by Nazri Noor
Maybe it was time to ask for a raise. It certainly seemed like Carver could afford to give me one, plus in the course of being employed by him I’d already been stabbed, shot, poisoned, and set on fire. And that was just the last three days. I needed compensation, rest, and maybe health insurance. I took another swig of my beer and grimaced. This night was supposed to be about letting my hair down and having fun, not coming to terms with the harsh realities of adulting.
I turned my attention back to dinner, poking at the overly large heap of fries still lingering on my plate. It was interesting to see how everyone had paired off for the night. Prudence and Gil required little explanation. Carver and Bastion, arguably the two most destructive of the forces seated at our table, seemed to have gravitated and warmed to each other out of some unspoken mutual respect.
Asher looked content to cram his face full of anything that our waiter brought – poor kid probably hadn’t had a nice meal out for ages – up until the point that Romira started playing her little games with him, which sent him blushing as red as the demolished half-shells of crab on his plate. Sterling kept slinking away from the table, either to look for his own nourishment or, far likelier, to smoke another dozen cigarettes back to back.
I was content to sit across from Herald, who, out of everyone, needed the most coaxing to come out and join us. He probably didn’t fancy the idea of mingling so readily with the bloodthirsty predators I counted as my coworkers, but the far likelier reality was that he was still feeling awkward about throwing me under the bus. And I made sure not to let him forget it, at least for the entire first half-hour of dinner.
He nodded at my fries. “You gonna finish those?”
I shook my head. “Nah. Go ahead. You can take them.” He leaned over eagerly, spearing my fries with his fork. “The way you took liberties about my status with the Lorica and made me out to be a wanted criminal.”
Herald stuffed his mouth full of potatoes and rolled his eyes. “Are you still mad about that? Geez. I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“That’s hardly enough.” I restrained a smirk. I was laying it on thick, but hey, he kind of deserved it.
“Oh my god, fine. Brunch on me next time we go. Better?”
I sucked on my lip and frowned.
“Seriously? Two brunches. Fuck. Fine.”
“Deal.” I nearly grinned, but the reason I was even giving Herald a hard time resurfaced in my mind, diminishing the small joy of being promised a free meal. I stared at the knife in my hand. It was weird to be reminded of Vanitas at a time like this, but retrieving him for the Lorica was how Herald and I even became friends in the first place. “Not that there’s anything for me to be mad about anymore, honestly. Vanitas is gone. I guess the Lorica won’t have reason to come after me now.”
Herald chewed thoughtfully, then set his fork down to take a sip of his mojito. “Really shitty for that to have happened. Considering the sword’s age and power, you’d think it would have taken more to destroy it.”
Given Herald’s work and his affinity for artifacts, I thought it best not to mention how many had been consumed and summarily smashed in our crushing of the Viridian Dawn. “You know, it’s far more likely that we underestimated Thea. She was stronger than she was before, and if she survived, I’m worried she’s going to be even worse.”
Carver’s eyes flitted towards me at the mention of Thea’s name, but he said nothing. Herald shook his head.
“This is depressing. I really don’t want to talk about her. I want to believe I’m better off pretending she’s dead, but we all know she’ll be back. Like a cockroach.” He grimaced. “Or a herpes sore.”
I raised an eyebrow, both at the trivialization of probably the most powerful non-entity we’d encountered so far, as well as the off-kilter reference.
“Herpes, huh?”
Herald blushed crimson. “Or so I’ve heard. Shut up. Listen. My point is, maybe something can still be done about Vanitas’s condition.”
My back straightened, my ears feeling as if they’d swiveled forward, and I gaped openly at him, disbelieving. “I’m sorry. Did I just hear you correctly?”
Herald leaned in. “You find the right enchanter – maybe even the right entity – to do a favor for you, and there’s a chance the sword can be reforged. Don’t let this get your hopes up, but that means that its magical enhancements, even its personality might yet be restored.”
“That would be incredible. Holy shit, Herald, that would be amazing.”
