chapter fifty three

But what if you didn't have a large pool of potential readers? What if you had only a few copies of the books in question and couldn't risk printing more, for fear that your enemies would find out?

How many times had that book been read and reread through the centuries? How many times had it been repaired to survive, or did Bi Wei somehow strengthen the physical book?

I squinted out the window, trying to guess where we were going. I was almost certain we had taken 28 after the bridge. We stopped for gas a short time later, but the sign outside told me nothing beyond the cost of cigarettes and unleaded gas.

The sun was setting when we finally left the highway. I had started to drift to sleep. The change of speed jolted me from a Wonderland-style nightmare in which I fled through an endless library, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor, trying to escape from invisible pursuers. I was relieved to be free of my dream, up until I remembered where I really was.

We drove into a hilly, wooded area. I felt the road turn to gravel, and the truck's jostling made the millipede around my neck twitch and dig in tighter.

"Let Harrison feel like he's in control," Lena whispered in Gujarati. "He pretty much is."

She swung a leg over my lap to straddle me. She kissed my ear, then brought my bound hands toward her. She pressed my fingers against a hard lump beneath the skin of her forearm, like a dislocated bone. Before I could ask what it was, she tensed her arm, and a sliver of wood poked through the skin to jab my fingers. "Take it," she whispered.

I took the tip of wood and pulled. Lena gasped, but with her body blocking the mechanical cat's view, Harrison would hopefully take that as a sound of passion rather than pain. I slid a thin wooden stiletto about eight inches long from her skin.

"How?" I asked.

"Flesh. Blood. Wood. They're all a part of my body." She kissed me again. "August Harrison is as arrogant as any Porter, and it's going to cost him dearly."

Harrison pounded a fist on the window. "I said knock it off with that foreign talk."

Lena winked at me, then helped me to tuck the knife into my sock. I can only imagine what Harrison thought we were doing.

The truck stopped, and a man I hadn't seen before unlocked the back. Lena exited first, then offered me a hand as I climbed down from the tailgate. I leaned against the truck and tried to rub the stiffness from my thighs. I smelled water, though I couldn't see the lake. The cold, fresh air tasted like home.

We were in a parking lot edged with wooden posts. Seven small brown cabins were spread out before us, identical in shape and size. Maple and spruce trees shaded most of the lot.

A pair of metal rats perched like gargoyles atop an old freezer humming outside the closest cabin. The freezer's curved lines and heavy steel handle, along with the orange rust along the bottom, suggested the thing was probably as old as I was. Such freezers could store enough venison to feed a small family for months. Or preserve the hides of murdered wendigos.

"More friends of yours?" I asked, nodding toward the other cars.

"The followers of Bi Sheng bought this place two months ago," announced Harrison. The cat bounded down and waddled along behind him like a bad- tempered and extremely pointy duckling.

A path beyond the cabins led down to what appeared to be sand dunes. The

U.P. was full of these small lakeside hotels and campsites. The building marked as the office had a "Closed" sign, and the windows were dark. But people were emerging from the other cabins. I spotted two more carrying the oversized books. Others held rifles pointed in my direction. I got the impression that they knew exactly who and what I was, and that any one of them would be happy for an excuse to pull the trigger.

"Is this the dryad?" asked one of the men.

"I told you I'd bring her, didn't I?" Harrison snapped.

"You also told us the libriomancer was no threat, that you'd have them both long before they discovered you and your stolen magic."

Harrison sniffed and turned to address the group as a whole. "I brought the dryad. Let's get on with it."

"Where are the others?" someone else asked in Mandarin.

"They're safe," Guan Feng answered in the same language. "The van was destroyed. They're making their way back. The Porter and his friends were stronger than Harrison anticipated." She checked Harrison, as if making sure he wasn't paying attention. "They were able to report back to Gutenberg. He sent one of his automatons."

The man with the rifle swore. "How much do they know?"

"I don't know. I was too busy saving this bèn dàn." She gestured toward Harrison.

I bit my lip to keep from smirking as I made a mental note of that one. If I survived, I could teach Deb how to call someone a dumbass in Mandarin.

"All right, you've busted your asses to catch us," I said. "What happens next?"

Guan Feng looked down at her book. When she spoke, her words were soft and reverent. "Now the dryad will help us to restore the Bì   de dú

."

Eight months into our relationship, I returned home to find Nidhi sitting on the couch, her hands folded over a book in her lap.

When I sat down, she stiffened like she was fighting the urge to pull away. "I'm sorry I was late." I had been volunteering with the local food bank, encouraging the fruitfulness of their gardens. I thought I had told her we were picking and packing today, but maybe I'd forgotten. "Nidhi, what's wrong?"

"It's not you. Not anything you've done."