by Nazri Noor
“Oh!” she squealed in delight. “The scrawny one. Yes, of course, Dustin.”
“Y-yes.” Scrawny? I tried not to let the offense color the tone of my voice. “That one. Dustin Graves. So again, could I speak to your employer, please? It’s very, very important.”
“Well,” Helga answered, again with some hesitation. “Listen,” she said, her voice more hushed this time. I could picture her speaking with a hand cupped over her mouth. “I do not think that it is prudent for you to speak to the All-Father just now. There is no reason to interrupt his work, and – ”
The blood rushed up my neck. I reached for Mom’s amulet, stroking the garnet, reminding myself to bite back my anger. There was no point getting mad at the valkyrie. Don’t shoot the messenger, as they say.
“I understand all that. I know he’s a very busy man. God. Whatever. But please, it’s a matter of life and death. Literally, Helga. I’m sure you understand the stakes at play here. Well and good, you immortals are bored with immortality. You’re looking for new things to do. But if the Eldest win, then we’ve got nothing left. Not even immortality. I can assure you.”
There it was. Silence. Slowly, I counted out the seconds, and sure enough, as if on cue, Helga sipped in a chestful of air, then sighed. “I will get him for you. But please, be mindful of the things you say.”
“Thank you so much,” I blurted into the receiver. “Thank you.”
Half a minute trickled by, and I strained my ears to listen for anything in the background, but Helga must have put our call on mute. Just as I was wondering what Odin might have been doing at the time – what, corralling live goats, or balancing the Tavern’s checkbooks? – a second voice came on the line.
“Hello?” it said, in a high falsetto.
“Yes, hi. This is Dustin Graves. I’d like to speak to Odin – I mean, Mister Odin All-Father, please.” I slapped my forehead. What the hell was I even saying?
“There’s no one by that name here,” the very clearly faked voice said.
“Listen,” I growled. “I just spoke to your receptionist – who, by the way, is a very lovely woman – and she told me that you were around, so please, let’s not play this game. The Eldest are coming, and you’re there hiding in a kitchen and playing at being a businessman.”
It was worth a shot. And you know what? Baiting him out worked. When the voice spoke again, it was deep, almost booming, like a god. Like someone who commanded the respect of an entire pantheon.
“The last mortal who spoke to me that way was split from his forehead to his crotch,” the All-Father said, softly, slowly.
“I was trying to get your attention, okay?” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m not even going to try to convince you to to fight with us against the Eldest. I just need information. Please.”
Odin stayed silent for a few ominous beats, but he cleared his throat. “Very well. But make it quick.”
“The end of the world is coming,” I said. “The Eldest have found a way to penetrate our reality. They’re not just sending their minions and servants this time. There’s been an attack in the city of Valero. Dozens of normals dead, a street blasted by a massive bolt of light from out of the sky.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?” Odin said gruffly.
“A solution,” I said. “Surely there must be one. The Sisters, the Bazaar of Wonders, they told me to seek one of the truly ancient gods. The most powerful of all the entities that walk the earth.” Flattery, I thought, could get me everywhere in the past. Surely it would work here once more. “I need a ritual that I can use to seal the Eldest out of our world.”
I waited, but nothing. All I could hear was Odin breathing on the other end of the line. I waited some more, knowing that he was thinking, considering.
I wasn’t expecting his answer.
“No.”
The blood rushed straight to my temples. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“I said what I said, mortal. If this truly was the end of all things, if these truly are the end times, then I would know it.”
“What are you even saying? The Old Ones are coming. I killed one myself. Yelzebereth is dead, but more of them are going to infiltrate our world.”
Odin scoffed. “The more of them you kill, the better. This doesn’t concern me. The world will only end the way our words tell us it will end. With the Twilight of the Gods.”
I gripped so hard around my cellphone that I knew I was going to crush it. “Ragnarok. You’re saying that you don’t believe an apocalypse is coming, unless you explicitly see the signs of the Ragnarok.”
