by Nazri Noor
“And we’re old,” Metric said. “Ancient. Well, Imperial is.”
“Relic,” Imperial hissed.
“And you’re an antique,” Metric said. “Love you too, darling. Now, some animals may be imbued with magic. Think of familiars, beloved pets that a witch or sorcerer may entrust with a portion of their power. Or mythical creatures, that’s one possibility. But whoever heard of a magical corgi?”
I scratched the end of my nose, gazing into my own cup of tea as its warmth wafted up my nostrils. Mmm, toasty. “Didn’t they say that faeries rode corgis into battle?”
Four pairs of eyes – five, if you counted Banjo – turned to stare at me.
“Okay,” I murmured. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I lifted the tea to my lips, making a strong slurping sound that I hoped would distract everyone from how the tips of my ears were burning bright red. The tea was sweet, because I’d made it with cream and two sugars, the way Herald liked it. I never used to like tea, but that was changing. I sipped some more, content.
“The point here, gentlemen, is that we’re basically stumped,” Imperial said. “Banjo isn’t exhibiting any signs of aggression at the moment, and we certainly aren’t detecting any traces of magic on him.”
Metric picked up the corgi, who was only too happy to be handled. She turned him this way and that, inspecting his ears, his ruff, then his rump.
“Nothing to identify him, though clearly you’ve thought to check that already. Hmm.”
She placed Banjo in her lap, then trailed the cruel acrylic press-on nails of one hand through the air above the dog. I gasped. Streaks of light remained where Metric had waved her fingers, and as she continued gesturing, the lines merged to draw a pattern, combining into a circle that settled just above Banjo’s body. It spun in place, projecting a faint beam onto the dog, very much like a spotlight. Banjo twirled in place, yapping at the glowing disc above him.
“What’s happening?” Sterling whispered, bending closer to Imperial.
“Ah. Metric is taking a closer look. Detection spell, like an X-ray, one that should, ideally, give us more clues about the dog’s origins.” Imperial rested her chin in her other hand as she peered at the shaft of pink light. “But alas. Nothing, it looks like.”
Metric snapped her fingers, and the disc of light disappeared. Banjo stopped in place, turning and tilting his head as he searched for his vanished playmate.
“Nothing,” Metric said. “Very strange. And the three of you are sure that the explosions weren’t a strategy? Some kind of self-destruct failsafe?”
“Very sure,” Gil said. “Think of it this way. Whoever sent those demons after us – why would they rig the insides of their heads to explode? They were clearly after the dog, and they were clearly afraid of it.”
“Then whoever sent them knew of the dog’s nature,” Imperial muttered. “Or its supernature, as it stands.”
Banjo yipped at us, like he understood. I gripped my teacup tighter. Gil flinched.
“I really doubt there’s anything to worry about, boys,” Imperial said, patting the side of her gigantic wig. “The dog sees you as members of its pack. You have nothing to fear. I have every confidence that it sensed the danger that the three demons posed, deliberately attacking them with – well, with something terribly dangerous in its bark.”
“Well and good,” I said. “But that still leaves so many questions. What’s up with this dog, exactly?”
As one, Metric and Imperial Fuck-Ton shrugged. “Beats us,” Metric said. “There’s only so much enchantments can do, after all.”
“I hear that,” I said. Instinctively, my hand went up to touch the necklace at my throat. It had gone dormant since the night that I’d used it to shut the Dark Room out forever – the night I had to sacrifice my mom’s shade.
“I hate to say this,” Metric said, “but it looks like your best option would be to approach an entity for help. Someone who can give you information.”
Gil sighed in relief. “Excellent. Dust is friends with a bunch of those. Right, Dust?”
Imperial tutted and raised one clawed finger. “Not those kinds of entities. You’ll want someone who has experience with animals. Nature. That sort of thing.”
Sterling’s jacket squeaked as he reached for the coffee table. “We’ll think of something. We’ll figure it out.” He lifted his teacup to his lips and sipped.
