by Nazri Noor
Mason patted the top of my head, smiling. “So you’re not in such an awful mood after all. You can still laugh, can’t you?” He slid over the top of Carver’s desk, swung over it, then landed spryly on the floor, crossing his legs underneath him as he sat down to join me. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I’m not a cheap date. Make that a fifty and we’ll talk.”
“I’m serious. You’re looking even glummer than usual, which is saying a lot. I saw your face when you hugged Herald goodbye. Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it.”
I sighed, rubbing the backs of my hands into my eyelids. “I don’t even know where to start, man.”
I jumped when Mason’s fingers dug into my shoulders, then sighed when he began to massage them powerfully. “You don’t have to tell me. Not right now. You don’t owe me that. But if you want to talk about all this shit that’s going on, I’m right here.”
Smiling, I rested my head against the back of Carver’s desk, then nodded at him gratefully. “You’re a good son, Mason. I never tell you that.”
“And now you’ve ruined it.” He chuckled, the angelic glyphs tattooed around his chest and neck glimmering with golden light, then clapped me on the back. “Seriously though. I’m here if you need to talk.” He gestured vaguely around himself. “We all are. Anytime you need us.”
I gave him a flat smile, then nodded. “That helps. It really does. Thanks, man. I promise, I’ll come running when I’m ready to talk.”
Mason sprang off the floor then, sticking his hands in his pockets then traipsing off down the corridor leading back to the common area. It was hard trying to think back to what bugged me about him so much when we first met, though I suppose I could have said that of many of the friends and allies I’d made in the arcane underground, even the entities. What started with fear and hatred turned into solidarity, whether out of convenience or actual affection.
“So you do think of us with affection?”
My blood ran cold, though no colder than the skin and flesh of the hand that had looped itself around my wrist. I stared in rapt horror at the wetness of it, how it had emerged directly out of – out of Banjo’s dog bowl, of all things. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out of my throat.
“Don’t be afraid, fleshling,” the voice said again, this time from my other ear. I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut, then steadied my breathing. When I opened my eyes again, there she was, all three of her, one copy sitting to either side of me, the other clambering slickly, wetly, impossibly from out of Banjo’s dog bowl, like some hellish apparition from a well.
The third copy of the goddess slithered her body whole from out of the bowl, then arranged herself on the ground in front of me, smoothing down her dress, squeezing water out of her hair. She was drenched, like she’d actually gone swimming. I refused to even attempt to make sense of the physics of it all – as with most things when it came to understanding Hecate and the vagaries of her magic, that meant taking a sharp turn down the road to madness.
My fingers dug into the stone floor beneath me as I calmed myself. “There are far less terrifying ways to make your presence felt, Hecate.”
“Ah,” Hecate said, three voices speaking out of three grinning mouths. “But we like this way. This way is fun, fleshling.”
“Not fun for me, it isn’t.”
Hecate tittered, then her face fell, her expression more serious. “We are here for a reason, Dustin Graves. Do you remember our last conversation, when we told you of the little things you must do to win your battle?”
“The little sacrifices,” I said, the word like bitter, rotting flesh on my tongue.
“Yes,” she said. “It is time to decide. We can tell you such stories, show you such horrors. We can tell you all about the ritual, fleshling, all about the things you will need to ascend.”
There was the word again. Ascend. Just the sound of it made my insides tremble, set my flesh quivering, my blood at once turning to ice and shooting through my veins with curious, excitable fire. Slowly, I nodded.
“Tell me,” I said to her. “Tell me everything.”
Hecate spoke. As she told me her stories, as she shared the ritual, my heart swelled with terror, then awe, then despair.
Yet above all things, despite it all – my heart filled with hope.
Chapter 6
“Tell me everything,” Carver said. “Everything she said.”
I sighed. “Where do I even begin?”
