Unbound

by Jim C. Hines

  The fire started on the deck. I had to believe it was more of Meridiana’s magic. No matter how hurt and afraid they were, I couldn’t accept that the people I had lived with my entire life would deliberately set my house ablaze. But as the flames began to spread, they did nothing to stop it, either.

  Black smoke rose from the deck. Siding warped and cracked. A window shattered. The fire crept inside, consuming the faded blue curtains my father had hung in that room when I was eight years old.

  The mob fell back. Some looked frightened. Others shocked, as if they were beginning to realize what they had been a part of. Nobody looked at one another. Nobody spoke. The news van backed out of the driveway and sped away.

  I raised my weapon. I couldn’t stop this, but Meridiana could.

  She smirked and tapped the screen of her tablet. When she pulled her finger away, a tiny orange flame perched on the tip. She gave a meaningful glance toward the trees of the grove.

  I holstered the gun and shouted, “This is your truce?”

  Her smile grew, and she curled her fingers into a fist, extinguishing the threat. “This is a warning. A preview of things to come should you release the Ghost Army.”

  “You’re assuming nobody else can command them,” I said.

  “If the children of Johannes Gutenberg and Bi Sheng could control my army, don’t you think they would have done so by now?” She walked toward us, flanked by Deanna and Binion. “I’ve stood with one foot in the land of the dead since my birth. Thanks to my teacher’s betrayal, I spent most of my life in the liminal state between reality and nonexistence. The dead are more real to me than you are, Isaac Vainio. What makes you believe you or anyone else could take them away from me?”

  “My boundless hope and optimism,” I said flatly.

  She smirked. “Life is an ephemeral, fragile thing. Even to those such as Johannes Gutenberg. You’re children, terrified of what waits in the shadows. You saw how quickly fear turned your friends and neighbors against you. This is what the rule of the living has brought about: a world fragmented by petty, shortsighted men who rule over mindless sheep.

  “I mean to make this world whole. To unite the living and the dead. You can accept that and live, or you can try to fight. Destroy me, and you damn this world to the mercy of the dead.”

  “Free Jeneta, and I’ll talk to the others about your sphere.”

  “I offered to spare Copper River, and you demand more?” She cocked her head to the side so the plastic beads in her hair clicked together. “Bring me Gerbert d’Aurillac’s armillary sphere, and I will give you back Jeneta Aboderin. I will restore your magic. And I will find a place for you in my empire. It’s a generous offer, Isaac Vainio. But if you continue to fight, Jeneta will be the first to die upon my rebirth. Her body will burn, and her soul will serve me forever.”

  Meridiana’s ghosts were little more than animals, beaten and tormented into madness, until nothing remained but hatred and power. One way or another, I couldn’t let her do that to Jeneta.

  “It’s no longer a question of winning,” said Meridiana. “Letting the Ghost Army ravage your world unchecked will be far worse than anything you fear I might do.”

  The wind shifted, slamming a wall of smoke and heat into my body. I retreated until I could breathe again, if uncontrolled coughing qualified as breathing. Meridiana and the others backed away and disappeared in the darkness.

  The flames spread through my house like hatred. Smoke detectors wailed pitifully, their voices smothered by the cracking sound of my home being consumed. I tried not to think about the books I could have used to stop this. Books to slow time. Books to extinguish even magical flames.

  Sirens screamed in the distance. Lena dragged me to the road, then ran to her grove. She sank her hands into the closest of the oaks. Overhead, branches shied away from the house, pulling their leaves out of reach. I lost sight of her when she moved to the next.

  The first to arrive was a pair of police officers. Within minutes, they had been joined by a fire department SUV, fire truck, and ambulance.

  By then, there was no saving the house. The fire chief interrogated me as his team fought to drown the flames and keep the fire from spreading. His questions felt unreal, like a voice from a dream.

  Are you the homeowner? Was anyone else inside? Is there anything dangerous or explosive in the home? Were you here when the fire broke out?

