Unbound (6 page)

• Secret Government Drug Testing Goes Horribly Wrong in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula?

I
CALLED NICOLA PALLAS
from the truck. Whatever the Porters might think of me, we were all working toward the same goal, and they needed to know what we’d learned. Nicola’s phone went straight to voice mail.

“I got a name. Meridiana. That’s who’s trying to raise the Ghost Army. That’s who took Jeneta. And this whole process would be a lot easier if we could share resources.” I glared at the screen, willing her to pick up. When nothing happened, I added a bitter, “You’re welcome,” and hung up.

Nicola Pallas was one of the most powerful people in the country. More importantly, she had argued for letting me keep my magic. Granted, she hadn’t argued as loudly or strenuously as I might have liked, but it was more than most had done, and made her a potential ally.

“You know the Porters are keeping an eye on you,” Lena said. “Just stick a note to the front door and they’ll get it.”

“I know. You think they’re living in the Mileskis’ old place?” The Mileskis had moved out a week ago, and while I’d miss the family, I didn’t mind being rid of their dog, an elderly mutt who had barked nonstop for three days following the assault on our block. I felt bad for the trauma the poor thing had suffered, but she had apparently taken it as an excuse to start sneaking out to use Lena’s new grove as a bathroom. My sympathy dried up the third time I stepped in one of her “presents” in the backyard.

“Probably. If I was going to take over an abandoned house, I’d want one with a hot tub.”

There was one other person I could ask for help. I checked my contacts list, but Ponce de Leon’s information had disappeared. No surprise there. His number only showed up when he wanted something from me, which had been rare even when I had been a Porter. Fortunately, I had memorized his number years ago.

Juan Ponce de Leon, former conquistador and ex-Porter, was perhaps the strongest sorcerer alive. While the rest of us needed books or song to control our magic, he could manipulate that power through his will alone. To say he and Gutenberg had a complicated history was putting it mildly, but if the Porters wouldn’t help me, maybe he could.

Assuming he wasn’t still pissed at me for stealing his car.

Ponce de Leon didn’t answer, either. He had been sticking to the shadows for months, but knowing him, he’d be keeping tabs on events in the magical world. I left a message giving him just enough information to whet his curiosity.

I could feel Nidhi watching me as I hung up. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “For what you said and did back there.”

“How much do you remember from Euphemia’s spell?” she asked.

“Too much.” I swallowed and looked out the window, watching the grass and trees pass by in a blur of green. My legs bounced with restless energy. The aftermath of the siren’s song
was like reliving every missed opportunity, every wrong choice I had made in my life.

I leaned forward to grab the GPS. If I stopped moving, stopped
doing something
, I would shatter. I programmed a new destination, then returned the unit to its mount. “We need to stop at Brown County Central Library in Green Bay.”

There was magic, and there was magic. Thanks to Gutenberg, I could no longer pull wands, potions, and light sabers out of books, but when it came to research, give me a well-stocked library and I was a goddamned Merlin.

I climbed out of the truck and hurried toward the library, leaving Lena and Nidhi to search for a parking spot. The moment I stepped inside, a little of the hollow pain from Euphemia’s magic began to ease. I had never set foot in this particular library, but this place
felt
right. From the familiar conversations behind the circulation desk to the tapping of keyboards. The slightly sweet, papery smell of cellulose. The sight of row upon row of books, the colorful chaos of their spines unified by the white tags affixed to each. I was home.

An arched skylight made the whole place feel warmer and more welcoming. I smiled at a woman behind the desk and headed for the public computers.

By the time Lena and Nidhi found me, I had scribbled half a page of notes on the back of a flyer, and was well into my fourth search. “I knew I’d heard the name Meridiana before.”

Lena looked over my shoulder. “Pope Sylvester II?”

“Born Gerbert d’Aurillac, in France. They called him the scientist pope. According to legend, he ascended to the papacy in 999 AD with the help of a demon named Meridiana. Other stories say the name referred to a bronze head, an oracle of some kind that provided him with supernatural advice.”

Lena pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. “How does a pope’s thousand-year-old oracular head end up kidnapping
Jeneta Aboderin from northern Michigan? Assuming there’s any truth to the stories.”

“We know d’Aurillac practiced magic,” I said. “He believed a deeper knowledge of the universe was the key to seeing the mind of God. He studied mathematics, astronomy, rhetoric, music, and more. Including magic. He did his apprenticeship at al-Karaouine in Morocco.”

“That’s all in the article you’re reading?” asked Nidhi.

“All but the magic part. That’s up here.” I tapped my temple. “Gutenberg took my libriomancy, but he didn’t take the years I spent studying Porter records and histories.”

Unfortunately, whereas the life of Pope Sylvester II had been well-documented, Meridiana was little more than rumor and superstition. One author linked her to a secret cult of Mary Magdalene, while another described her as a succubus sent by Lucifer to corrupt and destroy the pope.