He frowned again. “Tone it down. Like I said, don’t keep your hopes us. But we can talk it out some more, probably a time and a place when I’m not trying to replace my blood with alcohol.” He took another sip of his mojito, then grimaced. “How is this already not cold enough? Ugh.”
He tapped his fingers on the tablecloth, but I knew what was happening before the violet filaments of light had even emerged from his hand. If anyone at our table noticed Herald was casting a spell, no one disapproved. Hell, Carver might have even been proud. He touched his glass again, and the sides of it immediately fogged with condensation as the liquid cooled. He took a swig, smacked his lips, then nodded approvingly.
“Much better.”
I watched him glug down his drink with envy. Yet again the question of casting my first proper spell gnawed at me. Slowly learning to hone and sharpen the darkness was a good thing, sure, but I wasn’t so certain I was prepared to give a blood tithe every time I had to defend myself – or hurt something. An eye for an eye? Call me a brat, but it hardly seemed right.
“So unfair. I still can’t do that shit.”
Herald sighed, stirring his drink with his finger, his very touch chilling the mojito. I hadn’t realized magic could be so damn practical before I was exposed to his little tricks.
“It takes time, as with everything. And practice. Lots and lots of practice. I didn’t wake up overnight and throw my first fireball. That took months of dedicated study, meditation, all that boring shit. Everyone takes a different path, but one thing is common in everyone’s journey: it starts with a single step.”
I rolled my eyes at the empty platitude. “Practice? Hard work? I just want everything to be easy, and I want it all right now.”
Maybe Carver was right all those times he was joking. Maybe I really was stupid. Hell, it took a visit from the actual Greek goddess of magic to get me to even understand the honing. Imagine receiving instruction from the very authority in your field and still failing at it.
Herald chuckled, then drained the rest of his mojito. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, wiping his mouth with a sweep of his hand. “Just keep at it and you’ll learn something eventually. It’s like a muscle. A step at a time. A day at a time.”
“Ugh.”
I changed the subject at that point, to ask about what was new at the Gallery, about what cool new artifacts he’d been tasked to sort and classify. That conversation turned out to be a dead end. The trouble with Herald, and Prudence, and all the others was that they were way too professional. I guess I couldn’t blame them since I was technically the enemy. Was I? Truth be told, I couldn’t really tell anymore.
Everyone went off soon after, the evening ending on a polite, pleasant note, thanks all around directed towards Carver for the free grub. I wanted to think that we came away from it with a greater respect for everyone involved, but with the implicit understanding that if things came down to advancing our individual professional agendas, no one would have any hesitation about breaking someone else’s face.
Carver was very firm about escorting Asher straight back to the hideout. The four-armed, two-headed beast that was once Gil and Prudence didn’t say where they were headed, but they seemed pretty happy about it. Bastion said something about hitting the clubs. Herald wanted to head home, lock himself in for the weekend and play video games, which, frankly, sounded amazing. And I went for a walk.
I guess I needed to collect myself, to kind of settle considering how quickly everythi
ng had happened over the past few days. All I’d really learned was that gods could be assholes, but that life could be a smidge easier if they took a shine to you. I was still waiting on one of Arachne’s secret-spiders to show up with news, to see what they’d learned about the father matter. The pater matter, as it were. God, I’m hilarious.
I couldn’t tell you why, exactly, but I allowed my feet to carry me to Heinsite Park, the same place I’d been abducted and murdered for Thea’s dark purposes. I don’t know. Perhaps the place represented something of transformation for me now.
Sure, so I had my issues with dying, or dying in the way that I did, but I can’t ever entirely say that I regretted learning of the arcane underground. I was still groping my way around things, but slowly, it felt like I was beginning to belong. I hated to admit it, but part of what Thea once said made sense in the most stinging possible way. Maybe she really did do me a favor by killing me.
