by Jim C. Hines
He bargained his blood and Lena’s for a chance. What was he thinking? And what else will he sacrifice?
If things don’t improve soon, I may call Jeff and Helen and have them lock Isaac in a damn kennel until he gets his head together.
—From the personal journal of Doctor Nidhi Shah
I HAD MADE ENEMIES of an entire species in exchange for a single vial of blood.
How long before they discovered the theft? Whatever alert had triggered the release of the guard within the satellite had likely signaled the vampires on Earth as well. They had an impressive security database, which presumably included records of known Porters and ex-Porters. All they had to do was match the video and scan from the satellite to their information on Isaac Vainio.
Trying to explain Mahefa’s part in it wouldn’t change the evidence. Whatever my reasons, I had broken into their secret satellite. Simply knowing the thing existed was probably enough to earn me a death sentence.
It was almost enough to distract me from our headfirst dive back to Earth.
“Where are we going?” My helmet muffled the wind rushing past.
“Copper River.” Mahefa sounded as happy as a kid going to Disney World. A drink of dryad blood would be the cherry on top of his bloody sundae.
“Not yet. First you’re taking me to Rome.” The bastard had made me a target for every vampire in the world. The least he could do was give me a lift.
“Do I look like a fucking taxi cab?” he snarled.
“How do I know the blood will work?” I shot back. “Once I’ve tested it, then we can go home.”
I half-expected him to drop me. It would be a simpler death than waiting around for the vampires. At this speed, I’d probably fall another hour, but I wouldn’t have time to feel the pain of impact.
“Sure, why not?” he said cheerfully, his annoyance seemingly forgotten. We veered to the right. “I haven’t been to Italy in years. It’s a beautiful country, full of beautiful, delicious women.”
Lower and lower we flew over the blackness of the Atlantic. My stomach lurched as Mahefa flattened out his path, skimming the waves so closely the spray hit my helmet. We had slowed a bit, but the air still battered my suit and helmet, and the harness felt like it was about to sever my legs.
We sped across the water for another hour, with nothing but the waves below and the stars overhead. Monotony dulled my thoughts. I was half asleep when Mahefa struck my shoulder and pointed to lights illuminating the coastline ahead. “Wake up, and welcome to Ostia Beach!”
He unclipped my harness from his, and I went from flying to falling. It was like being on a swing set and feeling the chains snap. I braced my head with my hands and doubled over. The first time I struck the water, I bounced like a stone skipping across a lake. The second time, my arm and shoulder sank beneath the surface. I flipped heels-over-head and ended up underwater.
Mahefa hauled me to the surface. “Better to be seen swimming than flying. You can swim, yes?”
You didn’t grow up in the northern part of the U.P. without learning to swim. I pulled free of his grip. “Shouldn’t you have asked before you dropped me in the ocean?”
Hotels, nightclubs, and bars illuminated the beach ahead. Folded umbrellas lined the sand like soldiers at attention, guarding the nightlife against marine invasion.
By the time I was close enough to shore for my feet to touch bottom, I could hardly feel my legs, and my arms and chest felt like they were on fire. I staggered toward dry sand, one hand fumbling uselessly with the helmet seal.
“Be careful with that,” Mahefa snapped. “It’s practically an antique.”
I considered shooting him, but firing a waterlogged lightning gun while soaking wet probably wasn’t the wisest idea. It wouldn’t be the dumbest one I had ever had, either. But that said more about me than it did about the idea in question.
I finally got the helmet off. The beach smelled of salt and sunscreen. I peeled the suit from my body and grabbed my phone.
“Damn.” The screen was cracked. I doubted the warranty covered getting tossed around a satellite by a starving vampire.
An older couple waved as they strolled past, probably thinking we were out for some late-night scuba diving.
“Where do you need to go to talk to your corpse?” Mahefa asked.
“The Basilica of St. John Lateran.” But not like this. My clothes were wrinkled and reeked of sweat. Now that I was back on solid ground, exhaustion was battering me from all sides. I needed a bed, a good meal, and a hot shower.
