by Nazri Noor
“I heard noises,” he mumbled.
“Just me,” I said. “Go on back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”
He scratched his belly. “Sterling says we’re gonna go meet a bunch of vampires soon.”
That’s right. The meeting with Diaz and his cohorts. See, that was an even more compelling reason to get the business of reforging Vanitas over and done with. A sword, at the end of the day, is just a really sharp and pointy stake. And the only thing better than a stake is a rocket-powered homing stake that can stab and destroy things on its own.
“We’ll meet them soon. Real soon.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Go back to bed. And Asher? You didn’t see me.”
He gave me a limp smile and two thumbs up, waddled into his bedroom, then shut the door, which was when I realized something. He said “we” when he mentioned the meeting with Diaz, didn’t he? So Asher was coming along? Surely Carver knew.
I raced out of my own bedroom. There was no sign of Carver just yet, which was only making me increasingly antsy. I pulled tighter on my knapsack’s straps and made a beeline for the portal.
Where Carver was waiting.
“Dustin,” he said, his voice calm, cool, and suspiciously neutral.
“Hi. Hey. Sup.” I smoothed a hand through my hair, meaning to play things casual. Nothing to see here, just another totally normal night of me running through the halls with a magical backpack strapped to my shoulders.
“I am not entirely sure what you’re up to, but I trust that you’ve got your head on right.”
“I, um, sure.” Don’t look to the left, I told myself. Or – or was it the right? I’d read somewhere that it was how human lie detectors could tell that you were fibbing. I stared straight into Carver’s eyes, in total denial of the fact that he didn’t need to learn how to read body language and facial tics to figure that out. He was a walking radar and surveillance array. I don’t think I’ve ever successfully snuck anything past him in the months we’d known each other. At least not for long.
He rubbed his chin, shook his head, and sighed. “Whatever it is you have planned – please don’t let it end in disaster. But you’re a grown man, and I cannot say that I’m disappointed in your magical progress, between your new taste for fire, and your finer control over your shadow blades.”
I wasn’t expecting compliments. I never expected compliments from Carver. I kept my voice steady. “Right,” I said.
“Just come home in one piece. And about reforging the sword. We may have to look beyond gods for now. I’ll inform you if I find a suitable candidate.”
“Actually,” I said, my mouth oddly dry. “I might just go in the other direction for help. Hecate told me to consider speaking to a – um, a demon.”
Carver studied me for a strained, quiet moment. He took so long to speak that I had to wonder if he thought it was a terrible idea. I considered sprinting for the portal before he tried restraining me, but he angled his head to the side, then spoke.
“I cannot believe I am saying this but – that might just work. I confess, it’s an angle that I hadn’t considered. Though I trust you’ll be mindful to take extreme care with the negotiations.” His eyes narrowed as he walked past me, back into the hallway leading to his office. “Gods may be fickle and obtuse, but demons are far, far worse. Try not to agree to terms that will destroy the world as we know it. There is still so much I want to do.”
“Right,” I said to his back. “Check. No apocalypses.”
Carver stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn. “Oh, and Dustin? Send your father my regards.”
I froze. Ah. I knew that he’d sniffed something out. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. “I will, Carver. And thanks.”
I ran back through the portal, then leapt into the shadow of the refrigerator in the kitchen, even more amped up about the communion Herald and I were about to perform. This was a different kind of Carver. I didn’t know if he was treating me differently because he’d shown me so much more of himself, if this was a gesture of trust on his part.
My chest might have puffed up a little as I hurried through the Dark Room. For once, Carver felt comfortable enough to let me wear the big boy pants. The best I could hope for was to not royally fuck this all up.
Lowering my head, I ran straight for the heart of the light at the end of the Dark Room’s tunnel, bolting like a bullet through the darkness. The plan was to exit right where I’d first entered.
And bam. The ethers parted, and I landed butt-first in the passenger seat, next to a slightly upset and mildly pallid Herald.
“Jesus H. Christ, Dustin! What the hell, man. Don’t do that.”
