by Nazri Noor
Both excellent points, I had to admit. What could it hurt to talk? If Loki could give us an edge over Odin and Agatha, I was happy to spend the afternoon with him up on that rooftop.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll listen.”
“Excellent.” Loki steepled his fingers, his smile now brighter than the sun far above us. “Now tell me, Mr. Graves. What do you know of the Great Beasts?”
Chapter 7
“The Great Beasts,” Mason said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them referred to that way.” He brought his shield up to his face, anticipating my blow.
“That was how Loki put it,” I said. “Almost like they were part of the same, ominous organization. Tiamat. Bahamut. Scylla. Fenrir.” I enunciated every name with a slash of my sword, and each time, Mason danced out of my trajectory. With his reflexes, he hardly needed his mystical shield at all. “All of the most legendary mythical beasts, from almost every culture. Apparently they all hang out together.”
“Interesting,” Carver said, watching from the far end of the room. “Very interesting indeed.”
It was an unusual setup. Mason and I were sparring on that same interdimensional platform that the Boneyard had grown explicitly for our use, the new room that we liked to think of as our magical dojo. Carver had not-so-gently suggested that my reunion with the Dark Room probably meant that I should take measures to get reacquainted with its strange powers.
Mainly the point was to practice harder, and maintain enough control to avoid a repeat of that one very awkward time that the Dark Room took possession of my body at Brandt Manor and tried to kill all my friends. No biggie.
Mason was only too happy to oblige. He said he needed the practice, too, but the past ten or so minutes that we’d been sparring had shown me that it wasn’t just an infusion of angel blood Samyaza had passed down to him, but some pretty gnarly physical fighting prowess, too.
Handling weaponry – sorry, the Vestments, as Mason called them – came so naturally to him. It helped that the golden weapons and protections he conjured out of nowhere seemed to weigh almost nothing. I mean he was strong, to be sure, but the huge kite shield he was lugging around to protect himself couldn’t have been heavier than a big piece of cardboard in his hands.
To be fair, it was the same with the shadow blade I’d learned to conjure for myself. It was thin, wicked, razor-sharp, but it handled so cleanly that fighting with it felt even smoother than swinging Vanitas around. The shadow blade brought all the danger and cutting power of a real sword, minus the weight. It took some getting used to, but I was convinced that with enough practice I could make the process as fluid and graceful as trying to murder someone with a feather.
“Wishful thinking,” Vanitas growled in my mind as I went in for another slash. He hovered just at the edge of the dojo, floating in the inky abyss that surrounded it. I forgot to mention. He’d taken the role of mentor, quite rightly pointing out early on that fighting with the shadow sword was completely different from anything he’d ever experienced in mortal life. “You need more focus,” he said, “and what did I tell you about strengthening your body?”
I gritted my teeth as I lunged, as Mason nimbly danced out of the way yet again. “What’s the point of building muscle if the sword weighs nothing?”
“Oh, nothing,” Vanitas started, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the red light of his garnets flickering in the corner of my vision. “A longer life, maybe, better physical health as a result. A stronger body, for a start. Maybe you just want to look good for your partner, eh? But don’t mind me, what do I know? I don’t even have a body.”
“Oh my God, Vanitas, shut up.”
“Never, not until you acknowledge that the sword is an extension of your body and your spirit – more literally than you know. Otherwise, it’s just a glorified toothpick.”
“Its name is Nightmare,” I roared, bringing the sword around in a huge arc.
I realized too late that I’d said that out loud with my mouth. The change in Mason’s face was only just perceptible, the corner of his lips lifting into a mischievous grin. I knew what was coming before it hit me. He lifted his shield arm to meet Nightmare, the collision clanging like metal against metal despite the two being made of ethereal energy. His shield vanished, and he smiled harder as he charged forward, extending his other arm. The shield reappeared there, mystically shunted through space, just in time to slam powerfully into my chest. I flew off my feet, then landed heavily on the dusty ground.
