by Nazri Noor
I whistled, my breath curling past my lips in a tumbling wisp. “And I’m going to guess that they’re all different? I don’t know how else to put it. Thematically, I mean. Like, would the demon prince of wrath be way more violent than Mammon?”
Herald chuckled. “You have no idea. Even their minions are more vicious. Really dangerous stuff. I’ve heard that the court of gluttony is pretty fond of actually eating people.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what you’d end up as – once a demon of gluttony passes you through its digestive tract. And the demons of sloth are even worse. You’d think it wouldn’t be so bad, but those bastards are far more creative about it than assaulting you with a wall of golden light.”
My lips were slightly parted as I waited for Herald to continue, but I never did find out how much worse sloth demons could be, because I was then assaulted by a wall of golden light.
This one hurt a lot more, too, slamming into my chest, knocking me on my ass, and shoving all the air out of my lungs. It wasn’t just like walking into that golden barrier that Mammon had erected. It felt like a lot more force went into this one, like Mammon had punched me with way more anger.
I stared at the sky, wondering how I was seeing so many stars with the smog of Valero blanketing the city’s air, when I realized that it was probably just random, blinding spots of light from smashing my head on the pavement. Again. Concussion central. I groaned, and when I couldn’t from a lack of oxygen, wheezed. I reached for my mother’s amulet, wincing. Please. I just wanted to survive the night without having my skull cracked open like an egg.
Something gold and bright smashed into the pavement right by my head, threatening to crack it open like an egg. Bits of debris struck my cheek. I blinked rapidly, willing my sight to clear up, but all I saw were stars, and the pale halo of gold at the edge of my vision.
“Mammon,” I said, “Truce. It’s too soon for a revenge attack, leave me alone.”
“It’s a kid, Dust,” Herald yelled. “It’s not Mammon. Just a kid.”
“Okay, Donovan Slint, truce. It’s too soon for a revenge attack, leave me alone.”
“Not that kid,” Herald said.
Then who? I wondered if it mattered. I felt the presence above me, just within punching distance. My fingers clenched into a fist, and the anger and pain inside of me swirled into a cloud of fire around my hand. I swung my arm into an uppercut.
And screamed. My knuckles had connected with something like metal.
“Damn it,” Herald said, and flecks of purple filled my field of vision. My eyesight cleared at last – mostly only blurry with tears of pain, because holy shit, whatever I’d punched hurt like hell – and there he was, standing over me.
Just some kid. A young man, no older than eighteen, I was sure, with half his body hidden behind a glowing golden shield. And not just a plain magical barrier, either. This thing on his arm looked like an actual medieval kite shield. That’s what I’d punched. My knuckles throbbed. The shield looked way too big for him to handle. Maybe he was stronger than he looked – he did use the thing to bash me in the chest, after all. Where’d he even find an artifact like it?
“Don’t know what a Mammon is,” he said, his voice deeper, more menacing than I’d expected. “And my name sure as hell isn’t Donovan.”
That was the main detail about him, apart from the enormous glowing shield. The guy seemed pretty pissed.
The other thing I noticed was how the ground was covered in shards of broken ice. So Herald had tried to fight him already, probably using a bunch of those icicles he loved so much – and it looked like he was getting ready to try something new. I had to distract our attacker long enough for Herald to prepare, maybe to produce one of his ice swords.
“You and I need to talk,” the stranger said.
Behind him, Herald bared his teeth in fury. The sword at his hands had grown longer, much longer than I’d seen him make before. I strained not to look directly at him, so as not to give him away, but even in my peripheral vision I could see. Herald was building an entire spear out of solid ice. Shit. He was pissed, too.
“Then talk,” I told the shielded stranger. “I don’t know why you’re resorting to violence when you could be using your mouth instead.”
He sneered, his lips parting, and just as he was about to answer, Herald lifted his spear. I stared directly into the man’s eyes, straining not to give the sneak attack away.
It never mattered. He lifted his other arm, and his shield transferred there instantly, vanishing and reappearing as if shunted through space. Herald yelped in surprise as the spear connected with the shield and shattered into worthless pieces.
My mouth fell open. Herald’s ice constructs weren’t that fragile. He’d gone toe to toe with other sword fighters, even gods with that same blade in the past. Surely the spear would be even sturdier.
“Look out,” I shouted, but too late. Without even glancing over his shoulder, the man slammed his shield backwards, smashing it into Herald’s chest. Herald grunted, then crumpled to the ground, winded by the savage blow.
Last resort. My other hand was uninjured, still free. I opened my backpack.
The screech of metal as Vanitas split into two halves didn’t even make the stranger flinch. He raised his shield with lightning reflexes, deflecting first the scabbard, then the sword. Vanitas, being Vanitas, had attacked at top speed, but even that shouldn’t have caused him to recoil as violently as he did. Sword and scabbard bounced harmlessly off the golden shield, zipping overhead. In the distance, I heard the splintering of wood, the rustling of leaves. Vanitas had smacked into some trees, again.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, struggling to crawl away from our attacker and his crazy stupid magical shield.
