staff sat entranced, utterly at peace. No one even noticed as Jeneta reached around the counter, grabbed a roll, and walked off.
“Such an efficient little spellbook.”
She strode toward the gate, ending her spell with a mere thought. She sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs by the window and looked out at the planes rolling to and fro along the runway.
She remembered Worster escorting her into the airport. Once inside, she had used her magic to reassure him and send him on his way. After that, it was a simple enough matter to confuse the necessary people and change her flight plans.
“Is this your first trip to Beijing?” asked a man sitting two chairs over.
Jeneta fought to scream, or to beg the man for help, but like a dream, she had no control of her words or body. “Not exactly.”
“You look a little young to be flying to another country by yourself.”
“I’m older than I look.” She licked frosting from her fingertips. “Enough. Back to sleep with you.”
Jeneta could no more resist that command than she could stop the night from falling. Darkness consumed her, and sounds grew distant.
“Vacationing?” asked the stranger.
“Retrieving an…inheritance.”
As Jeneta sank back into nightmare, memories of a face cast or carved from brass flowed through her mind. The features were exaggerated: an elongated nose, and full lips. An overly high brow, creased in thought. Her hair was plaited, interwoven with tiny clumps of gold, five-petaled flowers.
And beyond that mask, a legion of the dead, waiting to follow.
Bibliography
TITLES MARKED WITH AN asterisk (*) were made up for this book.
Adams, Douglas. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
Anthony, Piers. Roc and a Hard Place.
Asimov, Isaac. The Best of Isaac Asimov.
Baum, L. Frank. The Marvelous Land of Oz.
Bentley, Peter J. Why Sh*t Happens: The Science of a Really Bad Day.
Britain, Kristin. Green Rider.
Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Colfer, Eoin. Artemis Fowl.
Conrad, H. Allen. Time Kings.*
Daly, Randy L. African Honey Bees in North America.
Eddings, David. The Belgariad.
Foglio, Phil and Kaja. Girl Genius.
Foster, Alan Dean and Lucas, George. Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker.
Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm. Household Tales.
Heinlein, Robert. Friday.
Heinlein, Robert. Stranger in a
Strange Land.
Homer. Odysseus.
Xú Líng. New Songs from a Jade Terrace.
Ikeji, Lisa. Heart of Stone.*
James, E. L. 50 Shades of Grey.
Lamplighter, L. Jagi. Prospero Regained.
Lewis, C. S. The Magician’s Nephew.
McKinley, Robin. Beauty.
Mead, Richelle. Vampire Academy.
Oliver, Jana. The Demon Trapper’s Daughter.
Pierce, Tamora. Circle of Magic.
Plato. The Republic.
Pratchett, Terry. Mort.
Pratchett, Terry and Gaiman, Neil. Good Omens.
Rey, H. A. Curious George.
Scalzi, John. Old Man’s War.
Kuò, Dream Pool Essays.
Silverstein, Shel. The Giving Tree.
Stevenson, Robert Louis. Treasure Island.
Tolkien, J. R. R. The Fellowship of the Ring.
Van Vogt, A. E. Slan.
Wells, H. G. The Complete Short Stories of H. G. Wells.
Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass.
Wright, James. Nymphs of Neptune.*
1. This involved running to four different book signings in the first week, refreshing the Amazon rank on my phone every ten minutes, and running around to show everyone in the house—even the cats—the shiny new book.
2. Darn it, now I kind of want to write a story about a stomach-themed magic guild.
3. I’m not saying whether these particular examples made it into the book or not. You’ll have to read and find out for yourselves.
4. If you don’t understand why, get back to the bookstore and stock up on Pratchett’s Discworld series. You’ll thank me later.
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