Part of me wanted to point out that, according to Porter records, none of the people executed in seventeenth century Salem were actual witches or magic-users. Another part simply wanted to turn him into a pickled egg.

The four of us fell into a diamond formation with Lena at the head, while Nidhi and I walked a step behind to either side, helping to create a buffer for Nicola.

A reporter shoved a microphone over the barriers. “What are the Porters doing about magic-using rebels and mercenaries destabilizing Africa?”

“I’ve got this one.” I raised my voice. “Africa is a continent. A big one. You’ll have to be more specific. Are you talking about the libriomancer helping the government fight Boko Haram in Nigeria? The rumors about rebels in Mali using blood magic? Or do you mean the three adze who’ve been acting as vigilantes, most recently in the Ivory Coast?”

The adze in question had become known as the Diamond Fireflies after disrupting a diamond mining operation in Sierra Leone and freeing twenty-six child slaves. The vampire-like trio had also brutally murdered three overseers before transforming back into their firefly forms to escape.

I kept walking before the reporter could respond.

“Ms. Pallas, why are the Porters unwilling to defend this country?” asked another reporter.

“The Porters are a worldwide organization, founded in Germany. We have more members from India and China than we do from the U.S.” Nicola’s voice cut through the shouts like a shark through water, a trick of her bardic magic. “The Porters will continue to work with the international community to protect this world from magical threats. We will not support legislation to allow the selective drafting of magically gifted individuals, or any other efforts to militarize our people and our work.”

The anger wasn’t all directed at us. I spotted one small group holding signs that said JUSTICE FOR MARCUS VISSER. Visser was a young werewolf from Maine who’d been shot and killed in early September by a pair of hunters, neither of whom had been charged with any crime.

“Isaac, will you autograph my library card?” A young woman shoved a laminated card and silver Sharpie at me. I scribbled my name and returned it. A camera flash went off directly in my face.

I tried to smile, remembering the photo USA Today had run of me in mid-sentence with my mouth open and eyes half-shut. I’d looked like a stoned Muppet. How the hell had I gone from a small-town Michigan librarian to having to worry about paparazzi in a single year?

“Isaac, please heal our son!”

I stopped walking. A small gap opened to my right. Reporters jockeyed for a better angle.