“This tea is delicious, by the way,” I said. Herald would love it. “Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, it’s Malaysian, from up in the mountains,” Imperial said with a flattered chuckle. She produced a tin from one of the hidden drawers built into the side of the coffee table. “Here, take some.”
“Wow, thank you so much,” I said, grinning, the tin still warm from Imperial’s hands. I stuffed it in my backpack. I took another sip, humming appreciatively. “I don’t know if you do something to brew it differently, but it just tastes so good.”
“Oh honey,” Metric said, sticking one taloned finger out at the teapot. “That’s just the acid.”
What the – I held the tea in my mouth, careful not to let another drop slip down my throat. “Thuh – thuh ashid?”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” Imperial said. “She’s only joking.”
I forced a smile as I swallowed gratefully.
“Honest to God, Dust, you’re so damn gullible,” Sterling said, sipping from his own tea. “Back to business. Next question. Who’s sending demons after us?”
“A fair question,” Imperial said. “Have any of you had any brushes with demons in the past? Anyone who might be interested in acquiring a curiosity the likes of this enchanted pup?”
Oh. Oh no. Say it isn’t so. I grimaced as my heart clenched with dread.
Imperial set down her teacup, eyes large with concern. “What is it, dear? Have you thought of someone?”
“I’m afraid I have,” I groaned. “And what the demon prince of greed wants, it gets.”
Chapter 10
It made sense, didn’t it? The story hung together. My last real contact with Mammon was when it wanted the Tome of Annihilation, a bizarre collector’s item of a grimoire that teleported itself to a different destination each time it was read. The demon prince of greed was exactly the same kind of eccentric entity that would want something as unusual as an exploding dog.
We were screwed, in short. Probably super screwed.
The Fuck-Tons were great hostesses, keeping us plied with more tea, some trays of cookies – biscuits, as Imperial called them – and even some finger sandwiches. Where the Leather Glovebox kept such tasty treats stocked at night, I’ll never know, but I wasn’t about to complain.
I pulled my jacket around myself, shrugging off the chill of the city as we stepped out of the Glovebox, as I reached for my phone to book a car to take us home. Cool air hit us straight in the face as we walked back out into Valero.
Something else hit Sterling in the face, too.
He choked and grunted, spitting out blood and saliva. Damn it. The stalker was back.
“Break,” Gil shouted.
I knew exactly what he meant. We raced from the sidewalk clear to the other side of the street despite the busy traffic, in some hope of throwing off our attacker. We hit the opposite sidewalk safely even as cars honked at us, as motorists yelled and cussed us out as drunks.
I panted, grabbing my knees as I watched the street. “Did we lose him?” I said. “Did anyone hear any thumping noises? Maybe he got hit by a car on the way here.”
“Nope,” a voice said directly in my ear. “Surprise, motherfucker.”
I grunted as a fist socked me upside the chin, and again, how lucky I was that my tongue happened to be out of the way when the blow landed. Stars spun in my vision as a deep, bone-numb ache spread through my jaw. I clutched my chin, cursing, whirling in place, prepared to set the fucker on fire. I was okay with burning my clothes clean off my body, too. Whoever this shithead was, I wanted him dead.
&
nbsp; But this time it looked like the Lorica stalker was content to attack someone else. Sterling spun in place, smacking at his shoulders and his back. This invisible little bastard was pulling the same trick. I readied a ball of flame in the palm of my hand, prepared to launch it at Sterling’s back. If I hit home, the stalker was in for a world of hurt. If I missed, though, or if he leapt away at the last moment, I’d have to explain to Carver exactly why I murdered my coworker by frying him to a crisp.
Plus there was that very small problem of us being right on a public sidewalk. The streets were busy. Vanitas thrashed inside my backpack, sensing danger, his telepathic voice reaching through the ethers, commanding me to release him.
“Let me at him,” he snarled, the anger in his voice crossing dimensions. “Let me chop him to pieces.”
And all the while Banjo kept barking, attracting even more attention. We were only lucky that he hadn’t exploded someone’s head off yet.