I folded my hands behind my head and grinned. “Do what?”
“You’re a little shithead,” he grumbled, gripping the steering wheel tight. “Did you get the goods?”
“Right here.”
I patted at my backpack, comforted by the worn but somehow buttery-soft leather of it. I missed having this thing on my back, because wearing it generally meant that I was carrying Vanitas around inside. After tonight, if all went well, things might go back to the way they were. It almost didn’t bother me knowing that we still had to suck up to a full-blown, actual demon.
“So,” I said. “Off to the tether.”
“I’m on it.” Herald adjusted the map on his phone. “It’s near a bank in a slightly jankier part of the business district. So not all that far from the Lorica.”
“You navigate,” I said, “and I’ll get our shit ready.”
I reached into the backseat, gingerly lifting up the wooden chest filled with mismatched pieces of verdigris. I settled the chest into the bag’s pocket dimension. The back of my hand brushing against the cold, jagged edge of a broken garnet.
Soon, V, I thought, patting the jewels and twisted bronze the way I’d pat an old friend on the back. Very soon.
Chapter 20
The tether was a busted ATM stuck in the back of an old building, what a quick search on the internet told us used to be a bank. I watched the eerie blue glow of the machine’s grimy, disused screen, peering back at me like a sad, old face.
This was far too fishy, even for all the supernatural weirdness I’d already experienced in the arcane underground. The back alley that we were in was creepy enough without the added oddity of the near-total darkness shrouding the building.
Something about the quality of the shadows told me they were artificial, as if left there for the benefit of some entity that loved to hide in the darkest corners of the earth. And yes, you’re right, being surrounded by so much darkness should have been comforting to me, but it wasn’t. That wasn’t the right kind of dark. It wasn’t the kind of gloom that dwelled in the Dark Room, that lived in the world behind my scar.
“Remind me again why we can’t hit up one of the gods for this,” I muttered.
“Because they won’t work with the star-metal. You know that. Kagutsuchi of the Japanese pantheon, or Hadúr of the Hungarian gods, neither will be very pleased if you came to them with that request. Remember when you walked into Amaterasu’s realm with Vanitas in your backpack? She didn’t seem to like you much then, either. Imagine going up to someone like Hephaestus.”
“He singlehandedly forged the weapons of the entire Greek pantheon,” I said. “Dude knows his swords.”
“And he takes pride in the purity of his work. The very presence of star-metal in his domicile would be a grave offense. He’d smash your head open the moment you walked in.”
I glared at the ATM screen, which glared defiantly back, like a single, hazy blue eye. “Isn’t there like a fire spirit out there that might want to help?”
“Again. I can’t think of any non-god entities that are strong enough to do the job. And again: you’ve developed kind of a reputation for yourself, and not a great one. Probably best not to piss off more gods for a while. Lay low. They hate you.”
“Gee,” I said, ruffling my hair in frustration. “Thanks.”
Herald
gave me a tight smile, then clapped me on the shoulder. “You keep me around because I’m brutally honest, little buddy.”
“I’m taller than you.”
“And in all honesty? This is probably going to be super dangerous. Come on.”
Herald walked up to the ATM, and the sense of foreboding building in my stomach surged even harder than before. He pressed his finger to the screen, which wavered before displaying a series of words.
“Please provide your PIN number,” I read out loud.
Herald pushed the number six on the keypad three times. Typical. The screen wavered again, flashing red for the briefest moment, before turning back to blue. New words.
“Please make your deposit.”
“The offering,” Herald said. “Gimme your wallet.”
“Wait, what?”
I cursed as he casually slipped his hand into my back pocket, retrieving my wallet with an enviable measure of grace and finesse. The fucker could probably make as good a thief as me. He was probably even a little faster. And surprisingly strong, I noted, as I tried to wrestle my wallet back.
“Relax,” he said, holding it out of reach. He retrieved the bills, then tossed the wallet back to me. “The machine doesn’t want the whole thing. Just your cash.”
