Unbound (7 page)

He disappeared into the century-old house, returning with three beers and a plate of what appeared to be bacon-chip cookies. Given the choice, I grabbed one of the bottles and leaned against the railing, waiting impatiently as Jeff and Helen filled us in on the latest werewolf gossip, most of which centered around who was sneaking into bed—or into the woods, or the backseat, or in one case the middle of the gas station parking lot—with whom. Werewolves treated sex like a professional sporting event, occasionally with spectators and cheerleaders.

I held my silence for as long as I could, which turned out to be approximately half a bottle. “Jeff, I need you to hook me up with some black-market magic.”

The wrinkles in his forehead furrowed like fresh-plowed farmland. Helen turned dagger eyes toward her husband.

“Don’t start,” he said to Helen. “You know I haven’t run in
those circles for decades. Isaac, this is a bad idea. Even for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shook my head. “Never mind. This is important. I have to talk to a ghost. A man who died a thousand years ago.”

Helen set her beer on the porch. “Why?”

I was ready for this. “To find whoever took Jeneta. She was my student. My responsibility. My pack.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “You throw that damn pack thing at me every time you want something.”

“Only because it works.”

He flipped me off, but he was chuckling, too. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into? If these people suspect for one second that you’re still with the Porters, they’ll kill you. Not to mention what the Porters will do if they catch you going after underground magic.”

“I did my time as a field agent,” I reminded him. “I know what’s out there.”

“Didn’t the Porters have to pull you out of the field?” Helen asked. “The Mackinac Island incident, wasn’t it?”

“First of all, I stopped those zombie horses, didn’t I? Second, that’s beside the point. Jeff, what did it cost you to get your moonstone?” I was referring to the magical crystal he used to control his transformations into wolf form. It had come from one of Kristen Britain’s
Green Rider
novels, meaning he must have gotten it from a libriomancer.

“They asked me for a favor.” He stared at the porch. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That should tell you everything you need to know,” said Helen. “I’ve been married to this mutt for forty years, and I can count on one hand the number of times he
didn’t
want to talk.”

“Look, I hate to ask, but isn’t this something the Porters should be doing instead of you?” Jeff continued to avoid eye contact.

I took a drink before answering, using the beer to force back the anger his words triggered. The despair was stronger
than before, no doubt a side effect of Euphemia’s song. “Yah, it is. But they’ve had a month to search, and haven’t found her. They haven’t stopped the Ghost Army. Far as I can tell, they haven’t accomplished shit. I’ve learned who we’re hunting, and I’ve seen what she means to do. I can track her down, but I need more information.”

“What happens when you find her?” asked Helen. “You make a citizen’s arrest? Blow your bad guy whistle?”

Jeff leaned close. “How far are you willing to go, Isaac Vainio?”

“You saw what they did to Copper River. Not to mention that Meridiana has done her best to strip away my sanity on two separate occasions.”

“Did a pretty good job from the look of it,” Jeff muttered.

I let that pass. “Jeneta called the Ghost Army ‘devourers,’ and the name fits. They’re not true ghosts, just shadows of hunger and rage and charred magic. Lena and I fought one in Detroit. The two of us together could barely stop the damned thing. We had to drop an entire building on its head, and even that only stunned it. Meridiana’s planning to use Jeneta’s magic to create a true army.”

“You’re telling me this Meridiana and her ghosts whupped your ass twice when you
had
magic. What do you think’s gonna happen this time around?”

I shrugged. “That depends on whether or not the dead pope can help us.”

“Idiot,” Jeff muttered.

“No more than you were at his age,” Helen said.

“Which is why he should listen to me.” Jeff walked to the corner of the porch and stared out at the empty street. “My libriomancer contact died eight years ago, but I know a black-market troll living in Niagara who deals in architectural magic. I might be able to bargain a name out of her. But if you mess up, these people will eat you alive. Some of them literally. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I nodded.

“Go home. I’ll make some calls.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

He snorted. “Thank me by coming back with your body and soul in one piece.”

For the next two days, I read everything I could find about Pope Sylvester II, taking shameless advantage of our interlibrary loan system and the library’s access to various online collections.

I heard nothing from Nicola or the Porters, nothing from Ponce de Leon, and nothing from Jeff DeYoung. The news outlets were all but useless for updates on anything magical. Beijing had clamped down on information about the library, and so far, it looked like the Porters were continuing to stay ahead of efforts by the public to uncover their archives. The only interesting thing I found was a rumor about a biology teacher who captured and dissected a bunyip in Australia, but after spending half an afternoon tracking the story down, it turned out to be a hoax.

The hardest thing was finding the energy to care about my day-to-day responsibilities at the library. Today, Jennifer had me working on one of my least favorite duties: culling our collection. Books that hadn’t been checked out for at least three years had to go, and Jennifer had preemptively forbidden me from checking them out myself to save them.

I had pulled more than a hundred so far. Those in reasonable condition would be sold at our fall library fair next month, while the rest were supposed to be recycled.

Personally, I thought “brought back to Isaac’s house to be repaired and donated to kids at the local high school” qualified as recycling. I wasn’t all that good at bookbinding and restoration, but you could add years to a book’s life with a plastic jacket cover, book repair tape, and the right adhesives.

Jennifer leaned out from her office. “Isaac, did you take care of those subscription renewals I left in your box last week?”

“Shit.” A father sitting with his preteen son at the computers gave me a death stare. “I mean, shoot. Sorry.”

I rubbed my eyes, abandoned the half-sorted piles of books, and headed for the break room. Employee mailboxes lined the wall opposite the old fridge. My cell phone went off before I could retrieve the papers stuffed into mine. When I saw who was calling, I spun around and called out, “Alex, could you watch the desk for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” he said. “I did your job all day Monday. Why stop now?”