  I kept my responses short and as truthful as I could, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

  He crouched in front of me and checked my eyes with a flashlight. “You’re saying you just came home and your house was on fire? There were no candles, no forgotten cigarettes, no dying appliances you forgot to shut off before you left?”

  I shook my head.

  “How’d you get that black eye?” he asked. “Your hand looks pretty busted up, too. What happened?”

  “Got into a fight at work.”

  “Any chance the other fellow did this?” He pointed to the fire.

  “No, he—he doesn’t know where I live.” Dammit. I could see him getting more and more suspicious.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not yet.” I looked toward the house as gouts of water assaulted the flames. “I’ll probably start soon enough, though.”

  “I’ve been doing this job twenty-three years, Isaac. I’ve seen a lot of houses burn. There’s always a reason.”

  My phone buzzed, making me jump. The text message said LET ME SPEAK TO HIM. I had forgotten Nicola was still listening on the other end. I gave the chief an apologetic look, exchanged a few quick words with Nicola, then handed him the phone. “This woman says she saw something.”

  I heard the faint, metallic echo of Nicola Pallas’ song from the speaker, and then he was returning my phone. He stared at me for a moment longer, brows furrowed like he was struggling to remember, then shrugged. “Thanks, Mister Vainio. The EMTs will be around to check you over. I’m sorry about your home.”

  I returned the phone to my pocket and watched as my roof caved in, sending geysers of sparks into the sky. As water gradually turned the earth to swamp. As smoke and ash smothered everything in gray.

  Five hours I waited, while Lena hid within her trees. The closest oaks had been singed, but they had survived. The fire crew inspected the wreckage, soaking every potential hot spot.

  It was a long time to think. Meridiana’s offer might have been genuine, but she knew the Porters couldn’t go along with it. There had to be another reason for her so-called truce. To warn us about the Ghost Army going free if we destroyed the sphere? She could have carved that warning into Lena’s tree.

  A second fire truck had arrived at some point during the night, this one out of Tamarack. I hadn’t even noticed. One of the EMTs had me sign a form officially refusing a ride to the hospital. I signed left-handed, keeping my right arm as still as I could. They had splinted two of the fingers and bandaged a cut on my leg.

  The chief returned a while later to go through a well-rehearsed but sympathetic checklist of things to do and not to do. Call my insurance company. Don’t go into the wreckage. Call if I remembered anything about how the fire might have started.

  I nodded and thanked him and spoke whatever words would send them away the soonest. Once the last truck finally left, Lena emerged from the oaks to join me. She looked unreal, untouched by the gray and black that had leached the color from the rest of the world.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I dug out my phone. The battery was almost dead, but we were still connected to Nicola. I put her on speaker and asked, “Did we get Meridiana’s e-reader?”

  “We have a snapshot of its contents, and we’ll be able to see any time she downloads something new.”

  “Good. We’ll be back soon.” I hung up. Lena had to help me to my feet. My limbs had stiffened, and I could feel each punch and kick my neighbors had landed. “I need one thing before we go.”

  Most of the house was a sinkhole, the
wreckage having collapsed into the basement. But the garage was built on solid ground, having been added on when I was in elementary school. Lena was strong enough to pry the worst of the debris aside, using blackened timbers as enormous levers.

  Beneath it all sat the car I had stolen from Ponce de Leon years ago, a black Triumph convertible, four decades old and laced with magical enchantments that had protected it from the flames. The exterior was filthy, but the damage hadn’t touched the inside. I opened the door, shifted it into neutral, and released the parking brake. Together, we rolled the car down the driveway and into the street.

  I fetched Smudge from the Jeep and brought him back to the Triumph. I sat down in the driver’s seat and gasped. At a minimum, a couple of my ribs were out of place, if not broken. Half of my face felt heavy and swollen. My lower lip was cut, and blood oozed every time I spoke.

  I closed my eyes. “On second thought, maybe you should drive.”

  Dear Isaac,

  I saw the newscast out of Copper River. You’re really one of them, aren’t you? One of those book-wizards, the Porters.