“That is precisely what I am saying,” Odin boomed, indignant. “There is no cause for concern. Let the Eldest come if they must. This is not the end of the universe.”
I could have thrown my phone against the wall just then. “And if they come, what? Am I just supposed to kill them again, one by one? You’re the All-Father, the greatest warrior the Norsemen have ever known. Ever. Are you truly leaving this all to humans to settle? This could be the end of us all. Please. I’m begging you. All I need is the ritual.”
Odin cleared his throat again. I could see his great mustachios and snowy beard quiver in my mind’s eye. I wanted to set it all on fire.
“No,” he pronounced. “This is not the end that was prophesied, mortal. These are not the signs. Let me know when you have a real crisis. Until then: do not call me again.”
There was a click, and the line went dead. I very carefully placed my phone down on the little table by the side of my bed. Then I picked up my pillow, pushed my face into it, and screamed as loud as I could.
That carried on for a minute or so, until my throat was burning and it was too painful to continue. I hurled my pillow against the bed, my eyes stinging with tears of fury. Fuck the entities, fuck their fickleness. I couldn’t believe it. This was another dead end.
“It’s not the end,” Vanitas said, his voice echoing in a distant corner of my mind.
“You heard what he said,” I answered. “You hear what I hear. That’s not exactly the phrasing I was expecting from you, V.”
“Granted,” he said. “But that’s not what I meant. I’m only trying to say, this isn’t the end of our fight. Maybe you don’t need the All-Father after all.”
He scraped against the stone shelf that we called his living quarters, and instinctively, I knew that he was nodding, trying to indicate something to me. The tip of his blade was pointing towards my end table, so I looked.
Something sparkling and blue glimmered from just beside my phone, and I was suddenly so glad that I hadn’t slammed it down, or I might have killed our little visitor. The sparkle came from the sapphire embedded in the back of a little spider, one of Arachne’s most special children.
Secret-spiders, we called them. As good as arachnids were at hiding in the corners of the world and listening for rumors and whispers, the secret-spiders were directly linked to Arachne’s mind, feeding her information, carrying messages for her.
And, true to Arachne’s brand, said information generally came in the form of a fortune cookie. The secret-spider tapped one of its spiky legs against the wrapped little cookie it had brought into my room, pointing it out to me. Then it lifted off the table, ascending on a near-invisible line of web up into the darkness of the Boneyard’s ceiling, to blur between worlds and domiciles and return to its mother.
I picked up the cookie and smiled to myself. As fickle as the entities could be – as Arachne herself could be – at least I knew she still cared about me enough to help.
“Well?” Vanitas said. “Crack it open. See what’s inside.”
The name of a god, I prayed to myself. A destination. Maybe even an entire spell, inscribed on a tiny scroll of paper. I tore the wrapper apart, breaking the cookie open in two hands, and retrieved the fortune. My hands shook as I fished out the slip of paper, eager not to tear it. I unrolled the little scroll, then frowned.
“What does it say?” Vanitas said, someho
w more excited than I was.
“The Leather Glovebox,” I read out loud, frowning. “Is this a joke?” I looked at Vanitas pointedly, as if he might know something I didn’t. “What the hell is the Leather Glovebox?”
I hadn’t noticed until then that Sterling was lingering in the threshold to my bedroom. He chuckled, then answered softly.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Chapter 11
The Leather Glovebox, as it turned out, was a very special kind of club located several blocks away from Silk Road, Valero’s commercial district. And I mean very, very special. It was to me, at least. I’d never been to a BDSM club before.
Sterling and I headed there the very same day I got the visit from the secret-spider. Weirdly generous as always, or maybe just making a show of it, Sterling peeled some bills out of his pocket as Gil and I followed him into the warm, wood-scented interiors of the Glovebox. Asher had tried to finagle his way into coming along, but it didn’t take much to convince him that it was entirely inappropriate considering his very obvious age.
“A glamour,” he begged. “I’ll put on a glamour and they’ll let me through. No problem.”