Most of all, I desperately needed to pee.
Mahefa accompanied me only long enough to deposit his blood in the hotel fridge. He examined each vial closely, opened one, and used a Swiss Army Knife to cut a frozen chip from the end.
“What’s that for?”
After licking the blood from the blade, he sealed the vial and returned it to the fridge. “Blood magic is all about absorbing the strength of the donor. In this case, the vampire’s strength and endurance. As long as I’m here, I’m going to party like the undead.” As he left, he called over his shoulder, “You understand what will happen to you if you touch a single drop of my stock, yes?”
“Whatever. Just be back by morning.” I collapsed on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and reached for my cell phone before remembering it was dead. Groaning, I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to grab the phone on the desk. Lena would be asleep in her oak, so I called Nidhi. She answered after the second ring. She sounded alert and awake, despite it being past midnight in Copper River.
“It’s Isaac. Are you and Lena all right?”
“We’re fine. What the hell have you done, Isaac? Lena said you sold her blood?”
A dozen excuses and justifications clambered through my thoughts. I stomped them down. “I did,” I said flatly. After a long silence, I added, “I may have also pissed off some vampires.”
“How many vampires?”
“I can’t give you an exact number, but I’d estimate roughly . . . all of them. You should probably stay with Lena until I get back. If they can’t find me, they might come after one of you. I’m sorry, Nidhi. If I’d known this would put the two of you in danger—”
“Isaac, stop.”
“I got the blood. I’m about twenty miles from the tomb of the man who can answer our questions about Meridiana.” I rubbed my eyes. “No, wait. Don’t stay with Lena. The vampires know where I live. The two of you should get a hotel room somewhere. I promise I’ll find a way to—”
“Isaac, Elne Cathedral in France was destroyed tonight. Two Porters were killed, along with six civilians. Eleven others were hospitalized.”
My fingers tightened around the handset. “Was Jeneta involved?”
“All I have are the public news reports and secondhand rumors. From the photos, it looks like a sinkhole swallowed the entire cathedral, and then a bomb leveled anything that remained. They’re calling it terrorism, but if the Porters were there . . .”
“Elne Cathedral.” Fatigue blurred my memory, but I remembered the name from one of the books I’d skimmed at the archdiocese in Green Bay. “Miro Bonfill.”
“Who?”
“He was a friend of Gerbert d’Aurillac. Probably a mentor as well. There’s a stone at Elne—was a stone—with their names carved into it.” Nobody knew what purpose it served. It couldn’t have been a magical artifact, or else the Porters would have confiscated it years ago.
“You think I should come home and let the Porters take it from here,” I said. If Meridiana was going after sites connected to d’Aurillac, there was a good chance she’d be watching his tomb as well.
Nidhi said nothing.
“Answer me one question. Given everything we know about the Porters, everything we’ve learned about Gutenberg and his history, do you trust them to take care of Meridiana? Are you certain there’s nothing I could accomplish here that they can’t?” I rested my head against the back of the chair. “Tell me that there’s no chance o
f me digging up some fact the Porters missed or making a connection that might help us save Jeneta. Tell me there’s nothing I can do here, and I’ll come home.”
Nidhi hesitated. “I ought to lie to you.”
“Probably.”
She sighed. “I also know that with your magic gone, a part of you feels as though you have nothing left to lose. I worry that you’ll continue to take more dangerous risks.”
“That’s not why—”
“Shut up,” she said calmly. “Your life has changed tremendously over the past year. Magic or no, you have a great deal to lose. And so do we. Remember that.”
She hung up before I could answer.
I left the hotel hours later, clothed in knee-length shorts and a bright blue T-shirt from the gift shop in the lobby. A shoulder bag with the hotel logo held my clothes, shock-gun, and stolen blood. I bought an enormous croissant and a caffè latte on the way out.