“Sterling,” I shouted. “Let’s take this down an alley.”
“Gladly,” he shouted back. “I’ll slam this fucker off my back, break his spine.”
He was livid. I don’t think I’d ever seen Sterling so mad until that night. I never thought that I’d ever be able to say that I could relate to him, but between the two of us, we’d beaten gods in combat, bested the Eldest themselves. Being brought low by something as pitiful as a human being must have especially stung for Sterling, someone who considered himself an apex predator.
We dashed into an alley, Sterling still beating at himself, as close to privacy as we’d ever get out in the city. I had to beat at my backpack too, struggling to keep Vanitas in place. But Gil didn’t run in with us.
“Not taking any chances this time,” Gil snarled. He picked Banjo up, cradling him between his arms. He threw his head back, then began to scream.
Oh no.
Gil never needed the full moon to go full dog. That was what Carver had taught him especially, a way to transform partially if he needed to, but also a way of bypassing lunar cycles, calling on his wolf whenever he wanted. Gil had mentioned many times how the transformation was agonizing either way. That explained the screams.
But it didn’t explain why he’d chosen to go full dog, exactly. I watched in barely contained terror as his wolf muzzle burst through his human face, as his limbs warped and elongated, his legs breaking and rebuilding themselves into the shape of a wolf’s hind quarters. The whole time Banjo barked at him playfully, like nothing completely scarring and mind-numbing was happening right before his little eyes.
Gil was gone. In his place was a shaggy man-wolf with fur the same black as Gilberto Ramirez’s hair, eyes glinting with red menace. Its gaze locked with mine, and I flinched, my body instinctively reaching for the safety of the Dark Room. That’s right, I thought. No escape.
Wolf-Gil bared his teeth at me, their sharp edges dripping with saliva – but Banjo scrabbled up his chest, nuzzling against his face. My heart clenched. It’d take a single bite for Gil to snap Banjo’s head right off his tiny corgi body, and maybe two bites max to eat the rest of him. But Gil and Banjo locked gazes, and the rage left the wolf’s eyes.
“No,” I screamed, as Gil parted his jaws and brought Banjo closer to his horrifying rows of razor teeth.
He didn’t eat Banjo, instead snapping his teeth across the corgi’s scruff, as a way of gently handling him. Banjo looked around himself, unperturbed, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Gil fell on all fours, growling, then sped off down into the alley, and into the night.
“Don’t eat Banjo,” I shouted.
They vanished from view in bare seconds, Gil’s wolf legs working hard and fast.
“Get the fuck off me,” Sterling shouted, running backwards and slamming himself into a brick wall. Each time he did, I heard the voice of someone grunting. It was only a matter of time until Sterling broke the stalker to pieces, or the stalker came to his senses and retrieved another phial of bottled sunlight.
I reached for my backpack, prepared to unleash Vanitas. Could he see through magic, find our invisible attacker? One way to find out.
“What in gay hell is going on out here?”
Metric Fuck-Ton, queen of the Glovebox, stood at the entryway to the alley with her legs apart, her enormous breastplate thrust out as her voice boomed.
“We don’t know,” Sterling yelled back, “but we’d really fucking appreciate your help in the matter, ladies.”
Imperial stalked across the street, quite literally rolling up her sleeves as she did, muttering to herself. I thought it was an incantation at first, but as she drew closer, I clearly heard what she was saying.
“Bloody young idiots bringing their pert little arses around, causing trouble, never giving old Impy the kissies she deserves, and what do the Fuck-Tons get for their trouble? Little pricks. You!”
I jerked, startled when she thrust her dagger nails directly at my face.
“Out of the way,” she snarled.
“Yes ma’am,” I stammered.
Imperial and Metric walked on, converging on Sterling. I was half convinced that they were about to start beating him up for all the trouble we’d caused until I noticed the glint in the pink glasses they were each wearing.
Enchanted. They could see the invisible stalker. Well, well. This was about to get very interesting.