I fumbled with my wallet, running my fingers mournfully over its worn, weathered creases as I stretched it to peek at its insides. “Really, dude? That’s all the cash I have. That’s like a good hundred. Come on.”
“That’s the least of your worries,” Herald said, holding the wad of bills up to the screen. They burst into flames. “The demon will probably want more. Much more.”
That could have bought me, like, so many cheeseburgers. “You mean the demon wants more money?”
Herald chuckled. “Real cute.”
He grabbed my wrist, then pressed my hand up against the screen. I yelped when something sharp shot out of the glass and slashed my finger. I glared at Herald, pulling my hand away. Ouch. I chewed my lip, correctly rethinking the very gross business of sucking at my bloodied finger after it had been in contact with an incredibly grody ATM screen.
“Step back,” he said.
I was almost a second too late. The machine writhed and screeched into life. It grew as it warped and folded in upon itself. The seam where it should have spit out cash parted to reveal massive fangs of serrated steel, each bigger and crueler than a kitchen knife.
“Well shit,” I muttered, surprised I could hear myself over the agonizing shriek and scrape of rusted metal. The machine had transformed into the gaping maw of some giant beast. I stared warily into the darkness of its throat, and my heart leapt out of my ass when I spotted the first glimmer of fire.
“Oh. Cool. So it’s a dragon. No big deal.”
Herald wrapped his coat tighter around himself, securing it against the howling wind that blasted from the dragon’s throat. “It’s a major demon of greed, which means it can afford fancy security systems.” The dragon shrieked even louder. “Real fancy ones.”
“Oh. Awesome. I thought it was the demon lord of making me shit my fucking pants.”
“There’s one of those, too, but for now, this is the right address. Come on.”
I licked my lips as I watched the flames twirl and dance among the gateway’s serrated fangs. “After you,” I said.
Herald shrugged, pushed up his glasses, and walked straight into the fire without looking back.
“Thinks he’s an action star,” I mumbled. I clenched my teeth, and for some inane reason, took a deep breath, filling my lungs with as much air as they could hold. Then I walked into the flames, too.
They were freezing cold, and somehow almost solid as they lapped against my ankles, their chilling touch licking at my shoes. It was like walking into the meat section of a supermarket. Not the frozen goods aisle, exactly, but the bit behind the thick plastic curtains, where they keep all the carcasses.
I’d worked in one of those places once, and as I walked, the smell of charnel and gore returned to me. I steeled myself, expecting the demon’s domicile to be exactly as the Abrahamic religions described them: furious, merciless, and filled with the flayed, ruined bodies of sinners.
But as I kept walking, the blaze faded. The gouts of fire disappeared into the ground, which was no longer the same rusted metal of the gateway, but a gleaming marble. The smell of dead animals and spilled blood disappeared, giving way to a distant scent of woodsmoke, citrus, and spice.
In some far, unseen room, a piano played something familiar, or perhaps something forgotten. And instead of the butcher’s barrier, in place of the plastic sheets was a grand, gleaming curtain of crimson velvet. Herald was nowhere in sight. I could only assume that he had stepped through, so I ran my hands across the soft, suede-like touch of the curtains, then parted them.
Palatial. That was the only way I could describe the demon’s domicile. Sparkling candelabras burned with brilliant fires from their brassy tips, with no candles to be found. Marble so pure and luxurious filled the colossal hallway and its high ceilings with a rich, yet lifeless white. And everywhere, from picture frames and fixtures and chandeliers and statuettes, shone the perpetual radiance of precious gold, a permanent, absolute aura of wealth and excess.
Paintings of strange men and women watched us from every wall. Each was an immensely beautiful specimen, only with a different feature that set them apart from being truly human. Some had the horns of goats and rams. One smiled to show the teeth of a wolf, and another had a patch of scales on its neck so symmetric and radiant that it looked like a collar made of emeralds. But as captivating as the people in the paintings were, nothing compared to the creature that waited for us at the very end of the hall, standing in a pool of molten gold.
