by Nazri Noor
Carver pointed to the right of the massive statue we were standing next to. “My office is down that way. I’d like you to come and see me once you get settled. I trust you’ll find your accommodations suitable, but feel free to tell me if there’s anything else you’ll need.”
I nodded and we headed in opposite directions. If I didn’t have any context Carver could have sounded just like the night manager at some really fancy – and really niche – hotel, but it made me consider my position when I realized he was being so, well, hospitable. Too hospitable, maybe?
There were precisely three doors in the hallway I’d been asked to go down. The first was shut. The second was closed, too, and had a sign on the knob that said “Keep out!” in bold red letters, the kind of thing a teenager would hang on their bedroom door. I snickered, positive that it was Sterling’s room. The final room’s door was ajar. I had to restrain a gasp when I got there.
The room was brightly lit with incandescent lights fixed into the ceiling, and a couple of quite contemporary-looking lamps. Approximately everything was hewn from stone – the makeshift desk, the side tables to either side of the bed, even the empty set of shelves that looked perfect for displaying books, or knickknacks.
There was a loose assortment of tasteful furniture for the bits that wouldn’t have been practical if made from stone, like the cabinets and the swivel chair by the desk, or the very plush-looking couch and carpet. The room even had an ample amount of electrical outlets, ready for someone to plug in a phone charger. I wasn’t wrong about my initial assumption: this may as well have been a suite in some really luxe and really specific hotel. The mattress was plush, too, the kind you wanted to just lie in forever. It was easily the nicest room I’d ever get to live in.
The thought gave me pause. I was, quite basically, sleeping with the enemy. I knew it looked like this was me consorting with the Bad Guys, but come on. Considering what I’d gone through with Thea, there truly was no telling who was who anymore. Where was I meant to draw the line between good and evil? Everything looked better in gray, as far as I was concerned, and working with Carver meant getting answers, more, at least, than I was getting from Thea and the Lorica.
Plus I had an inkling that Carver wouldn’t be the type to turn around and sacrifice his employees at a moment’s notice. Call it a hunch. Gil didn’t look too bad, either. Quiet guy, but he seemed pretty decent. Of course, I had no real experience of how he might behave during a full moon, but hey, I liked to believe in the best in people.
Sterling could get annoying at times, but nothing worse than Bastion, and I knew I could handle that. Only real problem would be if he had any habit of creeping into people’s rooms to suck their blood at night. My hand went to my throat reflexively, and I checked on the door. Ah, a lock on the knob, and a sliding bolt. Good. Whatever else Carver was, it looked like he at least respected privacy.
Unpacking was uneventful, and Herald’s magical bag of magic spat out my belongings in the reverse order of how I had put them in. Soon I had everything sorted into the cabinets and onto the stone shelves. I stood with my hands at my hips, proud that I had managed to fit my entire life into this fancy shmancy bedroom.
I dipped my hand into the backpack again, just to make sure I’d gotten everything, but as I groped around, my fingers made contact with something unfamiliar. The hairs at the back of my neck prickled. What the hell was this long, heavy thing? Had Herald forgotten something in there? Or – wait. Had he intended for me to find it all along?
I pulled out the object – the sword – and grinned, beside myself with excitement.
“Vanitas,” I muttered. Hot damn, Herald. What a parting gift.
“Graves,” the sword said, a rumble of contentment in his telepathic voice.
“I was wondering why Herald so violently wanted me to turn this backpack inside out.”
“Yeah. Bit stuffy in there. Put me somewhere I can air out, will you?”
“You don’t breathe.”
“And you don’t know what it’s like being pressed up against all your underwear.” The sword gave a little huff. “Honestly, Dustin, how many pairs of boxers do you need?”
“Yeah, I missed you too, buddy.”
I gave Vanitas his own place of honor on an empty stone shelf. He looked impressive there, the greenish-gold of his tarnish glowing eerily in the lamplight.