  I remember the weirdness before you went away to college. I thought I was imagining things. Where would my brother get a stack of real gold coins? And that pet spider of yours, the one you kept insisting was some kind of mutant tarantula?

  You lied to me.

  I can’t blame you for that. I know we didn’t exactly get along in those days. And you needed to keep your secrets, I get it. The Porters probably had rules and oaths and all that.

  But we grew up. You graduated and got your job at the library. I married Angie and had kids. You and I stopped fighting over stupid stuff.

  And then the accident happened. Lexi was five years old. Do you know what it’s like trying to explain to your five-year-old daughter that if we don’t let the doctors cut off her leg, the infection will kill her? Or to know that even the amputation might not save her?

  She’s had four surgeries to try to repair the damage from the crash. To pin her pelvis back together. To ease the pressure on her brain. Depending on the results of her next MRI, we may have to go back for number five before the end of the summer.

  I never said how much it meant to us that you flew out here after the accident. That you watched Lexi’s brother and brought us badly-cooked meals and did everything you could to help.

  Only you didn’t, did you? You didn’t do everything.

  Maybe you had good reasons. Maybe your precious secret was more important than your niece. Well, the secret’s out now, and Lexi deserves better. She deserves the chance to be a kid, and she shouldn’t have to go through life like this because some drunk blew through a stop sign.

  People tell Angie and me how strong we are to take care of Lexi. How she’s such a special girl, and we’re amazing parents. How God never gives anyone more than they can handle.

  This has nothing to do with God. This is about a fifty-two-year-old woman who was too wasted to drive, and a brother who chose not to use his magic to help his niece.

  I haven’t said anything about this to Angie or the kids, but I can’t hide it from them forever. Sooner or later, they’re going to see the story. They’re going to know what you are.

  I don’t imagine you can go back in time and stop the accident, but there’s got to be something you can do. Lexi is in pain every day. Her hips, her back, her knee . . . some days it takes hours for her to fall asleep, even with her meds.

  Isaac, if you don’t help that little girl, I swear to Christ I’ll never forgive you.

  Your brother,

  Toby

  I HAD GROWN UP in that house. It could be rebuilt, but so much of what it held was gone forever.

  Old novels, many of which had been autographed and personalized by authors now dead. The crooked tile floor my parents had installed in the bathroom more than ten years ago. Memories of helping to haul ruined carpet and old boxes out of the basement one spring after the sump pump failed, and later launching paper boats into the three inches of standing water from the bottom step.

  The loss hurt, but not as much as the way the crowd had turned on me. It was like something from Lord of the Flies, primitive savagery summoned to the fore by fear. I had known many of them for most of my life. Played with them as kids.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and wished I hadn’t. Dirt and blood crusted the side of my swollen, bruised face. A bloody gash crossed my forehead. I hadn’t even felt that one.

  “You know she’s probably following us,” Lena said. “Hoping we’ll lead her to the sphere.”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. I was more tired than I thought. I rested my head against the window and watched the grassy dunes and the lake beyond. Clouds obscured the moon and stars, and the waves were all but invisible in the blackness.

  My phone buzzed. I glanced at the text message. “Nidhi says they’re ready to destroy the sphere, but they won’t do it until we have a way to contain the Ghost Army. She also said the Porters saw the footage of us and Meridiana. They’re preparing a press release of their own.”

  Meridiana wanted to build an empire of the dead, and the Porters were worried about public relations.

  “We should take the scenic route,” I said. Paradoxically, we were probably safer right now than we had been in weeks. If Meridiana was hoping we’d lead her to the sphere, she couldn’t exactly kill us. She could damn well wait as long as it took for us . . .

  I sat up, barely noticing the pain in my side.

  “What is it?”

  “Meridiana didn’t have to meet with us in person. What did she gain by dragging us out to Copper River and burning down my house?”

  “Beyond stopping the Porters from killing her, trying to tail us back to the sphere, and beating you half to death?”

