Story Thieves by James Riley Page A

.”
    â€œSeven, in a week or so,” Bethany said, her voice barely above a croak.
    â€œIf you won’t answer my question, you give me little choice but to find out the truth another way,” the Magister said, his voice dangerously low. “I used my Fog of Truth spell on your friend and did not yet have a chance to relearn it, but there are other methods.”
    â€œI . . . I really don’t know!” Bethany said. “I swear, I don’t! I know some authors say they hear their characters’ voices in their heads, like they’re talking to them—”
    â€œTheir characters?” the Magister said softly.
    â€œThe people they’re writing about, that’s all I meant! And if that’s true, then they couldn’t just make them up, you don’t just hear voices. I mean, some people do, but they’ve got mentaldiseases, and authors probably don’t have that kind of mental disease. I mean, they could, but—”
    â€œI see that we’ll have to do this another way,” the Magister said. “Come.”
    He stood up and gestured. Invisible hands yanked Bethany out of her seat and carried her along behind the Magister as he strode back to the double doors.
    Outside the library was some sort of large entryway, with marble floors and stark-white columns. Two people stood in the middle of the entryway, right in front of a large staircase: one younger, wearing some kind of black cloak, with twin wands in what looked like holsters at his waist, and the other middle-aged in jeans and a sweater, his eyes filled with terror as ropelike snakes wrapped and unwrapped themselves around his arms and legs, holding him in place.
    â€œThe girl has not been as much of a help as I’d hoped,” the Magister said. “So we’ll have to try a different way to find out the truth.”
    â€œPlease, no ,” the middle-aged man said. “I told you, I don’t—”
    The Magister gave him a look, and the man’s mouth disappeared right off his face.
    â€œMagi, we don’t need to do this,” the boy in the black cloak said, not seeming too happy himself. “Honestly, I get it. I nearly gave up entirely when I found out I was a clone. I thought my whole life had been a lie. But I learned that it didn’t matter, because who you are isn’t about where you come from, but about what you make of yourself. You taught me that! What does it change if—”
    â€œEverything,” the Magister said. He gestured, and the middle-aged man rose into the air, a paper and a pen appearing in the author’s hands. The Magister stepped to the man’s side and nodded at the items. “Now, Jonathan Porterhouse, we shall perform a small experiment, just like the Quanterians. You are going to describe me, the me you see before you, on paper. However, change one aspect of my clothing. A simple shift in color, perhaps.”
    Jonathan Porterhouse’s nostrils flared as he frantically struggled for breath without his mouth, his eyes wide.
    â€œWhat is this going to prove?” Bethany asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
    â€œIf nothing happens, then we’ll know that these so-called writers have no control over us, or our world,” the Magistersaid, turning to Bethany. “However, if my clothing does change based on the description that he writes . . .”
    His eyes darkened, as did the room again. Somewhere lightning crashed, and Bethany didn’t think it was from a storm. “Then we will have a problem.”

CHAPTER 13
    B ORING!” Owen shouted into the white blankness all around him. “This is so boring! Why can’t something just happen already!”
    He sighed and tried to bang his head against the nonexistent wall behind him. Nothing existed in this place, apparently. Not walls, not hunger, not time, and definitely not entertainment.
    Or Dr. Verity for that matter.