“Catch up later,” I said. “Gotta go talk things out with my new boss.”
Vanitas didn’t answer, but I heard a mild scraping as he shifted on the shelf, apparently already getting comfortable with his new surroundings.
I made my way back down the hall, passed the giant statue, and entered another corridor much like the one housing our quarters. This one had no doors to either side, though, just more pillars and hidden lights. My footsteps rang into the vast emptiness of the strange dimension, the sound of them fading into nothingness.
At the end, the corridor opened up into a massive room, so huge that I couldn’t see the walls, the floors just stretching out into void. In the middle sat Carver, at an impressive stone desk set with amber jewels. Two ornately carved wooden chairs sat across his desk, each finished with lush scarlet upholstery. He gestured at one of them as he saw me approaching, beckoning me to take a seat.
“So,” he said. “How is your room?”
I patted at the velvet cushion before I sat, relishing the plushness of it under my fingers. “Sumptuous. I swear I’ve never used that word before today, but, wow.”
Carver smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” He cracked his knuckles, unconsciously, it seemed, and I realized for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a black glove. I opened my mouth to remark on it, but Carver picked up right away.
“For the last time, there is no such thing as a – what did you call it again? A Black Hand?”
“Yes. That.”
He scoffed. “There’s never been an organization of that name. Your former mentor used that to deceive you.”
I nodded at his hand. “So what about the glove, then?”
“I thought it looked stylish,” Carver said coldly. He drew his hand back, as if stung, and his lip twitched with just the barest hint of hurt. “Never mind all that. Now, to business. You will receive a salary for the services you will render under my employ, which will not be dissimilar to the work you did for the Lorica.”
“Much appreciated,” I said, unsure of whether I should try to negotiate. We hadn’t discussed numbers, but something about Carver’s accommodations and the nature of his domicile, if it could be called that, told me that he wasn’t a stingy man.
“I understand that you will want to locate your father. I can make no promises, but I will attempt to assist you in divining his whereabouts as well as I can.”
“I – wow. Thank you. And to think that before all this I thought you guys just wanted me dead.”
Carver’s smile shifted into something else, the quirk of his lip wry. “And to think that you tried to destroy me with your bottled lightning.”
Blood rushed to my face, and I wondered if he could see me blush in the strange lighting of his not-office. “Sorry about that. Like I said, I thought you guys were gonna kill me.”
“Water under the bridge,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “In truth I appreciate the quick thinking. I understand those bottles were never meant for combat purposes, eh? Shows you have an ability to improvise.”
Or, truthfully, that I had an ability to panic and throw shit at people when I was scared. But I didn’t say any of that out loud, and just nodded.
“Now,” Carver said, folding his hands together. “Before we proceed. Do you have any questions?” He held up a finger. “Apart from the notion of what you are. That answer will come in time, as we grow to learn more of the Eldest.”
I chewed my lip. I really only had one thing to ask. “What are you?” I said, shortly before realizing how rude that might sound. Too late to take it back.
Carver watched me
over the steeples of his fingers for a long, uncomfortable moment. Nothing in the temple made a single sound.
“I am like you, in that I am also endowed with magical ability,” he said slowly. “Call me a sorcerer, if you will. The only difference is that I am older than many you may have met. As I’m sure you’ve come to learn, it is study and time that allows a mage to truly unlock his potential.”
He set his hands across his desk, palms pressed down into the smooth stone. “I have found ways to extend my life beyond the bounds of mortal years. Several times over. I have, in a way, cheated death. Perhaps that is why others are unhappy with me, and consider me some kind of abomination.” He chuckled.
Cheated death. I thought of Thea and how that had been her goal, finding detours around mortality, finding some method, no matter the cost, of bringing her children back. For the briefest moment I found myself sympathizing with my murderer, and for the briefest moment my mind flashed with anger.