Sterling mussed Asher’s hair, patting him on the head with an odd mix of mockery and fondness. “It’s not about that, little buddy. You might be a bit young for this. Even I think so.”
Asher relented soon after that, which was surprising, considering how he loved to tackle Sterling head-on in any sort of fight.
“That should cover it,” Sterling said to the doorman, handing over a wad of bills. The money was for the cover charge, naturally, which I felt was especially morally important to fork over since we weren’t there to play. Color me strange but it almost felt a little rude to intrude on something I’d always considered so private, and so intimate.
The Leather Glovebox, or at least its lobby, wasn’t what I expected at all, if I’m honest. But then again, I was the kind of person who used to think that vampires only listened to lots of metal and angry electronic music, so what did I know? It was quiet out there, the walls paneled in polished wood, the air smelling of mild incense.
“It’s like the central hub,” Sterling told us in a hushed voice. “Everyone passes through here, but once you get into the Glovebox proper, it’s like being on a different planet.”
“It’s almost like a spa,” Gil said, his eyes flitting suspiciously to either side of him. Faint strains of what I guessed was traditional Balinese music streamed from unseen speakers, supporting his perception.
“Sounds like you come here a lot,” I told Sterling.
“Oh, I’ve been here enough times,” he said, grinning to himself. His eyes went distant with remembrance. “It’s a beautiful lifestyle, you know? There’s all this culture and history behind it.”
Gil blinked. “Plus you get to find willing humans who are into blood play.”
Sterling’s grin widened, revealing his fangs. “Exactly. Plus I get to find willing humans who are into blood play.”
I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”
Sterling shoved me lightly by the shoulder. “Whatever, Ethical Ethel. Come on. Let’s go find out why your eight-legged girlfriend sent us here.”
Gil held open an immense, heavy velvet curtain, which must have served to at least partially soundproof the next section of the Glovebox, because holy hell did the music start blaring.
And there it was, the exact kind of music I expected vampires to be into, pounding and thumping out of a large, darkened room illuminated by sparse neon light fixtures and artfully positioned daubs and slashes of luminescent paint. It was still a little bright enough to see, though, at least the two very large and very intimidating drag queens standing close to the entrance.
One of them put a hand at her hip, cocked a leg, and tilted her head at the sight of Sterling. “Well hello, stranger,” she said, in a deep baritone. “Been a long time.”
Sterling grinned, his fangs shifting from green to blue to pink in the club’s lighting.
The other drag queen mirrored her sister’s pose, then thrust a finger at Sterling’s chest. “You haven’t shown up in a while, Sterling,” she said in a British accent. “Too busy with your handsome little friends, I imagine. Won’t you introduce us?”
I stuck my chest out and smiled broadly. These were huge, burly men done up in some truly impressive outfits, massive wigs, and makeup so flawless their skin practically shone. Something about them made me comfortable in their presence, the way they wore their femininity so proudly. Their dresses were armor, their wigs their helms. The makeup was their war paint.
Gil stood with his lips half-open, a smile in the corner of his mouth. Aesthetic arrest, I think it’s called, when you see something so curious, so otherworldly in its beauty that it quite literally takes your breath away.
“This is Gil,” Sterling said, elbowing the werewolf in his stomach.
Gil snapped out of his trance, wiping his hand down on his shirt and offering it to the drag queens. They tittered at him. The one on the left patted him on the cheek in an almost motherly way, towering as she did over him – and Gil was already the tallest person I knew, mind you. The one on the right patted him gently on the shoulder, then tilted her head, appraising him.
“Lycanthrope,” said the American one. “Handsome, too.” Then she turned to me, cruelly-pointed acrylic nails looming too close for comfort as she moved a lock of my hair out of my face. “And this one? Hmm. Not a vampire. A mage, maybe?”
“Right on both counts, ma’am. Dustin Graves, at your service.”
