Lena reached for me with her free hand. Taking mine in hers, she pressed my palm to the rough bark, avoiding the rose thorns that could have pierced my hand. Lena’s fingertips slipped between mine, sinking into the bark as if it were soft clay. “What do you feel?”
Most days, I couldn’t distinguish between Lena’s tree and any other. My magic simply wasn’t strong enough. Few Porters had that kind of power, which was why libriomancy had spread so quickly. Books gave us a crutch, allowing us to draw on the belief and will of others to supplement our own power.
Today was different. I was raw and exposed from my spells in Tamarack. My barriers were down, meaning I was better able to feel and manipulate magic.
I felt her connection to the oak, the sense of stability and timelessness. The roots ran deep, and while the tree might sway with the wind, it was so much stronger than any human. Much like Lena herself.
This wasn’t the first time I had felt the magic of Lena’s tree, but never before had I wanted so badly to pull away. An itching sensation spread through my skin, as if something were squirming and burrowing through my muscles. I fought the urge to scratch until I bled. If it was this unpleasant for me, what was Lena feeling?
She swore and yanked her hand back. Her fingertips were bleeding. I spotted tiny metal pincers snapping from a small hole in the wood, but the insect retreated before I could get a closer look.
“Whatever they are, they’re killing my tree.”
4
Frank Dearing was not a good man, but my years with him made me happy.
I loved his fields almost as much as I loved him. I was stronger than his other hands, able to work longer without breaks. I gave strength to the plants that needed it, and I rooted out those dying from rot or insects before they contaminated the rest. Frank’s family had lived on this farm for three generations, but I knew the crops in a way he never could.
I seduced him for the first time in early March, a month after I had stumbled onto his farm. Snow melted beneath my bare feet as I hauled bales of hay from the barn. The cold didn’t bother me, and I enjoyed the crisp wind on my skin. I had taken to wearing shorts and old T-shirts, hand-me-downs from one of the other hands. They were too small, but I liked the way they hugged my flesh.
When I finished spreading the hay, I returned to fetch the ax and hose. The water trough had frozen over again.
I felt Frank watching as I swung the ax through the ice. I glanced over to see him standing on the porch, sipping his coffee. His desire warmed my body in a way sunlight never could. I pretended not to notice, but adjusted my stance to better display the curves of my legs and ass. When I hauled broken chunks of ice from the trough, I allowed the water to drip down my chest. My nipples tightened, blurring the line between pain and pleasure.
I used the hose to rinse away the hay that clung to my skin, then slicked my blonde hair back. I could feel the hem of my shirt stiffening from the cold, which surprised me. With the heat surging through my blood, I half expected to see steam rising from my body.
I smiled at the sound of his boots as they crunched through the snow. I would have known him by his footsteps alone, strong and solid.
“What the hell are you doing, girl?” he asked gruffly. “Get into the barn and change into some dry clothes before you freeze to death.”
“But I haven’t drained the hose yet,” I said innocently. A delighted giggle escaped my lips when he blushed beneath his beard. I could feel his desire. It had followed me from the very first time he saw me. Instinctively, I pulled that desire into myself, twined it into my own, and sent it back, strong enough to make him gasp.
“I’ll take care of that. You get yourself inside.” He slapped my ass to send me on my way, and the pleasure of that sharp blow made me gasp and bite my lip. I blew him a kiss and scurried away.
I stripped off the T-shirt and pulled on a too-large red flannel, shivering as the heavy fabric brushed my skin. I had only fastened the third button when I heard Frank enter the barn behind me. I moistened my lips with my tongue and smiled, but didn’t turn around until his arms encircled me, his rough hands tugging the shirt away to grab my breasts. I breathed in the smell of coffee and cigarettes as he kissed my neck.
I was home.
WE WERE STILL STANDING in the garden when I heard Nidhi pull up on the motorcycle. Lena’s leather jacket hung loosely on her shoulders as she ran into the backyard to join us. I brought her up to speed while Lena paced circles around her tree.
“How many of these things are inside of her?” Nidhi asked.
“Twenty-eight.” Lena shuddered. “I’ve tried to crush them, to seal the bark around their bodies, but nothing works. I’ve hardened the core of the tree the best I can, and they’re not strong enough to get there yet, but they burrow through the bark and the outer layers of wood like it’s made of balsa. And when I try to enter the tree myself…” She held up her hands. Blood welled from tiny cuts and gouges on her palm and fingers.
“That shouldn’t even be possible.” I knew it was a stupid complaint as soon as the words left my mouth. Possible or not, it was happening. But Lena wasn’t physically shoving her hands and body into the oak like a butterfly crawling back into a cocoon; she became the tree. Her physical body was something she doffed and donned again as she entered and left her oak. How the hell could these things attack her within her own tree?
Unless it was an attack on the tree itself, one which somehow translated into wounds of the flesh? I didn’t understand enough about how Lena’s bond with her tree worked. “If they’re mostly hiding below the bark, what if we peeled the bark back to get to them?”
“Skin me alive, you mean?” Lena asked, her tone deceptively mild.
I winced. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right.” She moved her hand over the tree. Bits of bark fell away as the insects burrowed through the wood to follow. “They’re too quick anyway. They’d just move to another spot.”
“What else have you tried?” Nidhi asked.
“We haven’t,” I admitted. “Without knowing what they’re made of, it’s hard to know what weapons would work best. They looked metal, which means there’s a chance a magnetic blast might affect them. I could also try to strengthen the tree itself.”
Lena frowned. “Strengthen it how?”
I waved a hand toward the house. “Tamora Pierce’s Circle of Magic series has characters who can empower plants and make them grow at ridiculous speeds. If I can tap into that book like I did with the Asimov story—”
“Then you could char another book and knock yourself into a coma,” Lena finished.
“Not to mention the question of control.” Nidhi moved to stand between me and the tree, her arms folded. “You have no idea what that would do to Lena’s oak. To her.”
“I could call Nicola Pallas and request an automaton.” Gutenberg had constructed his magical golems as bodyguards five centuries ago, armoring them in spells and metal keys from his printing press, essentially turning them into living books. Among their various powers, they had the ability to drain magic from others. I was certain they could kill these insects, but I had no idea what such an attack would do to Lena’s tree.