I found Mahefa sleeping on a bench outside, nursing what looked like a grande-sized magical hangover. When he opened his eyes, blackened lines spread like lightning from the irises: charred blood vessels, inflamed by whatever power he had burned last night. He snatched the caffè latte from my hand without a word and downed the whole thing before we were halfway to the metro station.
The subway got us to Rome, and from there we hiked to the Basilica of St. John Lateran, the resting place of Pope Sylvester II. What was left of him, at any rate. When his tomb was opened during the seventeenth century, Gerbert d’Aurillac’s body had crumbled to dust like a staked vampire. I just hoped enough of that dust remained for us to communicate.
When we reached the basilica, I had to stop to absorb the sheer grandeur of the place. Reading about the cathedral hadn’t prepared me to stand on the stone steps looking up at pillars eight times my height. A statue of Christ stood atop the highest point of the façade. To either side, statues of various saints looked out at the tourists.
“While we’re young?” Mahefa muttered.
“Right.” I scanned the crowd for anything or anyone out of the ordinary, wishing I had Smudge along to warn of danger. I saw nothing unusual, nor did anyone appear to be paying undue attention to us.
Mahefa was already heading inside. I followed, then stopped again once I passed through the entrance. “I have got to start traveling more.”
I gawked openly, trying to absorb 1700 years’ worth of history. Every inch of the cathedral was a work of art, from the intricate patterns of the stone tile floor to the fluted pillars and statues on either side of the nave. Gold leaf covered sculptures on the ceiling, which had to be a hundred feet high. Framed paintings hung on the walls above giant statues of the apostles.
Reluctantly, I quickened my pace and made my way past tourists posing for photographs or reading travel guides on their phones. A small crowd had already gathered around the cenotaph of Pope Sylvester II.
Marble framed a stone inscription and a sculpture depicting Sylvester II. I watched an older man press forward to touch the stone. According to legend, the monument wept to foretell the death of a pope. If the stone was merely damp, it predicted the death of a bishop or cardinal.
I pulled the blood from my bag and carefully unscrewed the lid. Chilled air rose from the opening.
“Dumbass. You didn’t let it thaw overnight?” Mahefa snatched the canister away from me. He took a test tube from his shirt pocket and popped the rubber stopper loose.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. We were attracting some very odd looks.
Mahefa spread his arms in mockery of a crucifix. “This is my blood, which I give up for you.” He poured the contents of the tube over the frozen blood like a dessert topping. “Blood and saliva both, actually. They help release the magic. Relax, this isn’t the first time I’ve whipped up a mixed drink for a mundane.”
People had begun to move away from us. I hoped none of them called security.
“Don’t drink it all at once. You don’t want to overdose. I’d hate to have to put a stake in your heart after all this.”
I brought the canister to my lips, at which point I discovered another problem. The interior was cold as dry ice. Mahefa’s blood had frozen to the rest, and none of it was budging. I cupped the mouth and exhaled onto the blood, trying to warm it. When that failed, I whacked the bottom with one hand until a dark red cylinder began to slowly slide free.
An older couple stared in horror and disgust. I don’t know if they were more upset about the noise I was making in church or the contents of my thermos. I offered them a weak smile. “Cherry smoothie. I must have left it in the freezer too long.”
The woman said something in Italian, and they both turned back to the papal cenotaph. Mindful of Mahefa’s warning about overdosing, I brought the frozen bloodsicle to my mouth and bit down.
I don’t know what was worse: the metallic syrup that coated my mouth and tongue like paint as it melted, or the icy pain that started in my teeth and raced like electricity up my nerves, giving me the worst case of brain freeze I could remember. I hadn’t thought to bring anything to wash down the blood. I wondered if they had a font for holy water, and whether anyone would object to me using it as a drinking fountain. Though given that I was trying to absorb vampire magic, using holy water as a chaser probably wasn’t a great idea.
“How is it?” Mahefa whispered.
“Foul.” I forced myself to take another bite and did my best to keep from vomiting. “How much do I have to eat before it starts working?”
“Depends on body mass and sensitivity. You’ll need more than those two swallows, though.”
