by Nazri Noor
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Penumbra is the prequel to the Darkling Mage series, and sheds some light on why Dustin is the way he is.
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This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BLOOD PACT
First edition. June 6, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Nazri Noor.
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About the Author
Chapter 1
I ran up the driveway, the fragrant air of the gardens around me filling my lungs. This place was teeming with flowers, their petals pale and gorgeous among leaves that were damp with evening dew, that glistened like shards of black glass.
But the mansion itself was even prettier. Sorry, stately would be the word. Maybe even regal. Jazz music – live, naturally – streamed out of the crack in the double doors in its facade. I could imagine the notes tumbling playfully down the marble steps, sounding in time with the click of my borrowed dress shoes as they pattered against the cobblestone driveway.
Hi, I’m Dustin Graves, and I’m a dirty, dirty peasant.
At least compared to the people around me, all of them streaming gracefully up towards the house while I ran helter-skelter. Everyone else had gotten out of expensive chauffeured vehicles. I had to clamber my way out of a dented rideshare. Kind of embarrassing, frankly, but I still gave my driver five stars on the app. So his car was dinged up. He was nice, okay?
I panted as I reached the mansion. Not easy running with a mask on your face. I should have mentioned, really, that everyone had to wear masks for this particular ball. Yeah, it was that kind of event.
My mask was in the shape of a fox, because I’m sly, and cunning, and all those other words people use to describe roguishly handsome rascals like yours truly. Plus Herald said it made me look foxy, which is a word that rhymes with sexy, and I knew that was what he really meant, so I rolled with it. Five bucks at a costume store. Why the hell not, right?
Sterling stood at the base of the steps, looking like he’d been poured into his suit, which fit so supernaturally well on his slender frame. He wore a mask in the shape of a cat’s face. No real explanation required, honestly. Sterling’s basically a cat given human – well, vampiric form, as the case may be.
He tapped his foot impatiently on the marble, one hand pushed into his hip, the other held up to his face, like he was indicating an invisible watch to me.
“You’re late,” Sterling snarled. “I’ve burned through half a pack of cigarettes by now.”
“Sorry,” I said, skidding up to his side, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “Sorry. Herald and I had a hard time picking out the right suit.”
“Right. If you say so.” Sterling’s eyes trailed up and down my body. “You look good, I have to admit.”
I grinned, taking the rare Sterling-brand compliment and shrugging. “I do, don’t I?” I adjusted my tie, smirking to myself. “Maybe I should dress up more often.”
“Okay, it was one tiny compliment. Geez. Let’s go in.”
Sterling rolled his shoulders, then adjusted the skinny gray tie he’d selected for the occasion. I’d never, ever say it to his face, but even with his features hidden, I had to admit that he looked incredibly dashing. He marched up the steps, invitations in hand, and I did my best to imitate the confidence in his stride.
The place? The Ramsey House, mansion of sisters Delilah and Marybeth Ramsey. The pair of Texan transplants had come to Valero with their oodles in inherited oil money, to set roots and spend their wealth somewhere among the California folk.
Or at least that was what I’d read in the makeshift dossier we’d built on them back at the Boneyard. The Ramseys were the belles of Valero society, feted and adored from the day they first set foot in the city about a decade ago. Silver-haired, stylish, and outrageously wealthy, they were everything to aspire to.
And our aliases? Easy. Sterling was Mister Silver, an eclectic jeweler just passing through town, and I was his apprentice, the young, handsome, and totally ripped, totally not scrawny Justin Braves.
As for how we even got invited to such a fancy society event to begin with – well, we didn’t. All it took was a little trickery, a combination of Sterling’s alarming skills in forgery and a small dose of Carver’s enchanting prowess. Together they whipped up a pair of convincing invitations that allowed us to breeze right through the front door.
We weren’t on the list – I mean come on, Silver and Braves didn’t even exist. But through magic and mimicry, Carver made us exist, and at least to the ushers, their minds enfeebled by the enchanted invitations, Mister Silver and young Master Braves not only belonged, but were honored guests. Hell, the lady with the clipboard and the headset even sent someone to escort us into the ballroom.
And man, the ballroom. At least a hundred guests, easily, filling the manor’s great hall, some swaying to the live music, others gossiping eagerly with each other, conspiratorial and familiar despite the anonymity of the masquerade. A herd of slender women with the heads of gazelles whispered in one corner, as men wearing lion manes and masks loudly argued politics in another.
That was the theme, after all: animals. The masks came in all flavors: simple paper ones, more ornate headdresses made with real feathers and adorned with fake horns, even a couple of lifelike rubber and silicone numbers that made their wearers look almost convincingly anthropomorphic.