I rolled my shoulder as I shrugged my jacket closer to my body, meaning to stave off the chill of the park. Instead I stretched my new wound and gave myself an unexpected jolt of pain. See, that was the gist of it, as simple as it gets. Whatever Thea had thrust me into had led to pain, and suffering, and not just my own. I couldn’t give her that.
The park bench I lowered myself onto was damp, though I was sure that all of them were, and it wouldn’t have mattered which one I picked. I leaned back, sighing. I still didn’t know what I was, what Thea had made me into. So much was left unanswered, but that was why I chose to go with Carver, wasn’t it? That was why Asher picked that same path. I was sure of it.
I hardly flinched when a man appeared out of nowhere, slumping against the bench and spreading his arms all along the back of it, occupying all this space he firmly believed he was entitled to. I didn’t even have to look to recognize him.
“Damn, Sterling, can’t a guy get a moment’s peace?”
He shrugged, staring straight ahead. “I saw that you broke off from the others and didn’t head back yet. Thought you might need some company.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re just bored.”
“Yeah, that’s more like it.” He chuckled, pointing at a random tree. “Hey, remember when I dropped out of that tree and knocked you flat on your ass? Aww. Memories. Good times, man.”
“I mean, I remember when I kicked you in the balls. You know, I never did get you back for that. You totally tried to kill me.”
Sterling raised a finger. “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I just wanted a snack, remember? What’s a little blood drunk between friends?”
I scoffed. “The way things are going for me and magic, it’s looking like you’ll get a free taste anyway. I have to pay a blood price whenever I use the darkness. It’s like I told Carver from the beginning. I rip myself open every time. I don’t have a choice.”
Something in Sterling’s eyes glittered, and his tongue momentarily ran across his lower lip, but he didn’t make fun of me for complaining like I’d expected. “Well what about that magic he’s trying to teach you? That whole fireball thing. Any luck with that?”
“Nah.” I twiddled my thumbs. Time, Carver said. Practice, Herald said. And according to Hecate, objective and intent. Eventually. A step at a time.
The past few days had been crazy, but if I survived all that, then there was no way I couldn’t adapt. Wasn’t that what Hecate had said about humanity once? That we’re all cockroaches in the end, that we limit our potential by forgetting how we can progress and evolve.
I’d be the first to admit that I needed an extensive break from all things eldritch and supernatural, but something crazy inside of me was hungry to see what was next. I’d only just seen the tip of the arcane iceberg. Who knew what entities I’d meet, what spells I’d learn, and what more cruel and interesting ways to horribly die I’d manage to survive? Ah, but as Herald said: a step at a time.
Sterling cleared his throat, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Have you considered,” he said, all stone and seriousness, “that maybe you’re just really, really terrible?”
“You’re a good friend, Sterling. Anyone ever told you that? So supportive. Not an asshole at all.”
“I’m just saying. Maybe you should just give up on magic. Going vamp is lots of fun. You don’t have to bleed yourself to death because you can just punch someone’s face in. Done.”
I mean, sure. That sounded like it had its perks. Subsisting on blood forever, though? And living so long that you had to see everyone around you die? I guess I could understand the underground’s fascination with longevity, why Carver, Odessa, and Thea wanted to extend their lives to acquire more power, to learn more magic, but it all just rubbed me wrong.
Sterling brought a cigarette to his mouth, then clicked on his Zippo. It just whirred and chipped, not producing any flame. “Damn it. Ran out of fluid.” He sighed, his cigarette still dangling from his lips, then turned to me. “Got a light?”
I tilted my head. If I could do the honing, then surely I could do something with the fire.
“Maybe I do,” I said.
I raised my finger, then pressed it to the very end of his cigarette. Burn. All I needed was for something to burn, even just one of those little bits of tobacco. Just an ember to light one tiny shred, one tiny piece of dried-up leaf, and then it would burn its brother, and that would burn its neighbor, until everything came alight. That was all I could ask. That was all I could hope for. One little spark.
“The hell are you doing?” Sterling mumbled, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
Burn.
