chapter ninety-two

"I lost friends today. Their families deserve to know why. They deserve the truth."

"You don't know what the truth would do," he said softly. "I've seen how they respond to truth. I've lived through the Inquisition and the witch hunts. I've watched my loved ones burn."

"Sir," Pallas said, "whatever we do, we should act soon. I've called for healers, and can split the rest of our forces into teams."

Gutenberg nodded and stepped toward the edge of the grove. He turned around to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Farewell, Isaac Vainio."

The Porters did their best, but they couldn't manipulate the minds of an entire town, let alone everyone who had seen or read about the story online. A photo of the dragon smashing its way into town had gone viral, and a six-second video of a wendigo at the ice cream shop kept popping up on various social media sites no matter how many times the Porters tried to take it offline.

Nor could they find and destroy the remains of every one of the hundreds of metal insects and other creatures Harrison and Deifilia had sent to attack us. They did their best to track down the wendigos, but I had no doubt we'd be seeing more "Bigfoot sightings" for months to come.

The Porters had trapped a fair number of wendigos, but they hadn't found them all. Nor were any of the people they restored to human form associated with the students of Bi Sheng. I knew Harrison had transformed some of his own people, but Bi Wei and her friends must have hunted them down, saving their own and making sure they couldn't be captured and used by the Porters.

None of which was my concern anymore.

I sat in the grass, my back against one of the outer oaks of Lena's grove, and tried to read. I had picked up Gaiman's latest, but I hadn't managed to get past the first two pages. Not because of any problem with the writing, but because when I read his words, I felt nothing.

I knew there was magic here. Given Gaiman's fanbase, I should have been able to touch this book's magic in my sleep.

I sighed and set the book aside. Maybe I would be better off rereading an old favorite. Preferably something light. Pratchett's Discworld series would keep me busy for a while.

Lena had somehow shrunk the surrounding oaks of her grove to a more

reasonable height, and was currently clearing a section of the canopy, folding the branches back to allow us a better view of the stars and a distant comet that should be visible through the telescope later tonight. I had a new eyepiece for the scope that I'd been wanting to try.

I pulled a crumpled piece of green paper from the pocket of my jeans. The front was an advertisement for a book club that had met at the library over the summer. On the back, I had done my best to recreate the lines Gutenberg had engraved into my skull.

Sileo. Latin for I am silent.

"Any progress?" Lena asked as she emerged from the grove.

I shook my head. "It's not a form of libriomancy I understand. If he had written a longer phrase, I might be able to find a source, but this is just a single word. It could refer to anything. I suspect the pen is as much a part of the magic as the writing. I'd give half my books to get my hands on it."

I didn't tell her about the e-mail I had received from Nicola Pallas yesterday. I hadn't told anyone, though I had reread it until I memorized every word. I was certain Nicola had broken some rule or another in sending it, which was amazing all by itself. Or maybe there were simply no rules for a situation like mine, and she had taken advantage of that omission.

The e-mail had been short and businesslike. Pallas began by reminding me that I was no longer a Porter, and that any attempt to access Porter resources or data would be ill-advised. Because of my service to the organization, she thought it only fair that I receive my final paycheck. It would be deposited into my savings account at the end of the month, and that would be the last time they contacted me.

Then, at the very end of her message, she warned me against trying to undo Gutenberg's spell, explaining that historically, almost all such attempts had ended badly.

I knew Nicola Pallas. She was far too careful in her writing to have used the word "almost" by accident. Just as importantly, she knew me well enough to know I would pounce on that word as proof that it could be done.

She had given me hope.

"I heard on the radio that a sparkler photobombed a live news broadcast down in Detroit," Lena commented.

My lips quirked. For the past two days since the attack, I had been inseparable from my computer, reading every article and blog post I could find about the attack on Copper River, Michigan. Theories ranged from the outlandish to the mundanely predictable: mass hallucinations, government experiments gone wrong, aliens, and more.

The physical repairs to the town had undermined many of the stories. I had driven past the water tower, standing tall once again. I couldn't find a single weld to show where the legs had broken. The restaurant remained closed, but the door and windows had been fixed.

It was the same throughout town, and the reporters who arrived in search of a story met with confusion and conjecture from people who remembered nothing of the past days. On the other hand, there were always people eager for attention who were happy to confirm whatever explanation the reporters wanted, so long as it gave them their fifteen minutes of fame.

The last article I read had taken the government conspiracy approach, claiming that Copper River was a test site for hallucinogenic weapons, and everyone who stayed would be dying of cancer over the next decade.