I tried and failed to pin down the origin of the name. Meridiana could be Italian or Latin, possibly Spanish. It could also be a corruption of the word “Meridian.” As far as I could tell, it had never seen popular use as a proper name.

A librarian named Louanne was kind enough to set me up with an account to use the printer. The library had little information about Sylvester II or Meridiana, but she jotted down the address and phone number of the Archdiocese of Green Bay and suggested we try there.

“What I really need are his firsthand writings,” I muttered as Louanne returned to the front desk. “D’Aurillac’s collected letters, his work on the nature of man and God.” Though if he had written anything directly about magic, the Porters would have snatched those documents and hidden them away in one of their archives. Probably in Rome or France.

I printed out a timeline of d’Aurillac’s life and career and studied the dates. “Bi Sheng would have been a child at the time of Sylvester II’s reign.”

“Five thousand miles away,” Lena pointed out.

“Right, but there
was
contact between continents back
then. Commercial as well as magical.” Meridiana had survived for a thousand years. Centuries later, Bi Sheng’s students had preserved themselves by using specially prepared books to anchor their thoughts and memories.

“You think Bi Sheng got the idea from Meridiana?” asked Lena.

“I don’t know. They could have both learned from an older source, or maybe they developed similar magic independently, a parallel evolution of ideas.” I pulled up an academic article on the history of brazen heads and sent it to the printer. “When I saw Meridiana, she was encased in bronze.”

“If it exists, the head might be a kind of prison,” said Nidhi.

“Or it’s the equivalent of the book Bi Wei and the others used to preserve themselves. Either way, it explains how she endured all these centuries. If we could find it first . . .” Assuming Jeneta hadn’t already done so.

“From the obnoxious grin, I take it you have a plan for how to find it first?” asked Lena.

“Yep.” And neither Lena nor Nidhi was going to like it. I sat back and brushed my hands together. “I figure the quickest way to get the answers we need is to ask Gerbert d’Aurillac directly.”

Only a handful of vampire species had the ability to speak with the dead. A ghost-talker named Nicholas had helped us talk to a deceased Porter earlier this year. Unfortunately, Nicholas hadn’t survived the attack that followed, making it unlikely that the vampires would be willing to help me out a second time. Especially now that I lacked the ability to make it worth their while.

I called Deb DeGeorge, who had been a friend back in the days when she had a pulse and didn’t snack on bugs. When I told her what I needed, she spent the next thirty seconds laughing at me.

“Isaac, the first time you got involved with us, a madman bombed the shit out of our Detroit nest,” she said when she recovered. “Then you got a very expensive ghost-talker killed. If I so much as mention your name, they’re likely to feed me to the ferals. Unless you’re interested in converting—”

“No, thank you,” I said quickly.

“Then I’m sorry, hon. You’re on your own.” Deb sighed. “Be careful, okay? Try not to get yourself killed.”

The phone went dead before I could answer. I leaned my head against the window and sorted through my remaining options. There were books with the power to show limited glimpses of the past, but nothing that would let me contact a man who died a thousand years ago. Even if they could, the Porters were forbidden from working with me.

The students of Bi Sheng could probably help. Assuming I could find them. Given that they seemed to be successfully hiding from Gutenberg and his automatons, the odds of me tracking them down were slim.

Our next stop was the archdiocese. I pretended to be a graduate student in theology, and came away with several photocopied references about Pope Sylvester II, but nothing new about Meridiana.

By now, frustration and the aftereffects of Euphemia’s magic had thoroughly darkened my mood. It had been all I could do to keep from snapping at the priest, let alone Lena and Nidhi. So when Lena asked where else we could look for answers, I said only, “Tamarack.”

Nidhi wasn’t the only one with friends who owed her favors.

Evening found us driving through Tamarack, home of the majority of the Upper Peninsula’s werewolf population. Those who weren’t living in the wild, at least. Tamarack was a broken-down, half-empty, ex-mining town, and made Copper River look like the big city. We pulled to a stop at the home of Jeff and Helen DeYoung.

Jeff was an arthritic werewolf with a take-no-shit attitude
and a penchant for flamboyant dress. More importantly, after the events of a month before, he considered me a member of his pack.

We found Jeff and Helen sitting together on an antique wooden porch swing. Jeff took a swallow from a half-empty beer bottle as he watched us climb out of the truck. Both he and Helen visibly relaxed when they saw who we were.

Jeff removed his right hand from the revolver holstered to his hip. Helen slipped a knife back into a sheath beneath the bottom of her sweater. With magic’s veil of secrecy beginning to unravel, every sentient nonhuman was on edge. At least a quarter of Tamarack’s werewolves had retreated to the woods over the past month.

Jeff greeted me with a back-cracking hug and a quick sniff of my neck. “You smell like algae.”

“Long story.” I turned to hug Helen, who finished the spinal rearrangement her husband had begun on me. “We need a favor.”

“Beer first. You look like you could use one.” Jeff finished hugging Lena, then scooped up Nidhi. “Favors after, eh?”