Something warm emanated from the end of my finger, and maybe I had missed it by blinking, but I thought I saw a glimmer of amber light. The tip of Sterling’s cigarette began to smoke.
“Whoa,” he muttered, his eyes reflecting the smoldering orange ember.
Then his cigarette burst into flames.
He spat it out, patting at his jacket to put out stray cinders, cursing as he stomped the errant cigarette to death in the grass. Something like laughter was struggling to make its way out of me, and I let it go, at least a little. Half of it was the joy of accomplishment, the thrill of finally manifesting the first real trace of magic outside what I could innately do. The other half was knowing that I had partially set Sterling on fire.
I looked at my hands, at the tip of the finger that had lit the fire. There was no hint of anything unusual, no telltale black scorch mark, no whitened burn scar on my skin. I had made fire from nothing, stolen it from the gods. I was Prometheus. I was Dustin Graves. I was a real mage.
I laughed again. A step at a time.
END
Book 3: Grave Intentions
Chapter 1
The world looks so different upside down. Try it. Hang off the side of your bed, then stare at something. But don’t do it for too long or the blood rushes to your head, doing funny things to your mind and your vision. You have the luxury of setting yourself upright.
I didn’t. This bald dude who was clearly a fan of protein shakes and leather jackets had me dangling by the ankle. Sad story, really. All I wanted was a burger, and the Happy Cow was closing soon, so I shadowstepped, took a back alley, then wham! I ran into mustachioed Mr. Clean and his death-grip of a hand.
Hi. My name is Dustin Graves, and I’m in trouble.
The attacker – let’s call him Meathead – was the schoolyard bully, and I was the scrawny kid with all the lunch money. The way he had me completely at his mercy shouldn’t have been physically possible. It was effortless, how he held me up with one hand locked like a manacle around my foot.
“Is there some way I can help you?” I huffed.
The man responded by shaking me. Trust me, not the greatest feeling. All the blood pooled in my head started sloshing around, and the dimly lit alley swam in my vision. I was going to have such a headache, damn it.
“Buddy,” I said. “Ouch. Seriously.”
I was still trying to size him up. Definitely supernatural. Way, way too strong
to be a normal. Maybe a troll with a glamour cast over him? But where would a troll even find a camouflage spell? Those beady little eyes didn’t seem very intelligent. They were mad, though. That, I can tell you. Dude looked pretty upset.
He shook me again. Something fell past my ear and tinkled as it hit the ground. Loose change, I hoped. Times like these, I thought back to Vanitas and how life was easier, and more fun with him around. I had someone to talk to, and someone to count on for slicing up bad dudes and thugs, like Meathead here. But Vanitas was gone. How things had changed.
I studied my options while Meathead toed at the detritus on the ground, examining whatever he’d gotten out of my pockets by shaking me down like a coconut tree. There weren’t many possibilities for me, frankly, and I needed to wrestle my way out of my attacker’s grasp before my blood or my brain found its way out of my nostrils and dribbled to the floor.
Is that what happens? Hell if I know, I’m not a doctor. Worse, he could have dropped me on the concrete and split my head open. And where would that leave us? Me, snuffed out in a decidedly unglamorous fashion, and you with nothing left to read about poor, handsome, dead old Dustin Graves.
Hmm. But maybe I wanted him to drop me on my head.
“Hey buddy,” I grumbled. “Buddy, come on, you keep jiggling me like that and my brain’s gonna fall out of my ears. What do you want? Money? A puppy? A hug? You look like you could use a hug. Or how about a burger? Let’s go for a burger. I know a place.”
I yelped when the man’s fingers tightened around my ankle. In my head I saw an X-ray of my foot with all the bones in it splintering. Maybe smart-ass wasn’t the best approach.
“Looking for Diaz’s gem,” the man said. Finally, some words. He had a voice like gravel, if gravel smoked cigarettes and had a terrible whiskey habit.
“Okay,” I said, trying to make my voice a little cheerier, a bit friendlier. “First off, I don’t know any Diaz, and second, I don’t know what you mean about any gems.”