Breathing – no, wheezing was hard enough, the air knocked clean out of my lungs. My fingers clawed at the stone floor as I looked for purchase, struggling to get to my feet. I pushed off the ground with both hands before I realized that Nightmare was gone, disengaged and returned to the Dark because I’d lost focus. Looking down at my bloodied hand I found what was in its place: a gaping black hole, leaking pure shadow from the Dark Room.
“Dustin,” Carver called out, his voice ringing with warning. “Dustin, control yourself.”
It sounded as if his voice was coming from another room. The world felt hazier, not just from the difficulty of breathing, I knew, but because my body was surrendering to the old, familiar reflex of falling back on the Dark Room’s power. Let us take over, the shadows seemed to say. We’ll take it from here.
“No,” I said groggily, my eyes focusing on the gaps between the great stones lining the floor of the dojo. “I’m – I’m in control.”
“Dust?” It was Mason’s voice. His hand reached for my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Are you okay, man? Look, I can help you up.”
“No,” I said, chuckling.
“Mason,” Carver barked. “Get away.”
I did it again. The shadows surged from the opening in my palm, as if my body itself had become a doorway for the Dark Room. The black tendrils almost felt like a hand, curling around my fingers, pressing gently. They were reassuring, possessive.
“Get away from me,” I screamed. Whether the words were meant for Mason or the Dark Room, I wasn’t sure. But they triggered something in the shadows, causing them to gush in an eruption of midnight black, bursting from the ground in a horrible geyser of tentacles and knives.
Carver shouted out. Vanitas sped towards me, his blade readied, not to defend me, I knew, but to fight me if it came to it. But Mason only stumbled back a few paces. My eyes were still focused on the ground, on his shoes as they scuffed the floor – and on the droplets of blood that spilled onto the gray, dusty stone.
I sprang away in horror, staring at my hands, then up at Mason, expecting the worst. He looked me for a moment, his expression neutral, before he wiped one hand against his cheek. It left a streak of blood in a horizontal smear, just under his eye.
“I’m so sorry,” I muttered hoarsely, my head clearing, the myriad voices of the Dark Room fading into nothing.
Mason looked at his bloodied hand, then at me, with that same empty expression. Then he smiled. “It’s nothing. Just a nick. Don’t worry about it.”
Carver’s boot heels clacked as he crossed the floor, heading straight for Mason. Carver clutched his face, firmly, but gently, his false eye pulsing with faint light as he examined the wound.
“It’s just a scratch,” Carver said. “Go and find Asher, Mason. See that he cleans the wound and heals you up nicely.” Carver’s false eye swiveled down at me, glaring accusingly. “That will be quite enough practice for one day.”
I chewed my lip, staring at Mason’s cheek worriedly. “I’m so sorry, dude.”
“As you should be,” Carver muttered.
“It’s nothing, I swear. It barely hurts.” Mason blinked, looking between us. “You’re not going to yell at him for this, are you? It was an accident. Dust didn’t mean that.”
“Goodbye, Mason,” Carver said curtly.
Mason left then, scratching the back of his neck, giving me guilty glances as he loped off into the corridor. I wish I could transmit my thoughts to him. What did he have to be guilty for? I as
ked him to spar with me, and that was all he did.
“And you had to go full Dark Room on him,” Vanitas grunted into my head. “The boy was doing you a favor and you paid him back by cutting him open.”
I groaned. “Please, V,” I thought. “Carver’s going to drag my ass from here to the next county. Will you just leave me alone? I know that I messed up, okay? I’ll see you back in our room.”
Vanitas floated away, his telepathic voice grumbling and mumbling wordless complaints in the back of my head. I folded up my legs underneath me, knowing that I was in for a good reaming, and sighed.
“This is why I supervised you,” Carver hissed. “Oh no, you said. We’ll be fine, Carver. No need to watch us like we’re a bunch of kids. Pah. Child that you are.”