Imperial reached forward, digging her nails into Sterling’s back, except they didn’t connect, only meeting with thin air. Said thin air screamed in agony as Imperial bared her teeth and kept on digging. Then she wrenched her hands away from Sterling. Metric mirrored her actions, stabbing her own nails into her own expanse of thin air. They stood that way, struggling with something invisible, and for a moment it looked like they were just waving their hands randomly in the air.
And then the air was wavering, exactly like it does over the pavement on a hot day, like a mirage over sand dunes. A brief flicker of light, and there he was – the rat bastard who’d attacked me and Sterling in Heinsite Park, wriggling, struggling, and wailing as the Fuck-Tons dug their horrible, hot pink nails into his sides.
And I when I say hot pink, I mean hot – their acrylic press-ons were glowing with unearthly fire, imbued with a terrible arcane light. The stalker squirmed as he fought to untangle himself from twenty wickedly sharp enchanted nails. Hell hath no fury, I suppose, like a super pissed-off drag queen vigilante. Two of them, in this case.
Together, Metric and Imperial roared as they threw the figure to the ground. He twitched on the asphalt, coughing and retching, like he’d been tasered. Maybe those nails were electric pink, then. Hah. The Fuck-Tons extended their hands again, threads of light shooting out of their nails, tying the squirming man up within seconds.
I rushed to Sterling’s side, checking on him. “About bloody time,” he yelled, shoving me away. “You could have pretended to help, Dustin.”
I threw my hands up. “I didn’t know what I could do. If I used the fire, I could have killed you. And it was too dangerous to use Vanitas. You know how bloodthirsty he gets.”
Sterling pouted at me, brushing off jacket. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Whatever.”
Somewhere in the distance I heard Gil howl, perhaps his way of telling us they were safe. Higher pitched and slightly softer, I heard Banjo howling with him.
But it was a sound at the opening of the alleyway that truly caught my attention – multiple popping noises, which told me that quite a few people had just finished teleporting into existence. I groaned, folding my arms and looking down the alley to await our judgment at the hands of the Lorica, wishing more than ever that I could just shadowstep away from it all.
The Lorica’s mages crowded the alley as expected, a bunch of Wings and Hands – probably a few Mouths, too – sent to investigate the commotion. “Make way for the Scion,” one of them called out.
I squinted, peering out of the alley’s darkness and into the street’s lamplight, waiting for Royce to make an appearance, a
nd scoffed. So he was having himself announced now, like royalty?
But it wasn’t Royce who stepped into the alley. The Wings and the Hands parted, making room for their aforementioned Scion.
A familiar figure stepped through, dressed in a leather jacket and upsettingly expensive jeans, his hair swept up and mussed into an artful blond mess. The breath caught in my throat, and then I groaned.
“Hello, Dusty,” he said.
“Bastion,” I breathed.
Sebastion Brandt had become a Scion.
Chapter 11
Bastion, a Scion? Go figure. He’d been the Lorica’s golden boy for so long, one of its most powerful Hands. His father had almost become a Scion himself, and his grandmother was once one of the greatest witches alive. It only stood to reason. It was never a matter of if he’d be promoted to Scion one day. It was a question of when.
“I can take it from here,” he told the gathered Wings and Hands. He dismissed them with a wave, sauntering in, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, the other twiddling fingers as he greeted the Fuck-Tons.
“Thanks, ladies,” Bastion said.
“You know them?” I guess I wasn’t done gawping.
“Sure I do. What, you think you’re the only person who’s ever walked into a BDSM club?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Goodness, Bastion, I had no idea.”
He flustered immediately. “Not what I meant. For information.”
I turned to the Fuck-Tons. “And you ladies have a direct line to the Lorica?”
The man on the ground cried out one final time when Metric tugged her hand away. The threads of pink light at her fingernails disengaged, wrapping even tighter around him. She dusted her hands off, sneering.
“We have a direct line when it’s convenient,” she said.
“Or,” Imperial added, scratching her nails lightly over Bastion’s shoulder, “when we know that the voice at the other end of the line is cute.”