The two queens squealed. “Sterling! What charming new friends you’ve brought us,” the American one said. She smiled at me openly. “My name is Metric Fuck-Ton.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “The one with all the teeth is Imperial.”
“You catty bitch,” Imperial Fuck-Ton said with a sneer. “She’s always been jealous of me. How do you do?”
“Quite well, thanks,” I said. “I’m going to guess you ladies are familiar with the Veil and the underground, then?”
“Oh yes,” Imperial said. “Enchanters, both of us. Enchantresses, if you prefer, but gender is a construct, you know?”
“Tear it apart,” Metric said, chuckling. “We run the place when we’re not out keeping the streets clean of magical menace. The Glovebox is our passion project, Imperial and I.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, her acrylic nails glowing hot pink as she did. Damn, you can enchant press-on nails? You learn something every day.
“We’re not here to play tonight though, girls,” Sterling said, stepping between them and draping his arms across their backs. He came up just short of their shoulders, and was approximately the size of one of Imperial’s thighs. It was hilarious. “Our friend Dustin here has been ordered to make an appearance at the Glovebox. Question is, we aren’t sure why.”
Imperial and Metric exchanged glances, then shrugged. Imperial poked a thumb over her shoulder. “If it’s information you want, you’ll want to talk to Jonnifer.”
She was gesturing at the bar, where someone was pouring a luminous purple drink into a cocktail glass.
“Jonnifer it is, then,” Sterling said. He stood on tiptoes, planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. The Fuck-Tons giggled. “Thanks, ladies.” He looped his arm through Gil’s elbow, dragging him along. “Come on,” Sterling said in a harsh whisper. “It’s not polite to stare.”
“Sorry,” Gil stammered. “You’re both just so beautiful. Sorry again.”
The Fuck-Tons tittered and waved us off, their nails leaving trails of pink light. For a moment I wondered how their enchantments even functioned, but Sterling was already marching us up to the bar. And as arresting as the Fuck-Tons were, little could compare to the earth-shattering beauty of the person named Jonnifer.
Chapter 12
Jonnifer was a beautiful man dressed as a beautiful woman. Under the layers of makeup you could tell that he was gorgeous, but dressed in drag, she was s
tunning, the very picture of androgyny perfected. If Gil was transfixed before, this time he was practically catatonic.
“Sterling,” Jonnifer cooed, wiping her hands off on a towel. “It’s been a while. I see you’ve seen the mistresses.”
Sterling stuck his chin out, tugging down on his jacket, as if to show off muscles I was pretty sure he didn’t have. I’m not one to talk, sure, but Sterling really is something else.
“I think they missed me,” Sterling said. “And you? How’ve things been around here, Jonny?”
Jonnifer shrugged. “Same old, same old. Get you boys some drinks?”
Sterling held up three fingers. “Beers for us, please. Make ’em frosty.”
Jonnifer winked and glided off. As she moved, I got the strangest impression of familiarity. Something about her reminded me of Mammon, the demon prince of greed, who similarly straddled the line between man and woman, dressed in that stunning, closely cut suit, gifted with ethereal beauty – well, at least when it wasn’t wearing the shape of a dragon and threatening to eat me whole.
“Is Jonnifer a demon?” I asked. “Sorry, stupid question, I know. A supernatural of some type?”
“Nah,” Sterling said. “Just your regular old, beautiful drag queen bartender. She loves to play with gender. Depends on the day. Sometimes you’ll show up here and she’s basically James Dean back from the dead. At others,” he said, gesturing with a casual wave, “you see someone who’s stepped off a runway in Milan. And then sometimes, it’s something in between.”
I nodded. Pretty awesome, I thought, that people could live their true lives behind the closed doors of the Leather Glovebox, in a way that quietly reminded me of how mages needed to work behind the safety of the Veil. I realize it’s not quite the same thing, exactly, but something about the Glovebox felt so safe. We were all Others there. We could just Be.
I chucked Gil on the shoulder, laughing softly when it shook him out of his stupor. “Sterling’s right, dude. It’s not polite to stare.”