I wasn’t sure how long I stayed in that little alcove under Carver’s desk, how much time transpired between Hecate leaving me to my thoughts and Carver coming home to the Boneyard to discover me still huddled there. It felt safe, like a place of security for me, compared to the vast, cold emptiness of the Boneyard. Carver was the closest thing to a father I had, a proxy for Norman Graves. In some sad, pathetic way, just the presence of his desk, its enormous jewels, had shrouded me with the warmth of something like a blanket.
But it wasn’t where he wanted to converse with me, for some reason. Every single grave and serious discussion we’d ever had was conducted at the same desk, always with the strange, business-like air of contractual magic, of the exchange and interplay of power. When Carver gently pulled me to my feet, when he quietly asked if I would like to join him for a coffee, I knew he wasn’t speaking to me as my boss or my mentor. He was speaking to me as family.
I didn’t even mind when Carver swept wordlessly into the living area and gestured for Sterling to come with us. And for whatever else Sterling’s arrogance and terrible attitude brought him, he was fiercely loyal when it came to the matter of Carver, and I liked to think, when it came to me as well. If Carver called, Sterling would split heaven and earth to answer, to follow. And as much as Sterling loved to tease and torment me, I knew he would do the same, for me, for any of the boys of the Boneyard.
Asher and Mason didn’t even protest this time, when Carver arranged Sterling and me into a tight circle, then cast a teleportation spell. He took us to a coffee shop somewhere near Central Square. We sat at an outdoor table, somewhere that gave us a full view of Lorica headquarters, that squat, nondescript – okay, extremely ugly building that served as a disguise for the most powerful magical organization in the Americas.
Sterling sat hunched over a tiny, untouched espresso in its own adorable little demitasse. He fidgeted with his lighter in one hand, the steady, incessant click-clack of it once an annoyance, but now an oddly comforting rhythm, its metal case flashing in the coffee shop’s moody lighting. I could tell that Sterling was avoiding my gaze. I wanted to know why, but knew that I already had the answer, anyway.
Carver blew across the top of his own Americano – a practiced gesture, as far as I was concerned, because he was immune to any kind of damage that boiling hot coffee could inflict on seemingly fleshy, vulnerable human lips and organs. It was sweet, in a way, how Carver had deigned to listen to me and the rest of the boys, to find ways to blend in with humanity. He took a tentative sip, then set his cup down, his saucer clattering.
“The Apotheosis,” I said. “That was what Hecate called it.”
I dipped the end of my finger into the latticework of caramel across the top of my macchiato, sucking on the little dollop of rich, sticky sugar. To my surprise, it made me elicit a tiny, approving moan of delight. It was the little things, you know? The little things between everyday life and the end of all existence – or at least of mine.
“The Apotheosis,” Carver repeated. “As I recall, Hecate once told you that the Coven of One was a ritual of her own design. Curious, how the goddess of magic has so many of these stockpiled among her secrets.”
“It’s that giant book of hers,” I said. “The Enchiridion. She’s a goddess of magic, of mysteries. It’s like she takes pleasure in seeing people pull off her rituals, like it feeds her, in a way. I don’t know that it makes her stronger, but it certainly makes her happy. And whatever it is, the Apotheosis is meant to – to change me, too.
To help me ascend.”
“Is that what the Apotheosis is supposed to do to you, then?” Sterling said, his words flecked with more than a little bitterness, a slight edge of anger. He still wouldn’t look at me. “Twist you and corrupt you so that we don’t even recognize you anymore?”
I shook my head. “Not exactly. From Hecate’s explanation, it’s supposed to amplify my magics. The Apotheosis is supposed to cut away everything that hinders true growth, true power, and bring me to the peak of my potential. If you remove all stoppers, all obstacles, whether mental or physical – ”
“Then you also remove the limitations of your power,” Carver said. “How curious.”
“Listen to yourself,” Sterling spat, his eyes boring holes into mine. Oh, he was finally speaking to me directly. “How can you be so casual about this? Did you even hear what you said? You’re talking about cutting away parts of yourself. Think of the dangers, Dust.”