“Beyond material gain, beyond my protection, knowledge is what you stand to earn by being under my employ,” Carver continued. “For as long as you work with me, I promise to further your study in the arcane arts, to show you the things your erstwhile mentor never taught you.” He leaned back, raising his nose only the slightest. “I will show you how to control the darkness that lives inside your very bones.”
My mouth was dry. “I would like that very much.”
Slowly, painfully slowly, the smile crept its way back to Carver’s lips. “Then it’s settled. Accept my offer, and you begin your apprenticeship.” He extended one hand, the jewels on his fingers gleaming in the magical firelight. “Dustin Graves. Are you ready to start your life anew?”
I took his hand.
END
Book 2: Dark Harvest
Chapter 1
Hi there. Dustin Graves here, purloiner of arcane artifacts, dead man walking, and handsomest thief in existence – or at least in the mansion that was my target for the evening. It was an easy generalization to make considering I felt like the only living thing for miles around. Unless you counted the talking sword strapped to my back, that is, but I wasn’t in that mansion to ponder philosophy and metaphysics. I was there to steal the most glorious cup in existence.
A Chalice of Plenty, or so they told me, and as someone who possesses the supernatural ability to step from one shadow to the next – it’s teleportation, basically – I was the mage for the job. The job, of course, being to steal magical artifacts, which I used to do for the Lorica, but which I now do for a man named Carver, for better pay, and slightly better benefits. I do have to live in close proximity to a vampire and a werewolf, though it’s not nearly as bad as it sounds. But back to the cup.
According to Carver, the Chalice was ornately decorated, a finely crafted golden goblet studded with gems, its stem wreathed in fresh, leafy vines that never rotted or even turned brown. Now normally, I wouldn’t have been involved in a job if the item in question wasn’t magical, which, of course, it was. Turned on its side, the Chalice could produce any potable liquid known to man: water, wine, diet soda, you name it, the cup can make it.
And it wouldn’t stop producing said liquid until turned upright again, so a crazy person could conceivably fill a whole swimming pool with champagne and go nuts. Incidentally, you couldn’t bottle any of the stuff that came out of the Chalice, because then it would just disappear. Interesting, sometimes, how these relics came with their own failsafes, but that was the first question I asked Carver when he was briefing me for this assignment. My dreams of starting my own home brewery were immediately dashed.
“Shame about that,” I muttered as I maneuvered the mansion. It felt like I’d been walking for minutes, but I still somehow hadn’t managed to clear the foyer.
This was exactly the kind of place a crazy person who might fill swimming pools with champagne would call home. The floors were all marble, the high vaulted ceilings supported by those cheesy columns that were supposed to look all Greek, like they were taken right from the Parthenon. Someone – the decorator hired to deck the house out for the evening, no doubt – had wrapped the columns in plastic vines, to make it look like nature had started to overgrow the place.
That appeared to be the theme for the evening. Whatever space hadn’t been taken up by furniture was filled with plants embedded in freshly-laid turf, little trees arranged here and there, with spotlights set about to keep it all a little atmospheric and mysterious. Hidden speakers played nature noises on an extended loop, so that the mansion sounded like something out of the Amazonian rainforest: birds twittering, the distant, isolated chirp of tiny monkeys, and the soothing burbles of running water. Maybe it was the spotlights, or maybe they’d meant for it to be that way, but it was also steaming hot inside the house, just like a jungle.
So it was that kind of party. The theme was probably the great outdoors, or something like it, considering how the mansion had been transformed. And the party had either gone extremely well, or extremely badly. It was almost five in the morning, after all. Either everyone had gotten wasted and gone home, or they hadn’t shown up at all. The house was quiet.
“Too quiet,” a voice said.
“I know.” I looked over my shoulder, at the pommel of the sword slung across my back. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“You know better than that,” said the sword. He was probably right, too.
Though we’d only known each other a short while, Vanitas and I had been through the wringer together. That’s his name, Vanitas, and don’t ask how I know, but it’s a “he,” at least based on the voice I could hear in my head when he spoke. I swear to you that I’m not nuts – it was really how he communicated.
