The Book of War Read online

  The Book of War

  The Last Oracle, Book 8

  Melissa McShane

  Copyright © 2020 by Melissa McShane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Alexandra Brandt www.alexandrajbrandt.com

  Cover images Central element © Aliaksandr Ðœalashka | Dreamstime.com

  Leather book © Roman Stavila | Dreamstime.com

  Dedicated to the Arcadian Bookstore, French Quarter, New Orleans, which was the inspiration for Abernathy’s miles of irregular shelving. This extraordinary store must be seen to be believed.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The Auguries, and Movies Referenced

  About the Author

  Also by Melissa McShane

  1

  Rain spattered the plate glass window with ABERNATHY’S painted on it, from my perspective in reverse. The faint sound of cars passing on the very wet streets was an occasional whoosh rising above the sound of raindrops striking glass. I leaned with both elbows propped on the cold glass countertop and let my mind wander far from the store, which today smelled like strawberries. It was a scent of spring, though this was late March and winter hadn’t yet loosed its grip on Portland. Three more hours, and I could go home for the weekend—an Abernathy’s weekend, which meant Sunday only. I loved my job as custodian of the world’s only living oracle well enough that I didn’t resent the long hours.

  The sound of metal scraping across linoleum with a skin-tingling skree brought me out of a daydream about what Malcolm might be cooking for dinner. I sat up and called out, “Judy?”

  Another shrill scrape followed by a muffled curse drew me out of the front of the store and down the short hallway to the break room. The Formica-topped table that normally stood beside the door of the tiny room was folded away to lean against the wall, and Judy had shoved the two metal chairs to sit beside it. It made the room feel bigger to have the furniture out of the way. “Finally got sick of the freezing cold chairs?” I asked.

  Judy pushed her short black hair out of her face where it had fallen and glared at the tableau. “Yes. I did. I’m going to get someone to haul them away tonight and bring in replacements tomorrow.”

  Her dress had a skirt short enough that I sympathized with her desire not to freeze her butt off. “You don’t have to do that. Abernathy’s should pay for it.”

  “It’s no big deal. Besides, I didn’t feel like waiting.” She prodded one of the chairs with her toe, clad in a black patent leather pump that probably had a designer name.

  I wanted to remind Judy that the store’s debit card was available for use for things like this, but her closed-off expression made me wary. She’d been edgy lately, irritable in a way I wasn’t used to—had been ever since my wedding more than two months ago. The two probably weren’t related, but I couldn’t help wondering if something that had happened that night had changed her.

  I’d caught her making out with Malcolm’s teammate Mike Conti, someone she’d been at odds with until that night, and I’d have passed it off as one of those things that happens at weddings if she hadn’t acted weird around him ever since—unwilling to meet his eyes when he came into the store, hesitating when she said his name as if it were in a foreign language. I had a feeling they were, if not dating, at least still seeing each other, but she’d never said anything to me or Viv. Why Judy felt she needed to keep her love life a secret from her two best friends was a mystery to me, but in the face of her brusqueness I felt awkward about bringing it up. So mostly I just pretended not to notice.

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe next we could get rid of the furniture in the front. That chair by the door is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “No, the next thing I’m going to do is move that desk in the office around. I don’t like how its back is to the outside door. It gives me an itch between my shoulder blades.”

  “That outside door only leads to your apartment. It’s not like anything will come through it to attack you.”

  Judy shrugged. “It’s still uncomfortable. But I’ll leave it for Monday, or maybe—” She shut her mouth abruptly and her cheeks turned pink. “Yeah. Monday.”

  Once again, I didn’t know what to say. Her embarrassment made no sense. “I’ll help you with it then.”

  Judy nodded and left the break room. I contemplated the furniture, helped myself to a Diet Coke from the small refrigerator, and headed back to the front of the store. The weather was just nasty enough that even the Ambrosite “rush” at two o’clock hadn’t lasted longer than half an hour. I settled onto the stool and took a long swig of caffeinated goodness. Two hours and forty-five minutes. I tried not to count down the time, because that made the hours pass more slowly, but on days like this it was hard to keep my eyes off my watch.

  My phone rang. I dug it out of my stupid girl pocket that was way too shallow for comfort and saw an unfamiliar number. Probably a telemarketer, but it was local, so… “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Campbell?”

  “Yes?” It still felt strange being addressed by my new name, let alone being a Mrs. Most people used Ms.

  “This is Darius Wallach at the Gunther Node. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course I do, Mr. Wallach. Can I help you with something?”

  “Actually, I was hoping I could help you.”

  “Really? With what?”

  “It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. Can you come to the node this evening, around eight o’clock?”