“Now we can talk,” the man said. I scrambled away as he approached, but he reached me in two long strides, kneeling on the ground and lifting the shield to my face.
“Please don’t say you’re going to smash my face with that thing. Not the face.”
He frowned. The golden light of the shield flickered, and in an instant, it was gone, replaced by an equally golden dagger – which was pointed directly at my throat.
I stared at the blade. “What the hell? How did you – ”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his other hand grabbing me by the collar with surprising strength. “I came all this way to find someone, but all I got was you. Look at me. Tell me. Why was I summoned here?”
“What the hell are you even talking about? Nobody summoned you. I don’t know anything about – ”
Our eyes met, and all the breath left my body. Up close, I could finally see him.
The man looked familiar, only not at all, like someone I once knew. He had the same brilliant blue eyes, the same strong jaw. But this guy’s hair was brown, and mostly straight, unlike the man I was thinking of, who had hair in blond curls, like an angel.
And most damning of all were the strange, glowing designs etched into his skin, patterns and glyphs tattooed across his chest and his clavicles, peeking just above the line of his collar. No. It couldn’t be.
“Sam?” I said, my eyes narrowed, my mouth dry. “Samyaza? Is that you?”
The point of the dagger came closer to my throat, and the man’s eyes burned even harder.
“How do you know my father’s name?”
Chapter 21
“Nephilim,” Carver said, speaking the word with gravity.
“Bless you,” Sterling said.
Carver grimaced. “No, you fool. Nephilim. I find it difficult to believe that someone who’s lived as long as you have doesn’t know what that means.”
“You’re absolutely right. The word means nothing to me.” Sterling raised an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his head, waiting expectantly for Carver to continue.
Carver’s smile went from ear to ear. “Well, it should. It’s shorthand for a very specific kind of angel.”
Sterling’s innate speed k
icked into high gear. He sprang to his feet and vaulted over the back of the couch before I’d even blinked. He huddled behind the backrest, peering over the top of it, staring terrified at the nephilim – Mason, that was his name – then accusingly at me and Herald.
“And you brought him home?” he hissed. “That’s like – like taking home a grenade.”
“Or an exploding dog,” I said. “Cool it, Sterling. I don’t think Mason wants to hurt any of us for the moment.”
Mason’s arms folded tighter, and his glare could have burned holes directly through my soul.
“Okay,” I muttered. “Mostly me. Maybe he wants to hurt me.”
Carver cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Mason here is a nephilim. Half human, and half angel.”
The living room filled with a thick silence for a moment, until Mason cut through it.
“Bullshit.”
“Oh?” Carver’s eyebrow arched dangerously. “And how else would you explain these circumstances? Your curious abilities, the fact that you were led all the way here by the imprint of your father’s divine energies? Of his blood?”
Mason rubbed his hands along his scalp, his eyes squeezed tight as he did his very best to process his predicament. This must have been how I looked when Thea first told me that I was a mage, spilled to me about the arcane underground.
“Someone who called himself an angel appeared to me,” Mason said slowly. “He told me that I should come to Valero, to seek out this Samyaza person. I thought it was all crazy talk, but I had to know for myself. So you’re saying that my mother was – well, was intimate with an angel? And then nine months later I happened?”
“Precisely,” Carver said.
Mason crumpled into the sofa, leaning deep into it and throwing his head back. “Jesus Christ,” he said.
“Well,” Carver said, chuckling, “not quite. Your father was a very important figure, however. A fallen angel, one of the Grigori, cast out of heaven for loving humanity.”
Sterling whistled. “For loving humanity a little too much, it sounds like.”
“Indeed,” Carver said. “But not just any Grigori, either. Samyaza was the leader of the fallen of heaven. Their king, if you will.”
Mason sat straight up, his eyes huge. “So what, I’m like some fallen angel prince?”
Carver didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Mason gave a forlorn whine as he crumpled back into the couch.
“I didn’t want this,” he said. “I didn’t want any of this.”
I’ll tell you right now. In a different time, a different place? That could have been me saying those exact words on that couch. I never wanted the dark gift that Thea gave me, that she planted in my heart. Yet after all that time, after so many scars and so many deaths, there I was, alive in the Boneyard. Bizarrely, I was happier, more stable than I’d ever been. For the first time, I felt an actual pang of sympathy for Mason.
I closed my eyes, turned inward, and smothered that sympathy with a pillow.
“But why me?” Mason said. “Why did his power come to me, of all people?”
“Oh, there is no doubt that Samyaza fathered many children, as is the wont of the fallen,” Carver said. “I confess, this is indeed very strange. I know precious little of the ways of angels, but I do know that when the strongest among them perish, their essence may find its way back to its home realm, to be reformed. But Samyaza was fallen – barred from heaven. His fullest power was sealed within him when he was thrown out of the gates, only truly unleashed upon what we assumed was his death.”