It tugged at me, hearing just how upset Sterling was over all this, but it was my decision to make. I knew that underneath all the cockiness and nonchalance that the heart of a good and loyal friend still beat in Sterling’s undead chest.
“It was how Agatha Black described things to me herself, when she held me up in the air. She said that I was never meant to be whole, to be fixed ever again. I was always supposed to be broken. Fractured. Why should I fight who I am?”
“And why should you listen to her?” Sterling barked, his teeth bared, his eyes somehow reddish. I jumped when his fist banged onto the table. Hairline cracks splintered across the wood. Heads turned from around the coffee shop. Carver’s hand spidered across the table, reaching for Sterling’s arm, then squeezing tightly.
“Sterling,” he muttered. “Control yourself. Use your words. We’ve talked about this.”
The traces of animal rage receded from his eyes, his lips relaxing over his fangs. The look he gave Carver was submissive, almost apologetic, but when he turned back to me, he was still glowering, the anger simmering just under his skin.
“Have you maybe considered that this is some kind of trap? That Agatha Black has wormed her way into your brain, leading you down the path that will turn you into just the perfect servant for the Eldest?” He leaned in across the table. “Have you even considered that Hecate may be in league with them?”
“Sterling,” Carver hissed. “That is a serious accusation. Don’t speak so lightly about such things.”
“That’s impossible,” I said, getting angry myself now, my body hitching across the table, my fingers digging into the wood. “The entities only ever act in their self-interest. Even Loki in his fucking boredom only ever wanted chaos, disorder. I can’t believe that you, of all people, can’t be understanding about this. You know about all the sacrifices I’ve made – that we’ve all made – to make sure the Eldest don’t annihilate us all. Why the fuck are you so pissed at me for this, Sterling?”
Sterling’s gaze could have stripped my flesh from my skeleton. He spoke softly, slowly.
“Because as much as I joke about draining you of all of your blood, as much as I poke fun about your flimsy mortal husk and you dying, I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself like this. Have you told Herald? Your father?”
I stammered, grasping for straws as I answered. “N-no, I haven’t.”
Sterling sneered. “They don’t deserve this from you. None of us do. I’ve lived long enough to see my friends perish around me, one by one. Imagine what you would be doing to those you love, if you changed, if you disappeared. What if the ritual corrupted you? And what if it failed? What if you died?”
He tossed back the contents of his demitasse, wincing as the lukewarm espresso made its way down his throat. He settled it back down on its equally tiny saucer, then stood up, tugging on his leather jacket.
“I’m done here. I’ve said what I had to say. Gonna go feed, or fuck, I don’t know. Anything to forget that this is something I’ll need to deal with. I’ll see you both back at the Boneyard.”
I watched in stunned silence as Sterling stalked away from the coffee shop, angrily lit a cigarette, and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Carver sighed.
“He screams because he cares. Sterling is older than any of you at the Boneyard, but in many ways he is still young. He hasn’t filed away what’s left of his humanity, which is more than I can say for a vast swath of the undead that I’ve personally encountered. Of course, that turns the question on you, Mr. Graves.”
He turned to me, folding his hands together, his buffed nails gleaming as brightly as the jewels on his fingers. “Just how much of your humanity are you willing to surrender?”
Chapter 7
“Love you lots, Dad,” I said, giving Norman Graves my hugest smile.
“Love you more, buddy,” he said, tousling my hair in one hand like he used to, making me feel small again, like a kid.
I hugged him on his front porch, and he didn’t close the door until he saw me turn the corner away from his house, beaming and smiling the whole time, like it was my first day taking the bus to school all on my own.
From one father to another, I thought. After finishing our coffees, Carver and I went our separate ways. He still had misgivings about Hecate’s ritual, but considering what we had to fight Agatha Black with – our combined power against hers the equivalent of a peashooter going up against a cannon – he didn’t exactly forbid me outright. Even the Lorica could only do so much, and they’d raided everything that Luella Brandt had kept of her mother’s to follow Agatha’s movements with scrying. Somehow, the thirteen witches were always one step ahead. I scoffed, kicking at the ground. Thirteen steps ahead, more like.
