Unbound (13 page)

I didn’t see who cast the spell, but I felt it encase my body like quickly hardening mud. The road swelled toward me as if I was falling, though I had stopped moving. I reached out to catch my balance. My arms were little more than swollen stubs of slick flesh. My shouts of alarm emerged as gurgling cries.

I fell to all fours. My clothing tightened around my shrinking body, turning a bright orange. My skin was the same shade. Weirdest of all was the sensation of a tail growing out of my backside.

A gloved hand scooped me from the pavement and dropped me unceremoniously into a jacket pocket that smelled like spearmint gum. “Don’t struggle.”

Like I had a choice. I tried to climb out, but the swift, uneven strides of my captor bounced his jacket against his body with every step. I squirmed and twisted until my tail was curled comfortably around my body, then settled down to wait. I
wasn’t dead, and the way today was going, that was probably more than I had a right to expect.

A crack of light appeared overhead, and oversized fingers dropped a wriggling worm in with me. I pounced without thinking, devouring half of it in one gulp. The worst part of my instinctive response was that the thing tasted so
good
. I could feel the worm twitching in my throat, trying to escape. I wanted to vomit, but I also wanted to chomp down the rest, to feel its juices sliding down my gullet.

We were moving again. I crouched as low as I could, waiting for the danger to pass. There were noises nearby. Loud and sharp and dangerous. I tried to burrow, but wherever I was, I couldn’t dig.

The worm twitched in my mouth. I gobbled it down in a single movement. Had anything seen me? My eyes flitted to and fro, searching the darkness. My skin was too dry, and this hole constricted my body. Fear held me motionless.

I don’t know how much time passed before my own thoughts started to return. My captor was no longer walking. From the steady growl of an engine and the vibrations passing through my body, we were in a vehicle.

My body was covered in some sort of slime or mucus, and the taste of worm lingered in my mouth. I hoped whoever had done this would restore my clothes and gun when he changed me back, because I was going to shoot him in the face.

“We’re almost there, Isaac. Be patient.”

On second thought, maybe I would accept my indignities in silence. Gerbert d’Aurillac would be proud. Rather than seek retribution, I chose to turn the other cheek. Because while the sound was muffled and distorted—newts lacked external ears—I recognized that voice.

Even I knew better than to try to shoot Juan Ponce de Leon in the face.

I felt the lopsided gait of my rescuer—or kidnapper, depending on the role he had decided to play today—when he climbed out of the car. As I understood the story, Ponce de Leon had been struck in the leg by a magically poisoned arrow during his conquistador days, and the wound had never fully healed.

My hearing was distinctly subpar, but my sense of smell had been turned up to eleven. While pipe smoke suffused his clothes, I could have still picked the nutmeg-and-rosewood scent of his cologne out of a lineup. His hard-soled shoes echoed against cement. The smell of oil and exhaust lingered in the air. I guessed we were in a parking garage.

A door opened, and we hurried across carpeted floor, passing voices too muffled for me to make out. We stopped briefly, until an electronic ding announced the arrival of an elevator.

I figured this was either an office building or a hotel, but it was impossible to be certain while trapped in Ponce de Leon’s pocket. I waited impatiently as we left the elevator and limped a short way. I smelled wine and cleaning solutions. Another door opened, and we hurried inside.

“Welcome to the Westin Excelsior.” His hand dipped gently into his pocket, closing around my body and carrying me to the bathtub. My feet found little purchase on the wet ceramic, and then I was doubling over as my body returned to its normal size. I remained fully clothed, thank Heaven for small favors.

I looked up at the man who had snatched me from Meridiana’s grasp. This was the first time I had seen Juan Ponce de Leon in the flesh. He had a long nose and a narrow face, and was more disheveled than I expected. His wrinkled, ivory-colored suit looked like it cost more than I earned in a year. Stubble blurred the edges of his black goatee. He rested heavily on a cane of flawless black wood with an opera-style hooked chrome handle. Veins of gold were spread through the cane’s handle and collar.