And as much as the quality and creativity of the masks differed, one thing stayed uniform throughout: the utter opulence of what everyone was wearing. Women came in sleek gowns as sharply cut and as richly hued as jewels. The men wore crisp, creaseless suits and tuxes so finely tailored they shouldn’t have been able to move.
I smoothed down my clothes, feeling positively underdressed. But that was okay. I lived and died by charisma, and a little bit of arrogance. I was going to be fine. And really, I half expected to see Bastion in the crowd, though considering how masks were de rigueur – that’s French for “wear that shit or get out” – it would’ve been next to impossible to spot him. What really took me by surprise, though, was how quickly Sterling slipped into his persona, easily blending in with the richies.
Now, you know me. I’m good at lots of things, and between working as a Hound and having so much contact with the shadows, you would think that camouflage would be my forte. It’s very different, though, trying to mingle with the moneyed masses versus breaking and entering to steal stuff. Sterling seemed prepared for this sort of thing, and I just felt like an overgrown boy wearing a borrowed suit and his father’s shoes.
I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Herald was really nice about letting me borrow one of his suits. Sure, I was a little taller than him, but his charcoal jacket and pants fit me just fine. He even threw in a vest for me to wear underneath.
The best part of it was when he started – and literally could not stop complimenting me. He was sneaking pictures with his phone and everything, pulling at my jacket, adjusting my tie. I kept flustering at the attention.
“Stop it,” I said, laughing, batting his hands away. “I can’t tell if you want me to wear this out or rip it off me again.”
“The second thing,” Herald breathed, his hands working surprisingly fast.
And – and you don’t need to know the rest, but it most definitely messed up my clothes, and my hair. And Herald’s sheets.
Yeah. That was why I was late. I still needed to book a car to get from Herald’s apartment all the way to the Ramsey House, too. But Sterling didn’t need to know, right? I was sure he had a hunch, but I wasn’t about to give him more ammunition.
“Mister Silver,” our escort said, depositing us, to my delight, very close to a number of banquet tables groaning with appetizers. “Mister Braves. Please enjoy your evening.”
The man had only just turned around and I was already stuffing myself full of tasty treats. Six kinds of cheeses, delicate little slices of fruit, what I could only assume was caviar, my first taste of foie gras – was this how the rich lived and ate? These were all the shitty parts of animals that the rest of the world didn’t want. Holy shit, it was great.
“My God, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Sterling hissed. He tipped his champagne flute back, delicately grasping it by the stem, like – like some fancy rich guy. “Try not to look so poor.”
I frowned at him through a mouthful of melon and ham. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Even from behind his feline mask Sterling managed to give me a withering glare, his eyes traveling up and down my body. “Swallow everything that you’ve shoved in your face, and then maybe talk to me again. I’m going to mingle, get some information. You stay here and – masticate.” Then he walked away – no, glided away, the pompous ass.
“Yeah? Well fine! I’ll stand here and masticate all night long.”
I swallowed thickly, took a swig of champagne, then wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. A nearby clump of women in butterfly masks unfolded their fans and whispered to each other, clearly discussing me.
Okay, fine. So maybe I did stand out a little. Get some information, huh? Shit, no sweat. I’m Dustin Graves, the handsomest, charmingest so-and-so in Valero. Nobody said this was a competition, but since Sterling was being such an ass, I was happy to make it one now.
Time to put all of that charisma to good use.
I smoothed down my jacket, broadened my shoulders, put on my best smile, then sauntered over to the butterfly women, positively sparkling from the inside. Whatever I did seemed to work, the three of them tittering as I approached.
“Ladies,” I said, infusing my voice with – I don’t fucking know, man, with money, I guess, just like Sterling said. It was all about the fantasy, the masquerade. “A fine evening, isn’t it?”
The three women, each in a couture gown the color of a different jewel, tittered again.
“Lovely night, sir,” the one in the ruby dress said.
“Such delicious hors d’oeuvres,” the lady in the emerald gown purred. The three of them laughed softly. I laughed with them, unsure if they were making fun of me and my appetite, but when in Rome, you know?
“An excellent spread, to be sure,” I said. “Very generous of the Ramseys to host for the Society this evening.”
“Indeed,” Ruby replied, fanning herself gently. “Are you personally acquainted with our hosts?”
I winked, then flashed another glittering grin. “I suppose you could say that. I don’t see them among us, though.”
The third woman, let’s call her Sapphire, fanned herself and grinned openly. “Well that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? The masks. Nobody knows anybody. I’ve heard that Delilah and Marybeth have made it a kind of game. If you discover and unveil them, they’ll donate ten thousand dollars to the charity of your choice.”