That, and by slicing people and monsters up in incredibly bloody ways, which I hoped wouldn’t be on the menu, but hey. That’s why I took him on my missions. You never know when you need a helping hand, or a helping blade, as it were. Plus, it was always nice to have someone to talk to. Neither of us had to actually to speak to get the point across since Vanitas employed a kind of telepathy to communicate.
The price, of course, was having to carry the weight of a broadsword across my back, but that was nothing some light stretching and a regular trip to the spa couldn’t mitigate. Or so I told myself, wincing and rotating my shoulder as I imagined the next time I could go for one of those full body massages, the ones where they beat the shit out of you but you walk out feeling so damn good.
I could afford those now. Carver paid me well, so a little spa day was a nice indulgence every so often. I’m not one to say no to the good life. I’ll try anything once, I always say, and I kept that in mind as I reached for a flute of something sparkling that someone had left out on a side table.
In my head, Vanitas tutted. “Drinking on the job, Dustin?”
The bubbles tickled my throat on the way down, at least the ones still left suspended in the liquid. It was faintly sweet, lukewarm, and had gone a little flat, a reassuring sign that everyone probably had gone home. That, or they were involved in an orgy somewhere upstairs. Who could say? The mansion was massive.
“Good stuff,” I said, tossing back the rest of the flute. “I like champagne, even if it’s flat.”
“Prosecco, actually,” Vanitas said, a hint of smugness in his voice. “Which is sparkling Italian wine. Champagne only ever comes from Champagne. In France.”
I grimaced, but didn’t retort. Don’t ask me to explain how, exactly, but the sword could pick up on experiences around him, living vicariously through his wielder. Me, in this case. He’d told me multiple times how he couldn’t actually taste or smell things, but it still never explained how he once nailed this one red wine I enjoyed down to its year and vineyard in Australia, or, for that matter, how he could tell that Sterling preferred to smoke mentholated cigarettes. Sterling’s the vampire, by the way. We’ll get to him later.
It was much later on that I realized how it really had been a good idea to bring Vanitas with me, because he
detected the smell of wine before I did. Not the stuff I had out of the flute earlier, but something grander in scale.
“Red,” he said. “Sweet, and lots of it. Down that way.”
Vanitas tugged at my back. Rather, he shifted within his scabbard, straining slightly against his straps and giving me a general idea of which way to go. Useful trick, that. I always kept him close. I’d learned over the months that resonance was important for sentient artifacts, or at least it was for Vanitas.
He had gone dormant once, and it turned out that he needed to be attuned to my energy, staying in close proximity in order to remain awake. That hasn’t been a problem for a while now, since we basically spent half our days together. It could still get grating at times, though. I mean, you try being roommates with a moody, sassy talking sword.
Vanitas bucked again, struggling against my back, trying to nudge me through the archway.
“We’re not here for drinks, V.”
He snorted. “You could have fooled me. You chugged that flat stuff like it was water.”
“I was thirsty,” I grumbled. “And I’m not planning to drink more. Honest. We shouldn’t head that way. We’re here for the Chalice.”
“Which is exactly why we should follow the trail. The cup can make wine, can’t it? And there is a massive quantity down past that archway.” He tugged again. “Cabernet Sauvignon, twenty-thirteen. Napa Valley.”
“Show-off,” I muttered under my breath. Out loud, I realized too late, and I swung my head to look for anyone – or anything – who might have heard, but still our only companion was silence. Well, apart from the track of jungle and animal sounds piping in through the speakers, which only grew louder as we approached.
The archway Vanitas mentioned was one of the openings leading out of the foyer. The others, from a distance, led to the rest of the mansion, possibly a banquet hall, a living area, a shooting gallery, whatever the hell it was that rich people kept in their houses. The wine trail we followed took us into a huge room that could have fooled me into thinking we were outdoors, if it weren’t for the temperature-controlled interiors.