It was his eyes that made me nervous. They were constantly searching, examining every corner of the room, even checking the mirrors to make sure nothing could take him by surprise. If Juan Ponce de Leon was jumpy, we were in serious trouble.

I ran my hands through my hair and rested against the tile wall above the tub. “You turned me into a
newt!
”

He tilted his head and said, deadpan, “You got better.”

“Oh, no. Quoting Monty Python isn’t going to make this go away. Why would you—wait, don’t tell me. Meridiana could hear my thoughts, right? Forcing me into that form, making me
eat a worm
, was your way of overriding my human thoughts long enough for us to escape without her finding us.”

He brought his hands together in a silent golf clap.

“Am I confined to your bathtub, or am I allowed to get up?”

He stepped back and offered a mocking half-bow, gesturing with both arms. “Watch your step. Remember, you’re walking on two legs again.”

I pressed the wall for balance. The ground did seem awfully far away, and my butt felt oddly light without a tail. I stepped slowly, determined to make it out of the bathroom without asking for help or falling and breaking my nose.

I emerged into a room that could have swallowed my first apartment. Thick white carpeting covered the floor. Heavy gold curtains hid tall windows. A flat-screen television, fifty-two inches at least, hung flush on the wall opposite a queen-sized bed with a red velvet canopy. The ivory-and-gold wallpaper looked like something out of a mansion, as did the crystal chandelier over the small dining area.

I settled into a leather sofa, the cushions stuffed with softness and extravagance.

“Make yourself at home,” Ponce de Leon said dryly. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Anything that will wash the taste of worm out of my mouth.”

He retrieved two tulip-shaped glasses and a bottle. “Scotch, I think.”

It was fortunate I was sitting down, because the first swallow would have knocked me on my ass. I blinked hard as the vapors seemed to rise through my head, leaving a layered, smoky taste. “How old is that bottle, and where can I find one?”

“Older than you. Not as old as me. And you couldn’t afford it.”

I took another sip. “Thank you, by the way. For getting me away from Meridiana.”

He raised his glass in acknowledgment. “Meridiana, is it? I thought the girl was named Jeneta. She’s your student, if I’m not mistaken?”

“She’s going through an identity crisis.” I set my drink on a marble end table. “So there I was. Isaac Vainio exits stage right, pursued by an angel. When suddenly one of the world’s most powerful sorcerers just happens to wander by. The same sorcerer who refused to answer my calls. What a coincidence, eh?”

Amusement peeked through the fog of his fatigue. “I truly had no idea you were in Rome. I was more interested in why both the Porters and your friend Meridiana had set magical wards to watch over an old church.”

I rubbed my arms. I knew it was all in my head, but I still
felt
like I was covered in newt slime. “She’s a thousand-year-old princess who consumes and commands ghosts, and plans on killing off half the population and setting herself up as empress of the living and the dead. Gerbert d’Aurillac trapped her in a miniature bronze universe. She’s spent the past millennium searching for a way out and working to capture the minds and souls of other magic-users. She’s trying to escape into the world, and has been using Porters and the students of Bi Sheng as vessels for her deranged ghosts. Oh, and Gutenberg fired me last month.”

“I see.” He stepped closer and rubbed his thumb gently over my forehead, in exactly the spot where Gutenberg had inscribed his spell. “I’m sorry.”

He sounded like he meant it. Only another magic-user would understand what it was like to have that part of yourself ripped away. “Thanks.”

“What prompted Johannes to do this?” he asked.

“Meridiana was trying to get into my head, to possess me the way she had the others. Locking my magic locked her out, though it obviously wasn’t enough to stop her from reading my mind.” I
took another swallow of Scotch. “Also, Gutenberg was pretty pissed at me. I kind of allowed the students of Bi Sheng to escape.”