  “I guess so, but—”

  “Perfect. Just tell them you’re there to meet me and someone will direct you to my department. Oh, and bring a piece of clothing. Underwear, by preference. Something you’ve worn close to the skin and haven’t washed yet. Thanks.” He hung up abruptly.

  I stared dumbfounded at my phone. Underwear? What kind of “help” did Wallach have in mind? He’d created the aegis that had made Malcolm a magus again, and I’d seen him build an ansible out of glowing glass, so I was willing to trust him, but…underwear? He’s a genius; everything he does looks crazy to ordinary people.

  “Should I be worried that Darius Wallach wants to help me with something?” I asked Judy, who’d just come through the stacks holding the wide-headed push broom.

  “He wasn’t specific?” Judy said.

  “Just that he wanted me to bring something I’ve worn but not washed.”

  “That could mean anything. I’d be worried if I were you. Crazy Wallach’s ‘help’ sometimes creates more problems than it solves.”

  “Maybe it’s something to do with the oracle,” I said. “What if he’s thought of a way to automate the production of the catalog? That would be worth something!”

  “I doubt it could be that practical,” Judy said. “Don’t you think we’re getting faster at it? It only took a week this time.”

  “A week is six days longer than I want to think about the catalogue.” Abernathy’s catalogue wasn’t a list of books for sale, but a minor divination tool for questions too unimportant to pay for a full augury. It wore out every couple of months, requiring us to produce a new one three times a year, and if I were going to be resentful of anything to do with my job, that would be it. “Isn’t it a little early to start cleaning?”

  “All the mail-in auguries have been processed and the database is up to date. Cleaning is all that’s left.”

  “This is one of those days where closing up early has its appeal.” Though I wouldn’t close early no matter how attractive the idea was. I still had another month of my probation for violating the Accords to go, and even though my new liaison with the Board of Neutralities, Ariadne Duwelt, was much less nasty than her predecessor, I didn’t kid myself that that meant she’d be lenient on me. I hopped off the stool and headed for the basement and the bottle of glass cleaner. Cleaning calmed me.

  I texted Malcolm the news of Darius Wallach’s request as I walked, and received his response as I was climbing the stairs: SHOULD I COME ALONG?

  I thought about it. WOULD RATHER YOU DROVE, HONESTLY. I hated driving at night in the winter, particularly when it was raining, even though I could finally find my way to the Gunther Node by myself.

  AFTER DINNER, THEN, Malcolm replied.

  I heard the bells over the door jingle distantly and shoved my phone back into my pocket. When I emerged from the stacks into the front of the store, I found three people waiting, all of them with the athletic, powerful appearance that c
haracterized front-line fighters in the Long War. I didn’t know any of them, but I’d only been a Warden for about two and a half years and there were a lot of hunters I didn’t know. “Welcome to Abernathy’s,” I said. “Can I help you?”

  “Augury,” the woman in front said. She had narrow, Asian features, but the delicacy of her face was at odds with her heavy build. She towered over average-sized me, and her male companions, one fair-skinned with bright red hair, the other with the copper skin of a Pacific Islander, towered over her. I suppressed feelings of nervousness and accepted the slip of paper she handed me.

  “One minute,” I said, and took three steps into the timeless silence of the oracle.

  Things had changed so much since that day in November, years before, when I had performed my first augury. Some of that was me growing used to my custodian’s role, but some of it, I was sure, was an alteration in the oracle itself. “It’s been one of those days,” I told it conversationally, though I didn’t expect a response. “The weather is keeping even the invaders indoors, I think. I wonder if you’re aware of weather? As something that affects you, I mean. You would have seen it when you were transported from England to Portland all those years ago. I’m so glad that’s never going to happen again.”

  I could feel the oracle’s attention on me, but idly, as if it were listening to two conversations at once. It didn’t bother me; the oracle’s consciousness was something I barely comprehended. “I don’t even feel anxious about it,” I continued. “I feel I should, maybe. The Mercy have been quiet since that thing with the second oracle, but that might just mean now is the time they’ll attack again. Maybe the Wardens need to go on the offensive. I don’t know anything about fighting, but it can’t be good to just react all the time.”

  I unfolded the augury slip. I was fairly certain, at this point, that the oracle didn’t need me to read the augury in order to produce an answer, but not reading it felt weird. Where should we hunt tonight? A simple, straightforward request. I hoped the oracle would give them a straightforward answer.

  I tucked the slip into my pocket and wandered the narrow aisles, barely wide enough to fit the head of Judy’s broom, looking for the blue glow of an augury. After a few turns, I saw it—a light like a tiny blue sun radiating from the top of one of the shorter bookcases. I still had to stretch to reach it, but it fell into my hand, weightless as a feather. The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton. I’d never read it, but it looked like something a college professor might assign in some American literature course. I tucked the small paperback under my arm and turned to leave.

  Ahead, another blue glow beckoned.