Now I’m not the most fashionable person on the planet, but what I could only assume to be a demon wore a suit so finely tailored and so sleekly cut that it looked uncomfortable, almost painful. Its cloth was the gleaming red of rubies, which, I know, how does anyone even pull that off? And the demon’s face was harder still to put into words. Regal comes to mind. Noble. Beautiful, terrible, so unearthly that it couldn’t possibly be human.
I elbowed Herald gently. “That’s the demon?”
He shook his head, giving me a sidelong glance. “Correction. That’s the demon prince.”
Chapter 21
“Herald Igarashi,” the demon said, in a whisper-soft voice that still somehow boomed about the marble corridor. “And Dustin Graves.” The demon spread its hands and gave a small bow. “Consider yourselves welcome in the palace of Mammon.”
Herald pulled on my jacket, and only then did I realize that I my mouth was hanging open. “Mammon,” he whispered. “The demon prince of greed.”
Mammon laughed in a voice that was at once as sweet as honey and as ominous as the droning of bees. “And of wealth, and treasure, and infinite riches.” The demon beckoned, its spindly fingers tipped with lacquered golden nails. “Come. Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. Mammon does not have the luxury of free time.”
I whistled as we approached, appraising the massive rubies Mammon wore on each finger, on fine chains around its lily-white throat. “I’d have thought that you’d be all about luxury.”
Mammon laughed again, spreading a pair of perfectly manicured hands. “Flattery will get you everywhere, oh thing of shadows. And it will get you everything.” Mammon’s heart-shaped lips lifted into a smile. “For the right price.”
Herald nudged me. “Bring it out. Time for show and tell.”
Mammon snapped its fingers and an ornate, lacquered table blinked into existence. “Your sword, correct? It requires reforging. Mammon can assist you.”
I reached over my shoulder for my backpack, appraising the demon. For a third time, Mammon laughed, the coif of its hair unmoving as it tilted its head, the single ruby stud in its ear sparkling in the hall’s firelight.
“Do not appear so perplexed. Mammon knows the greed that lives in the hea
rts of men.” Another snap, and a large golden bowl appeared on the table. “Set its broken pieces within. Quickly.”
Herald nodded encouragingly, and if there was any hesitation left in me, it was long gone. There was something brutally efficient about Mammon’s process that should have made me so much more dubious, but I wanted this to end soon. I wanted Vanitas back, the inside of my chest thrumming with that same desire. Want. Need. Now.
Fragments of bronze and shattered garnets tinkled as I spilled the contents of both the wooden chest and my backpack into the bowl. The amulet, the same one that the homunculus had stolen from dad’s place, fell in last, its chain spilling among the tangle of ruined verdigris. It struck me that there must have been a reason that the creature singled it out of all the pieces in mom’s collection. I retrieved it from the bowl, showed it to Mammon, then slipped it in one of my pockets.
“For safekeeping,” I said. “Sentimental value and all that.”
Mammon shrugged. “It matters not.” The demon snapped its fingers again, and a ruby-encrusted goblet appeared in its hand. It locked gazes with me as it sipped, its eyes scintillant, green, laughing. The goblet vanished, and Mammon leaned over to spit into the bowl through wine-stained lips.
The vessel erupted in a tower of flames so massive that Herald and I staggered back. I shielded my eyes with the back of my hand, seeing just enough to find that the flames had transformed into the shape of Mammon’s face.
I couldn’t tell where all the screaming was coming from. In a dirge song as of a hundred voices, I heard Mammon’s strongest of all, chanting over the infernal chorus. Then I glimpsed it, just beyond the demon’s head, one of the paintings. Its occupant’s face had changed. I whirled to look at the portraits in the hallway. They were all burning. They were all screaming.
All at once, the fires went out. The paintings went back to normal, but Mammon took the bowl, now gone white-hot, and tipped its contents back. Like magma the liquid metal slipped past bloodless lips, into a slender throat that glowed and blazed from within. Then Mammon stood there, motionless, with its eyes closed.