I ignored him and ducked back into the break room. “What have you found, Jeff?”

“Hello to you, too. Rocky—that’s the troll I mentioned—didn’t know anyone who could talk to the dead directly. But she put me in touch with someone who might be able to help. You’re not gonna like it.”

“What else is new?”

“I called in a lot of favors for this, Isaac.”

“Understood. What exactly am I getting into?”

“A little late to ask that question, don’t you think?” His chuckle sounded forced. “Do
not
trust this guy. He’s the next best thing to a vampire ghost-talker, but he’s slimy as six-month-old meat. He won’t do anything that puts him on the Porters’ radar if he can avoid it, but he will screw you over six ways from Sunday, and I don’t mean in a good way.”

“What is he, and what’s the price?”

“His name is Mahefa. He’s a Ramanga.”

“No kidding?” Ramanga had originally been servants whose duties to the nobles of Madagascar included consuming nail clippings and spilled blood to prevent such things from being used for evil magic. Considering I knew at least one Porter who could knock you unconscious with a single hair from your head, it seemed a wise precaution. Ironically, the Ramanga had spent generations learning to do exactly what their masters feared, developing and refining a type of magic that drew power from the blood of others. From all I had read, they were few in number, and
their magic was limited in both strength and duration. “Last I checked, Ramanga weren’t known for chatting up the dead.”

“He’s also a drug dealer, not to mention a smuggler, a thief, and a vindictive little snake. Rocky says he has something that should fit the bill.”

“And the cost?”

A male voice with an unfamiliar accent answered from behind me. “The cost is simple. You’re going to do me a favor.”

Jeff growled. “He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Yep.” I had left my shock-gun at the house. I casually checked the room for potential weapons as I turned around, just in case. The dirty bread knife in the sink was probably my best bet.

“Isaac, be careful. Rumor has it Mahefa once cut a customer’s heroin with basilisk blood after a fight over a woman. It took three days for the poor bastard to die as his veins and organs petrified.”

“Good to know. And thank you.” I hung up the phone and examined the new arrival. He was stout but strong, one of those men whose mass was more breadth than height. He had a close-trimmed beard, walnut skin, and sunken, bloodshot eyes. His lips were ashen, as were the tips of his fingers. His fingernails were ragged, bitten to the quick. He wore a black suit over a pink shirt with no tie.

I extended my hand. “Isaac Vainio.”

“Mahefa Issoufaly.” His hands were soft-skinned, but thick with muscle. His temperature felt normal enough for a human.

“Bienvenu à Copper River.” French was one of Madagascar’s two official languages, and I didn’t speak Malagasy.

“Merci.” He smiled. “Your friend tells me you need to speak to a dead man.”

I checked to make sure nobody would overhear. “That’s right.”

Mahefa opened the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of water. “I believe I can get what you need, yes.”

“And the favor?”

His smile grew. His teeth were perfect, bleached bone white.
“There are three. To begin with, I want a sample of your blood—250 milliliters should suffice.”

I wasn’t thrilled, but neither was I particularly surprised. “Why?”

“Why does an oenophile seek new varieties of wine?” His words dripped condescension. He shut the fridge with a sniff of displeasure. “I am the world’s finest connoisseur of blood, Isaac. Just as the lover of grapes can discern the subtlest flavors, I can taste the life contained within your blood, your memories and experiences, even your magic. For more than a hundred years, I’ve sampled kings and paupers, sea serpents and sorcerers. All blood has power. With mundane blood, I can heal my body, extend my life, and more. But the blood of a libriomancer is potent indeed.”

I almost told him Gutenberg had locked my magic, so my blood was likely to be disappointing. But why undercut my own bargaining position? “What else?”

“An equal amount of your dryad’s blood.”

“No deal.” I tried and failed to keep the anger from my tone, but that only seemed to amuse him. “I can’t pay you what’s not mine to give. I’ll give you 400 milliliters of mine instead.”

“I’ve tasted libriomancers before, but the dryad would be a new flavor. I’m told she’s book-born?” He nibbled a hangnail on his thumb. “Very well. What can you offer me in her place?”

Without magic, it was a painfully short list. I assumed money wouldn’t interest him, and I didn’t have all that much anyway. I wondered if he’d ever tried siren blood. But I couldn’t in good conscience barter Euphemia’s blood any more than I could Lena’s.

There was Smudge, resting in his cage behind the front desk. Though he probably wasn’t resting anymore. Hopefully Mahefa’s presence hadn’t upset Smudge enough to set him alight. The lack of shouting was a good sign.

Smudge had been hurt last month, and the fluid from his wound looked and behaved much like kerosene. But I wasn’t about to jab a needle into him and let Mahefa have a taste.

Mahefa’s eyes narrowed as the silence grew. A bead of blood swelled from his hangnail. His tongue flicked out to capture it. “How badly do you need this, Isaac?”

“Lena isn’t a possession to be bargained.”

Amusement lightened his reply. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

All things considered, it was probably a good thing I wasn’t armed. He watched me, obviously enjoying my struggle.

“Shouldn’t this be Lena’s decision, not yours?” he pressed. “If you truly consider her a person, why are you making the choice for her?”

I definitely wanted to shoot this guy. Yet there was truth to his barb. Was it my place to refuse on her behalf? Reluctantly, I said, “I could ask her.”

“Excellent.” He wiped his thumb on his suit jacket. “Shall we?”

“Right now?”

He looked surprised. “I thought this was important.”

“What about the third favor?”

“All things in time.” He gestured toward the doorway.

Dammit, Jennifer was going to kill me. I headed for her office, where she was sorting through budget paperwork. “I have an emergency I need to take care of.”