“Johannes’ conflict with Bi Sheng’s followers was before my time with the Porters,” he said. “He never spoke of it.”

“Five hundred years ago, Gutenberg sent his automatons to destroy them,” I said flatly. “Only a handful survived, trapped in limbo until earlier this year.” I stared through my glass at his elongated form. “Do you know how to counter Gutenberg’s spell and restore my magic?”

I didn’t want to ask the question, but I couldn’t
not
ask. Ponce de Leon was the one person who might have both the knowledge and the power to undo Gutenberg’s magic.

But the question was like Schrödinger’s box. Just as Schrödinger’s cat was potentially both alive and dead until you opened the box, so was my hope for restoration. One way or another, his answer would collapse the possibilities into unforgiving reality.

Though hope didn’t really fit, thematically speaking. Hope had been Pandora’s thing. All right, fine. It was like Schrödinger opening Pandora’s box.

The weariness and sadness in his eyes told me his answer. “I’m sorry, Isaac.”

With those three words, the damn box imploded, splinters piercing whatever hope I had clung to for the past month.

“I always believed removing the memory of magic was a kindness,” he continued. “Better not to know what you had lost.”

“Better for whom?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. “I assume Bi Wei is one of the survivors you permitted to escape? Her letter to the world was impetuous and poorly timed. I see why the two of you would have gotten along. I can only imagine Johannes’ dismay. Not to mention poor George R. R. Martin. Many of his fans believe the letter is a publicity stunt foreshadowing a new series by Mister Martin. Their reaction has been . . .
passionate
, to say the least.”

“I understand why she did it,” I said. “The students of Bi Sheng are as terrified of the Porters as they are of the Ghost
Army. But in the process, Bi Wei gave Meridiana the address of every Porter archive.”

He sat down on the other end of the couch. “From what I’ve observed, Meridiana would have found them without Bi Wei’s help. Though most of Meridiana’s energies have been focused elsewhere.”

He pointed a finger at the television, which turned on. Apparently his index finger was a magical remote. Nice.

A map of the world filled the screen. Red dots appeared like chicken pox. Not just a television, but a computer monitor as well.

“The National Library of China,” he said. “A museum in Cairo. Three Porter archives, including the Library of Congress. Even the Bibliothèque nationale de France, though the French police have kept that out of the media.”

“She’s searching for a way back into this world,” I said. “And creating pet monsters along the way.”

“Yes, I wondered how she had recruited an angel into her ranks. They generally prefer not to intervene in mortal affairs so openly.”

That comment raised a thousand questions, temporarily derailing my train of thought. Reluctantly, I pushed them aside. “Libriomancers—even Gutenberg—can only access one book at a time. Jeneta could potentially draw on millions of books through her e-reader. She was just learning to use her magic, but Meridiana was trained by Gerbert d’Aurillac, not to mention what she’s learned from the dead.” I thought about how easily she had petrified Mahefa’s hand, then took another drink of scotch.

Ponce de Leon’s finger twitched, and the screen filled with photos and video feeds showing the chaos at the basilica. Someone had gotten a jumpy three-second clip of the angel leaping to the ground, sword drawn. Another photo showed the yeren stumbling around, one paw covering its eyes.

“Meridiana knew d’Aurillac wouldn’t tell her how to free herself,” I said. “She waited for someone else to come along.
Someone d’Aurillac would trust with the key to her prison. Someone whose thoughts she could peel open.”

“Someone who would charge headlong into the situation, seeking answers without weighing the risks,” he added dryly.

“I wasn’t—” I stopped myself. “I haven’t been at my best lately.”

“I can imagine. Do you know where to find this key?”

“I’m not sure.” D’Aurillac had destroyed the poem that contained his armillary sphere, but Meridiana was still imprisoned. I closed my eyes, remembering the shape of the poem, the carefully inked letters stretching together to create interwoven shapes on the parchment. Far more than any other memory d’Aurillac had shared, that poem was burned into my thoughts.