  I dropped the augury, which hit the linoleum with a soft thud. My hands and face felt numb enough that even if I’d dared look away from the blue light, I couldn’t have picked up the fallen book. “No,” I whispered. “No. It can’t be happening again.”

  I left The House of Mirth on the floor and stepped forward, feeling my way along the shelves like a blind person because I was afraid the light would disappear if I looked away from it. The last time this had happened, the oracle had been under attack by the Mercy’s secret operatives, who’d used illusions to try to destroy Abernathy’s. It had nearly worked. But surely the Mercy wouldn’t try the same trick twice?

  I rounded a corner and found a fat, palm-sized book blazing with light that gave me a sharp-edged shadow. Gingerly, I reached out and brushed my fingers against the spine. Nothing unexpected happened; I felt the same tingling of a live augury I always felt. Gripping more tightly, I pulled the book from between its neighbors. The blue glow faded, as did the tingle. I ran my fingers over the embossed title on the cover. The Art of War. When I flipped it open, I read, in silver ink, the words Lucia Pontarelli, No Charge.

  I stared at the letters. That was definitely not the same behavior I’d seen before. Back then, the Mercy’s illusions had caused the oracle to produce multiple auguries for the same person all at once, or one augury for the wrong person. This was…different.

  I flipped through the pages, not reading, just making sure they weren’t blurry or vanished or anything, then walked back to where I’d left the Ambrosite hunters’ augury. The slim paperback had fallen on its face, and the cover was creased back, putting a line right through the face of the elegantly dressed woman lounging across it. Well, they didn’t need to know this wasn’t the original condition. I’d retrieved auguries missing their covers entirely. I checked the title page: Midori Watanabe, $1250. I’d forgotten to ask the woman’s name. Surely the oracle had gotten that one right.

  Clutching both books in front of me like a shield, I made my way out of the oracle, still feeling like a sleepwalker. The rules were clear and simple: one question, one augury. And yet…I’d seen the oracle do things that verged on the miraculous, and I knew it was a living creature, if one whose existence was stranger than I could imagine. Maybe I was wrong about the rules. I hoped I was wrong about the rules. The alternative was too terrible for me to contemplate.

  When I emerged from the stacks, I got another shock. “Lucia!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  Lucia arched a dark eyebrow at me. “Waiting,” she said. Her short, dark hair was damp with rain, making me wonder why the hood of her jacket wasn’t up. Knowing Lucia, she probably felt that was a sign of weakness. The Ambrosite hunters had drawn closer together and were eyeing Lucia warily, like a flock of sheep who aren’t sure whether the four-legged newcomer is a dog or a wolf.

  “But—” I shut my mouth and held out The House of Mirth to the female Ambrosite. “That’s $1250,” I said, feeling as if the words were rattling out of me on autopilot. “Judy will take payment.” I left Judy to accept their vials of sanguinis sapiens and turned to Lucia. “I think the oracle knew you were coming,” I said, and extended The Art of War to her. “It’s no charge.”

  Lucia exchanged glances with Dave Henry, who stood next to her carrying a familiar briefcase I knew was full of cash. “Take a look at this anyway,” she said, handing me the augury slip. I unfolded it and read What is the Mercy’s weak spot?

  “Maybe I should see if there’s another augury,” I said.

  “You do that,” Lucia said, “but I’m betting there isn’t. This book might be valuable even if it’s not the answer to an augury question.”

  I had a feeling Lucia was right, but I took the request into the oracle anyway. This time, I could feel its attention on me, impatient and a little cranky, clearly saying I gave you an answer already, stop wasting my time. “All right,” I murmured, “sorry,” and hurried back to where Lucia and Dave waited. The Ambrosites were gone. Judy perched on the wobbly stood behind the counter and toyed with the keys on our antique cash register.

  “It’s never done that before, anticipated someone’s request,” I said. “I think it cares about your question.”

  “Doesn’t it care about all of them?” Dave asked. He set the briefcase on the counter and flexed his fingers like it was heavy.

  “I don’t think so. That is, it’s always interested enough to provide an answer, or not, but some questions…it feels like it gets more involved. Especially the ones it doesn’t charge for.” I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms over my chest. “And I think it cares about winning the Long War. Ken Gibbons told me the Mercy had sent many augury requests in secretly, and every one of them came back ‘no augury.’” That was before the Mercy’s attempt at a second oracle had turned Ken’s mind into tapioca.

  “Good to know it’s on our side,” Lucia said. “Thanks.”

  “Wait!” I exclaimed as she and Dave turned to go. “What’s the augury for?”

  “You know I don’t tell you my plans, Davies,” Lucia said. She didn’t seem to care that I’d taken Malcolm’s last name when we married—or maybe she thought two Campbells were too much work to keep track of.