Write,” the Magister told Jonathan Porterhouse.
Mr. Porterhouse, wide-eyed with fear, didn’t move.
The Magister’s eyes hardened, and he raised a glowing hand. For a moment it looked like he might attack the author, and Bethany could see the glow of magic reflected in Mr. Porterhouse’s eyes.
But instead, the Magister lowered his hand, the glow dying. To her side, Bethany heard the boy in black quietly let out a huge breath he’d been holding.
“I have no desire to hurt you, Jonathan Porterhouse,” the Magister said. He gestured, and the author began to sink into the floor. Mr. Porterhouse’s face contorted like he was screaming, but no sound came out, given that he still had no mouth. “At least, not if you are innocent in this,” the Magister continued. “If innocence is indeed a possibility. Consider your choices here, as I shall consider mine.”
Mr. Porterhouse sank out of sight, his mouth reappearing just in time for his scream to be cut off as he disappeared, and Bethany shivered. “Where did you put him?” she whispered.
“He has no dungeon in this home,” the Magister told her. “So the lowest floor shall have to suffice.” He gave her a tired look. “I truly do have no wish to harm the man, if he is ignorant of his actions. In fact, I wish no harm upon anyone. But I have seen his library. Thousands upon thousands of stories lie within those books, and if each one contains a world like mine, existing solely to entertain your people . . .” He rubbed his forehead with his thumbs. “I cannot let this continue, Bethany. I cannot.”
Bethany shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re saying, but you can’t just change it. There’s nothing to change. What could you possibly do?”
“Nothing,” the Magister admitted. “Not without your power.”
“My . . . my power?”
“Magi, let’s discuss this,” the boy in black said, but the Magister ignored him.
“Your father comes from a world like mine,” the Magister told her. “Did one of your writers invent him, too? Were his actions his own, or forced upon him? Don’t you see, Bethany? If your father and his world were created to follow a story, then he had no freedom! His will was not his own!”
“I don’t like where this is headed,” the boy said. “Maybe it’s time we all relaxed and took a deep breath—”
“Help me!” the Magister shouted at her. “Help me free these worlds from living according to another’s whims. Give them back control of their lives!”
“What are you asking me?” Bethany said, taking a step backward.
The Magister held out his hand, and a Kiel Gnomenfoot book flew into it from a nearby table. “I’m asking you to use your power and deliver the people of these worlds into your own, like you have for Kiel and me. Free them, that they might no longer be controlled and can live their lives however they wish, subjected to no one’s whim or story!”
What? Bethany’s mouth dropped open. Bring every fictional character into the real world? That was beyond crazy!
“Magi, there would be chaos,” the boy said quietly.
“And what do we have now, Kiel?” the Magister asked. “I will not let myself be controlled! Not by Dr. Verity, not by Jonathan Porterhouse, not by anyone. How else do you propose to free us all, if not this? Destroy all writers on this world?”
“Of course not!” Kiel said quickly. “But—”
“I cannot let this injustice stand, apprentice. I cannot and will not.”
As bad as things seemed before, this was twenty miles beyond that. Bethany concentrated on breathing in and out, desperate for someone, anyone to tell her that everything would be okay, that this wasn’t happening—that she was dreaming or imagining it, or living out some kind of waking nightmare.
“There must be another way,” Kiel said, holding his hands up for calm. The Magister sighed, dropping the Kiel Gnomenfoot book he was holding to his side.
And that’s when Bethany realized that there might be a way out.
They were both right here, after all. With the book so close, maybe she could just grab it, then jump both Kiel and the Magister back into the story! At this point, even if they still knew they were characters, at least that was worlds better than unleashing every fictional character ever into the real world!
But to do that, she’d need to keep them talking, and paying attention to anything other than what she was about to do.
“You have no idea how many stories there are,” Bethany told the Magister, her eyes everywhere but the book in his hand. “It would take us years to free all the characters. Centuries, maybe.”
“Then we shall start this very moment,” the Magister said, and laid the book down on a nearby table, then held out his hand to Bethany. “Help me. Help me right this enormous wrong. We shall free all the peoples of these worlds, and let them live their lives the way they wish, with no one telling them otherwise.”
Bethany bit her lip and took a step forward. “Can I . . . think about it?” It was so close now, just a few feet away. She could almost jump for it at this point—
The Magister’s eyes narrowed, and the Kiel Gnomenfoot book burst into flames, leaving nothing but a blackened spot on the table. No!
“I believe you may not be treating this request seriously,” he said, his tone sliding down in temperature. “Perhaps you should take some time to consider it, along with Jonathan Porterhouse.”
“Don’t do this,” Bethany pleaded, but her feet had already begun to sink into the floor. She gasped, trying desperately to stop herself, but the marble floor felt like quicksand. The more she struggled, the faster she sank. “Please! Let me go, and I can still fix all of this!”
“I could just siphon your power from you,” the Magister told her as she descended. “Simply free these worlds myself. But then I would be no different from a writer, taking away your choice.” His eyes glowed as he stared at her. “I will give you time to make your decision, and hope you choose correctly. For both our sakes.”
And with that, Bethany’s head sank into the floor, and everything went dark.