I thought back to when I said my goodbyes to Carver at the coffee shop. “You are old enough, grown enough in your power to make your own choices, Dustin,” he said, much like a father. And, much like a father, he added: “As if there was anything I could do to stop you. You’ve made up your own mind, anyway.”
He was right. I had. I thought about it the whole way to Dad’s house, all the way through our steak dinner – he grilled it himself, and cooked everything else up, sides and all. He grilled me about Herald, too, and I promised I’d bring him over for dinner properly some other day. The entire time my heart thumped with the prospect of completing Hecate’s ritual, with the fear and thrill of it. The whole time, when Dad asked if everything was okay at work, I tried to pretend that I wasn’t lying.
“You definitely left out a lot of details,” a voice in my head rumbled.
I kicked at the pavement and huffed, now a couple of blocks away from Dad’s house, my hands warm in the soft recesses of the hoodie Herald had given me so long ago.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I answered through my mind.
Carver and Herald were both spot-on. Long ago, they told me that certain artifacts needed to be near their chosen wielders in order to continue to function. Herald, who worked with artifacts at the Lorica’s Gallery all damn day long, also hinted that continued contact could deepen that attunement, that bond between the relic and the user.
Granted, I couldn’t quite use Vanitas to attack someone in a different country like a guided cruise missile just yet, but our link had definitely strengthened to the point that he could speak to me from inside my enchanted backpack, from an entire other dimension.
“Well, if you truly don’t want to hurt your father, then we should do everything in our power to complete this ritual without killing you. Safe, like.”
“That, we can agree on,” I said. Without even thinking it, my mind began to linger on the weird and incredibly difficult list of reagents that Hecate had set out for me. Because the task, she said, should be commensurate to the reward.
“So now she wants you to find five magical blades,” Vanitas grunted. “When you could barely handle the one.”
“Hey. That’s not fair. Besides, you’re just jealous that I paid Nightmare more attention than you.” I flexed my hand, the one that Nigh
tmare, my blade of shadow, would spring out of whenever I engaged it. “Imagine that,” I said. “Getting jealous over an inanimate object.”
“Imagine that,” Vanitas sniffed. “Losing an argument against an inanimate object.”
“I didn’t lose nothing,” I growled. “There’s no basis for any of this. Hecate only said that I needed the swords for the ritual, not that I had to actually wield them.”
Five swords meant to represent the greatest mystical forces that walked the earth, each symbolic of a different facet of arcane might. The task, Hecate said, was to gather a sword that represented the essence of the celestials, the infernals, the old gods of earth, humanity itself – and, regrettably, the Eldest. Though ironically, that was the easiest of the tasks to accomplish. I hardly had to lift a finger for that one.
“So I’m the Eldest blade,” Vanitas said. “That much is obvious. Now we just need to get the others to cough up one of their sacred, powerful relics, and somehow trust us not to end the planet when the Dark Room tries to take over your body and blow up the sun. No big deal.”
I groaned, shoving a pair of headphones over my ears so I wouldn’t look too weird to any passersby. I didn’t need more attention from anyone, not even pedestrians looking at me funny for talking to myself.
“You don’t have to be so negative, you know. Hecate says that this will give us what we need to stop the Eldest forever. Isn’t that worth the risk, whatever that risk is? It can’t be so bad.”
“Can’t it?” Vanitas said. “But who are we to stop you? If you’d successfully worn the Crown of Stars, your soul would be forfeit. You’ve given enough of your blood and your life to call on the Dark.” The next thing Vanitas said seemed so uncharacteristic, starting off angry, but trailing off into something tinted with just the faintest edge of sadness. “We could cut your legs off at the knees and you would – gods, Dustin, you would still crawl to your own doom, all to save a race of people that doesn’t even know the danger it’s in.”