I had just finished my fourth bite of blood slushee when magic jolted my bones. My gasp drew more annoyed glares. I made my way to a wooden bench, sat down, and closed my eyes, concentrating on the whispers in my mind. They were too faint to understand, but they were real.
I chomped more blood, swallowing so quickly I started to gag. I covered my mouth with both hands until the coughing fit passed, then licked the melting droplets from my palm. The taste was no less repulsive, but the return of magic after a month of being unable to reach into a single book overwhelmed all other sensations.
“I think he likes it,” Mahefa said dryly.
With libriomancy, I needed to concentrate, to deliberately forge a connection between my will and the belief anchored within the books. But aside from an ashen aftertaste and what felt like the start of heartburn, the blood’s magic was effortless. It was like the blood had reawakened something dormant within me.
My coughs turned to giddy laughter. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw a man approach, heard him ask if I was all right. Mahefa waved him off. By now, half the people here probably thought I was stoned out of my mind.
Reluctantly, I sealed the canister and tucked the rest of the blood away. I felt more awake and alert than I had for weeks.
“Good stuff, no?”
I nodded. Despicable he might be, but Mahefa had delivered exactly what he promised. He took my elbow and guided me back to the marker of Pope Sylvester II.
“Keep your eyes open,” I said. The whispers grew clearer as the blood continued to pump magic through my body. I heard multiple voices now, a veritable choir of dead popes and other ghosts. And not one of them spoke English.
“Dammit.” I didn’t realize I had spoken out loud until a new wave of glares turned my way. “Sorry. Mi dispiace.”
What language would d’Aurillac speak? Latin? French? I knew several romance languages well enough to get by, but the French of today was very different than that spoken a thousand years ago. “Gerbert d’Aurillac?”
The response was incomprehensible. I felt their disorientation, but the words were foreign. After so long, was anything of Gerbert d’Aurillac even left for me to contact?
My mouth had gone dry as cotton. I ran my tongue over my teeth, tasting the faint traces of blood in the crevasses where tooth and gum met. My fingers tightened around the stolen blood. If I consumed it all, would I better
understand the voices of the dead? Would I be able to distinguish d’Aurillac from the rest?
“Je suis Isaac Vainio,” I whispered. Modern French might be too different for d’Aurillac to understand, but maybe he would at least recognize the language. “Oú est Gerbert d’Aurillac?”
Nothing but confusion and fear. Latin might be a better choice, assuming these were true ghosts. I couldn’t even be certain I was communing with the afterlife. This could just as easily be a hallucination brought on by bad blood.
I thought back to Nicholas, the ghost-talker who had communicated with a murdered Porter earlier this year. Nicholas hadn’t spoken in English. But when he first made contact, he had described not the Porter’s words, but his emotions.
Ever since my “session” with Euphemia, I had been trying to wall away my fear. But perhaps fear would work where words failed. I opened those walls to all who might be listening, remembering the terror of a woman in bronze dragging me down into a world ruled by the dead. “Meridiana is here.”
One voice grew louder, honed by despair and grief. I concentrated, separating him from the noise. “Gerbert d’Aurillac?”
Wariness supplanted fear. He neither recognized nor trusted me, but at least he heard me. From him, I felt the pain of betrayal. His emotions carried flashes of thought and memory. Hopelessness showed me a teacher and scientist who found himself thrust instead into a world of politics. He had watched so many allies die or turn against him. His fears stemmed from those memories of betrayal: was I a man, or the Devil sent to tempt him?
For a moment, I saw his dreams. I saw a world in which science and magic and religion were one and the same, tools to better understand the mind of God. I saw him happily sketching out a clever poetic puzzle, or working with a friend to find the formula for calculating the area of a circle.
“Pi times radius squared,” I said automatically, visualizing the equation in my head.
Fear vanished, replaced by joy and disbelief. Gerbert d’Aurillac, the man who had helped bring Arabic numerals to Europe, who had designed an abacus capable of near-infinite calculations, had never uncovered the concept of pi.
