Tree Fingers by Augusta Li Read Free Book Online Page B

been looking for a door. His name—damn, what was it?
    “Remember the door,” he chanted as he pushed dry bones out of his way. They clattered like sickly wind chimes. “The door. The light.”
    He could see it clearly now: a warm orange glow, like a candle. It burned beneath a broken arch encrusted with lichen.
    Alan felt resistance when he tried to pass through: an invisible barrier that bounced him backward. Focusing his will, feeling it gather in the cavity between his hips and ribs, he propelled his consciousness forward with all his might.
    Gravity felt crushing. Alan’s limbs felt made of stone. He couldn’t lift them, could barely breath with the weight on his chest. His eyeballs felt like they’d burst, and his pulse resounded loudly in his head.
    Gradually he became aware of the ground beneath his back, the gravel denting his skin. He had eyelids that he could draw back. When he did, the stars shone softly above him. He smelled maple, pine and wet asphalt. Somewhere in the distance a fire burned in a hearth.
    “Alan!” he cried out, as if he’d made a great discovery. “Your name is Alan!”
    “No, your name is Alan,” someone said. “You had me worried sick. What happened?”
    Alan knew that voice. With a great effort, he turned his head and found Graham crouched beside his prone body, holding one of his old-fashioned lanterns.
    “Are you all right?”
    Alan considered. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.” He stood slowly, awkwardly, as he tried to re-acclimate himself to the physical world. It felt strange and cumbersome to have mass again. His weight felt like it had tripled, making movement an exertion. But it would pass.
    “So?” Graham said, his arms crossed over his chest.
    “It’s taken care of,” Alan said, lifting and lowering his foot. The ground was so solid and unyielding, and it gave him comfort.
    “Where’s our friend?”
    Again Alan contemplated a fabrication; kids after all. But he took a deep breath, braced himself and told Graham about his encounter with the other magician. He neglected the gory details of his ordeal. One of them waking with nightmares would be more than enough.
    “So,” Graham said as they walked slowly down the hill toward the little town and its twinkling orange lights, “you were right about them?”
    “Yeah, and they’re not too happy that I told the world.”
    “Is that how you got knocked out?” Graham asked, sounding horrified. “You fought with him?”
    “It wasn’t much of a fight, actually. He hit me so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Knocked my astral body right into next week. I don’t know if I’d have found my way back if you hadn’t come.”
    “Alan, you said there wouldn’t be any danger.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “What are you going to do if these men come back?”
    Lots of things, he thought. First, he’d email his editor and put his next book on hold indefinitely, even though he wanted the world to know the truth more than ever. The shadow society not only existed, it was callous, willing to kill to keep its secrets.
    Alan wanted to show the puppets their strings, so they’d know where to cut. But before he worried about that, he needed to be ready for them. He needed an efficient way to carry his spell components: a belt maybe. He pictured himself with his vials strapped across his chest, Rambo-style, and shook his head.
    Somehow, he needed to learn to fight, to stand a chance in hell against the kind of power he’d witnessed earlier. Nor could he deny that he wanted some kind of retribution against the man who’d sent him to that lovely little paradise to rot.
    “There are ways we can protect ourselves,” he said to Graham. “Completely risk-free ways. Gentle magic that draws its power from love. The spell will be stronger if you’ll help me.
    If you can believe.” He reached over and gave Graham’s hand a squeeze, feeling soft flesh above bone. So solid, so warm— Graham stopped and turned to