I almost smashed my champagne flute between my fingers. Ten thousand dollars was more money than I’d ever collectively held in any of my pitiful bank accounts at any given time. Okay, so maybe that was down to my irresponsible spending habits, too, but sometimes you need a little extra spool of golden thread from the Black Market for a ritual, you know?
Sometimes a new video game release catches you by surprise. And sometimes your boyfriend wants to do a fun little weekend adventure in San Francisco, or farther south in Downtown LA, and you empty the coffers because you want to treat him special, the way he deserves to be treated.
Yeah, that’s right. I said boyfriend.
I chatted with the jewel ladies a little longer, then left them to titter into their hands and their fans. Thanks to Carver’s briefing, I knew better than to sift through the throng of the rich and not-really-famous to find the Ramseys. That was the real game they were playing. They weren’t in the ballroom at all.
And Sterling and I knew exactly where to find them.
Chapter 2
“Coast is clear,” Sterling said, the potted plant rustling as he spoke.
“About damn time,” I grunted. “How do you manage to always smell like cigarettes?”
“And body spray,” he muttered, leaning in to give me a whiff of his neck. I curled my nose and grimaced. “Smell.”
“Get off,” I grumbled, shoving him off me, and out from the safety of our hiding place.
Like I said, the Ramseys weren’t about to show, because they were sequestered somewhere private, even more private than their home. My guess was an underground chamber of some design. Sterling said it might have been a side room that they set aside specifically for ritual magic.
Whatever it was, we had a strong – and probably accurate suspicion, honestly – that the sisters had spent the night locked up in their special room, drawing on the ambient energy of so many of their gathered guests to fuel whatever blasted ritual they were attempting. So we waited, after dark, after all the guests had gone. We waited, like a couple of criminals, behind the safety and obscurity of a massive indoor plant tucked away in an alcove just off the ballroom.
Because it’s possible, after all, to fuel magic even with the unintentional psychic force of so many unwitting people. It was something I learned from Thea, my former mentor and murderer, of all people, a long time ago. The ball guests were gathered for the sake of supporting the Ramsey sisters and their cause, and whether or not they knew it, their mere presence and mindset would contribute in some small way.
Very insidious, honestly speaking, and very reminiscent of cult magic. That was exactly why Carver had sent us to the Ramsey House to begin with. We’d nipped the Viridian Dawn in the bud, and that whole mess with the Crown of Stars had caused the slaughter of a great many of the Eldest’s worshippers.
And now that the Dark Room had been suppressed – now that I no longer had access to the shadows – it made even more sense for pocket groups of cultists to pop up and attempt to summon the Eldest via alternate means, to continue to draw their attention to our plane of existence.
The Society of Robes, obviously, was at the very top of our list of suspects.
I should have known better, truthfully. The Ramseys were wealthy enough to do this sort of shit, and certainly rich enough to snag just the right kind of eldritch artifact to initiate a summoning, or at least some kind of communion with the Old Ones.
Wh
at the society rags and that gossipy section of the Comstock Times didn’t ever mention, you see, was that the Ramseys were also aspiring sorceresses. They were normals, in short, who’d somehow been keyed into the realities of the underground, the magical world behind the Veil, and had developed a kind of appetite for the arcane. And that was always a dangerous thing.
The Society of Robes liked to position itself as a kind of organizational front for the city’s wealthier class, its more prestigious occupations: doctors, lawyers, politicians, the luxurious and lucky few who, at some point in history, had worn wear ornate cloaks and robes as part of their uniforms. The Lorica and the rest of the underground knew the truth, though.
Through a combination of their wealth and influence, the Society and the Ramseys were more or less untouchable. It wasn’t like they necessarily dabbled in the more apocalyptic aspects of magic. Not on a regular, anyway. It was more of the innocent stuff: divination, minor summonings of benevolent spirits, that sort of thing.
This time, though? This time was different. The Ramseys had gotten their velvet mitts on something especially explosive. According to Carver, it was difficult to pick up on specifically because of how the Ramsey House had entire sections that were warded from the prying powers of scryers like himself and the Lorica’s Eyes, kind of like the magically impregnable Vault that Bastion’s family kept in their manor’s basement.
The good news? We had a small lead on the Lorica. Carver’s powers outstripped even the Lorica’s best Eyes and Scions by leaps and bounds. Sterling and I had a chance of slipping in and absconding with the goods before the Lorica’s people had even rolled out of bed to scratch their nuts.
The bad news, of course, was that Sterling and I would be exposed to the fullest brunt of this amorphous deadly artifact’s powers. Carver couldn’t tell us much more beyond the vague warning to be “extremely careful.”
When we got there – when we made it closer to our target – I was going to make sure to let Sterling walk into the room first.
Hey. Undead vampire, okay? He can regenerate. I can’t. And where would that leave us? I mean come on. Who do you love more: me, or Sterling?