“Look,” I said evenly. “I said I was sorry. It was an accident. Do you really think I’d willingly hurt a friend?”
“Oh, is that what you are now? Because I remember distinctly that you detested each other when you first met. How do I know that this isn’t just some remnant of your dislike for the boy?”
I asked to practice with Mason because he was probably the most resilient person we had in the Boneyard. Sterling, Gil, Carver, and even Asher all had their own ways of mending themselves through supernatural means, but Mason was the one guy who had defenses so tough that healing wouldn’t even be necessary. The whole point was to not make anybody bleed.
“That’s unfair and you know it,” I said. “And we all know that you’re giving him special treatment because he’s a rare and precious breed of half-human, the way you were basically in love with Asher when he first moved in, but come on, Carver. He’s a good kid. I wouldn’t hurt him. You know that.” I threw my hands up and sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Maybe I should stop using the Dark Room after all.”
“No,” Carver snapped. “I wouldn’t have permitted its use within my domicile if I didn’t have faith in your ability to control it, Dustin.”
I gave him a weak smile.
“But it appears that my faith was misplaced.”
I frowned.
He snapped his fingers. “To my office. Now. I need to speak with you.”
Hah. I knew there was a reason I crossed my legs underneath me. “I’m pretty comfortable right here, if you don’t mind.”
He bared his teeth at me. “I do mind, Mr. Graves. And if you won’t come, then fine.” He waggled his fingers, the spaces between them filling with pale fire. “I’ll just have to take you with me.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you, don’t – ”
But he’d already flicked the teleportation spell at me by then, and my mouth – hell, my whole body vanished before I could apologize for all the sass.
Chapter 8
I reappeared, still sitting cross-legged, on the floor just by Carver’s desk, in that special space that had been designated for his actual favorite member of the Boneyard, Banjo the corgi.
It was like his little special way of subtly telling me, I suppose, that I was no more important than a dog. But I sniffed, my nose curling as I smelled something off, and turned my head as I deduced that he’d teleported me right by Banjo’s litter box. Of course. Carver loved his little dog, that was a bad comparison. In his mind, I was actually a little turd.
I crawled away from the litter box, snorting and coughing to get the smell of poop out of my nostrils. If you think small dogs make nicer smelling boom-booms, you’ve got it all wrong. The master of said boom-booms came bounding up to meet me, darting out from under Carver’s desk where he liked to hold office.
“Hi, Banjo,” I said, cheering up despite myself as he lapped enthusiastically at my face.
“Arf, arf,” he said.
“Same to you, buddy.” I rubbed his head, scritching the spot just behind his ears, when the ominous clacking of heels told me that Carver wasn’t quite done with my proverbial spanking.
I grimaced as I pushed myself up off the floor, dusting off the seat of my pants. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you teleport one of us around the inside of the Boneyard. Seems pretty extreme.”
“Well,” he huffed. “None of you have ever been quite so insubordinate, especially not when you’ve just injured one of our own.”
My ears were burning. I sighed. He was right.
“Sit,” he ordered, thrusting a finger at his ornate stone desk. I took my place in the plush chair across his own, crossing my hands in my lap. Maybe a little bit of humility would help my case.
Carver sat down, his posture ramrod straight, even when Banjo leapt into his lap and stayed there, curling up into a furry little croissant.
“Mr. Graves,” Carver said, his voice suspiciously calm. “You know that I only harangue you out of concern, both for you and your coworkers.”
I coughed quietly. “I’d like to politely state that I’m a long way past seeing Sterling and the guys as coworkers. They’re my friends. Don’t tell them this, but – I see them as family.”