  “She was stalling.” Meridiana was jerking us around like puppets. I checked the time. The sun would be coming up soon. “Several hours to drive here. Longer to wait with the fire department.”

  “Why? What is she waiting for?”

  “Hell if I know.” As long as we held the sphere, we had the better hand. The moment we figured out how to neutralize the Ghost Army, Meridiana was done. Logically, she should be putting all of her energy into getting the sphere back, not wasting time manipulating the people of Copper River or tormenting an individual librarian. Unless she had another way of nullifying our advantage.

  Lena pursed her lips. “When Master Sarna taught me stick fighting, he said that nine times out of ten, the one who wins the fight will be the one who acts instead of reacts.”

  “Did he have any advice on what action to take when you were outnumbered and outgunned?”

  “Run away. Failing that, figure out who presents the biggest threat and focus your attack on her. Take that one down, and the rest might decide to leave you alone.”

  “I like it.” More importantly, I was pretty sure I knew where to start.

  We were halfway back to the fort when Lena adjusted the door mirror and said, “There seems to be an angel following us.”

  The Triumph was enchanted to prevent magical spying, but it wouldn’t help against a flying minion. We had kept the top up, so I had to roll down the window to spot him. He didn’t appear to have any trouble keeping up, despite the fact that we were averaging ninety-five on the highway.

  “Who do you think he used to be?” Lena asked.

  “Meridiana called him Binion.” I sat back and grimaced. Twisting like that had aggravated the throbbing in my side. “There was a libriomancer by that name who lived out west. I didn’t know him personally. From what I’ve read, he was a bit of an asshole. Way too full of himself and his own power. But that doesn’t mean he deserved this.”

  She switched gears and pushed the needle past a hundred. I opened the glove box. From the back, behind a box of Band Aids and an old tire gauge that doubled as a wand for jumping dead batteries, I pulled out a miniature disco ball the size of a golf ball.

  “Should I ask?”


  “Nope. Merge with that line of cars up ahead.” I hung the disco ball on the rearview mirror. It began to rotate back and forth. “You might want to shield your eyes.”

  The tiny square mirrors brightened. Beams of light stabbed out in all directions. The light passed through us with no effect, but every vehicle it touched changed appearance, taking on the compact, glossy black body of a 1973 TR-6 convertible. Which was, I suspected, particularly distressing for the parents in the minivan, whose three screaming children now appeared to be riding in the open trunk.

  A second burst of light rendered the kids invisible. Duplicates of Lena and me appeared in our vehicular doppelgangers.

  Cars screeched and swerved. Horns blared. Several convertibles pulled over to the side of the road. Others continued on. I heard one driver—he sounded like a teenager, though it was hard to tell, since he looked exactly like Lena—screaming excitedly about his new sports car.

  “Ponce de Leon used this trick years ago when the Porters were after him,” I said. “The write-up was funny as hell. One of the vehicles he hit with his illusion was hauling cattle. The field agent wasted five minutes trying to interrogate a cow.”

  Our pursuer circled overhead, clearly uncertain. Even if Binion had been tracking us by our magic, spells now clung to every one of the dozen or so vehicles on this stretch of the road. He swooped lower, arms outstretched. One of the cars reverted to its proper appearance as he stripped the illusion away. We followed two more Triumphs off the next exit ramp, driving slowly and casually, like we had no idea what had just happened.

  A half mile down the road, I peered out the window and searched for Binion. He was staying with the cars on the highway, probably assuming we had chosen that route for a reason, and would therefore keep going after tossing out our magical distraction. One by one he tore their magic away, but he couldn’t catch them all. I held out my fist toward Lena, who grinned and bumped it with her own.

  Damn, I missed being able to do this stuff on my own.

  I texted Nidhi to let her know we were in the clear, then tried to find a position that would let me rest. I closed my eyes, but every time I began to drift off, pain jolted me from half-formed dreams of Gerbert d’Aurillac’s armillary sphere and the smell of smoke.