That didn’t work, somehow. Carver’s stony expression didn’t soften. “I am glad to hear,” he said, not looking very glad at all. “But every incident of this sort has been a result of negligence, whether in terms of judgment or self-control. When you broke Amaterasu’s mirror – ”
“No,” I said, lifting a finger, automatically slipping into defensive mode. “I said it then, and I’ll say it again. I needed to do that to defuse the situation. I didn’t intend to hurt Sterling in the process, but you remember how that ended. We got what we wanted. We escaped the Lorica and got away with Asher scot-free.”
Carver narrowed his eyes. He knew I was right. Measured risks had to be taken sometimes – but I knew he was right, too. This whole thing with cutting Mason open had everything to do with my lack of discipline, of mastery.
“My point is that you should refrain from doing the things that lead to a loss of control for you in the first place,” Carver said, as if picking up on my thoughts.
“So you’re saying I should tamp down my emotions? Anger is normal, isn’t it? The thing is, I don’t know when something’s going to set me off. Or worse, set the Dark Room off.”
“Then the solution is to limit your use of it, at least in the ways that would allow the shadows to enter our reality. Shadowstepping is permissible. In that instance, you are passing through the Dark Room; the Dark Room does not pass through you. As for summoning its blades into this plane, whether to attack with fields of sharpened darkness, or even as a single sword, this – Nightmare, did you call it?”
I nodded. “I think,” I started to say, meekly. “I think that warriors should get to name their swords.”
Carver rolled his eyes. “If you say so. Naming the thing gives it power, Mr. Graves, which means that you must take extra care with it. But for now? No meadows of black grass. No Nightmares. Not until such time that you understand that you must tame both the flux of the shadows as well as your emotions. It seems to me that these two things are tied together. It pains me to see that your powers have grown, but in only the worst ways possible. If only you could exert complete control over them.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that complete control was ever an option, if I’m honest.”
Carver sighed. “That is fair. Again, keep in mind to limit your use of the Dark.” He gestured at my throat. “Let the amulet you enchanted be your guide. Let it be a reminder of where your heart and your spirit stand.”
I touched my garnet necklace – the one that belonged to Diana Graves, the best memento I had of my mother. Whatever enchantment it was meant to contain had long since dissipated, but at times it had exerted its power over me, reining back my anger, reminding me, exactly as Carver said, of who and what I was.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll try harder. I promise.”
“I believe you. And be creative, Mr. Graves. You still have access to fire magic, after all. In fact, I’m convinced that proximity to Mr. Igarashi has made you more skilled in its use.”
I nodded. “
That’s true, actually.”
Seriously, I don’t know how Carver said the next thing with a straight face, but he was a powerful, centuries-old sorcerer, and I wasn’t. “I am convinced that proximity to Mr. Igarashi has, shall we say, benefited you in very many ways.”
I blushed instantly. “Okay,” I said. “Meeting’s over.”
“Ah, not just yet. There are two more things we must discuss. First: the Great Beasts, you say? Meeting them, as suggested by Loki.”
“By a trickster god, no less,” I said, nodding. “And let’s be real, some of the most prominent Great Beasts are his children. Fenrir, the wolf, and Jormungand, the world serpent. A little strange that he’s trying to make it like he’s being all generous with his contacts when he’s really just pushing me to work with his kids.” I shook my head. “Nepotism at its finest.”
“The relationship is intriguing, and something I hadn’t considered. Good point. And lest we forget, many of these same beasts are the catalysts of the apocalypse in their respective cultures. I will, however, say one thing: just like the strange powers of the Dark Room, the Great Beasts themselves may well be a double-edged blade.” Carver looked down at his lap. “Perhaps we even have a special emissary we can send on this particular mission. To help coerce the Beasts.”
Banjo dozed, unaware of his importance, his ear flicking each time Carver’s hand ran across it.
“If you say so,” I said, my mind already grinding through the oddness of taking a head-exploding corgi to see actual, literal big dogs the likes of Cerberus and Fenrir.
“It cannot truly hurt to pay these creatures a courtesy visit,” Carver said. “The Great Beasts possess tremendous stores of power. This may yet be to our benefit.”