I blinked, only just managing to put two and two together. “So you’re saying that what was left of Sam’s energies went looking for his kids?”
“That is one way of putting it, yes. Though considering your description of your encounter,” Carver said, placing his chin in his hand, “it appears that a significant portion of Samyaza’s power has been bestowed exclusively to his son. To Mason, that is.”
“Then the only question I have left, I guess, is why him?” Mason cast an accusing finger at me as he spoke. “Why was there a beam of light drawing me to him?”
“Because the other half of that essence was used to heal him. Dustin here was nearly dead if it hadn’t been for Samyaza’s, shall we say, divine intervention. It seems that some of your father’s blood still flows through Dustin’s veins, and that is what drew you to Valero.”
“So what, he’s part angel, too?”
The room burst into laughter.
“Hey,” I said, somewhat hurt. “It’s not that funny.”
“Sincerely doubt there’s any angel in him,” Herald said. “I’d know. The blood brought him back from the brink, but that’s about it.”
“So,” Mason said. “Why would my dad give his life for – well, whoever this runt of a person is?”
“Hey,” I snarled. “I’m taller than you.”
Mason sprang to his feet. “Still beat you in a fight, Dusty. Kind of the perfect nickname too, if you ask me.”
Something in my face twitched. Mason even knew to use the exact name I hated being called, at least by those I didn’t consider friends. I turned to Carver. “Are all nephilim this rude?”
“Your skills are all dusty, is what I’m trying to say,” Mason said, lowering himself back down onto the couch. “Crusty. Rusty. Musty.”
“Stop being such a child,” I shouted.
Herald’s hand landed on mine. He leaned in to whisper. “Keep your voice down. Don’t stoop to his level. He’s just a kid, and you’re starting to sound like one, too.”
“Enough,” Carver said, his voice slicing across the room. I knew that tone. It called for silence, every time, and even Mason went quiet, relenting. “Now, Mason. If you’re quite finished antagonizing my employee – ”
“I’m very sorry,” Mason said firmly, looking Carver directly in the eyes with a contrite expression on his face. That little fucker. He knew exactly what he was doing. “It won’t happen again.”
Carver nodded. “Very well. The answer to your question is difficult to phrase, at best. Samyaza must have known that Dustin was meant for some greater purpose, that he had some other destiny to fulfill. And that has proven true, in recent times. Tell me. Have you heard of the Eldest?”
Mason looked carefully between us, then shook his head.
“Then there is much for you to learn,” Carver said. “Allow me to extend an invitation. You may stay here for as long as you wish, while you gain your bearings in Valero, come to terms with who you are, with what you are. I confess to being very curious about your nature, and will want to conduct some experiments of my own.” Carver waved his hand as I quietly recalled the time he reached into my chest to attempt to retrieve the shard of star-metal embedded there. “Non-intrusive ones, of course. Only educational experiments, should you consent to them.”
“I’m very grateful for your hospitality,” he said. Again, the smooth little bastard knew exactly what he was doing. “But maybe we’ll hold off on the experimentation until I’m sure I can trust you, Mister Carver.” Mason looked around the room, staring hard at each of us. “Until I can trust all of you.”
Carver spread both his hands outward. “Of course. Take your time to get to know the rest of our motley crew. I hope you will find their companionship to your liking. And if you have any questions about my character, I am certain that they will be more than capable of answering and enlightening you.” Carver poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle, boiling hot, just the way he liked it. “Gentlemen, if you please.”
We all stood, me shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, Herald and the rest of the Boneyard making admirable attempts to actually talk to the new guy. But hey, don’t judge me for not trying. He tried to break my face the first time he met me. And you know the rule: not my face. Never the face.
“Major sausage party you have here,” Mason said. “And you guys seriously call yourselves the Boneyard?”
Gil grunted, turned to me, then poked
a thumb at Mason. “I’m not sure I like this guy.”
Sterling tilted his head and grinned. “I kind of like him. He’s got a mouth on him. Reminds me of myself, a little bit.” He threw an arm over Mason’s shoulder. Mason peered at him with furrowed eyebrows and a healthy dose of suspicion, but said nothing. “Listen, kid. It may be called the Boneyard, but not a lot of boning happens here. Not unless you count our monthly orgy.”
Mason’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit. Um. Good for you, I guess.”
“He’s lying,” I barked.
“I am,” Sterling said, gesturing at me and Herald. “Actually, it’s only those two that bone.”
I turned bright red, the tips of my ears burning. Mason looked at us, then shrugged. Herald shrugged, too. “Eh,” he said. “It’s true, why deny it.”
“Come on,” Sterling said, pulling Mason even closer. “Let Uncle Sterling show you around the Boneyard.”
I shook my head. “Uncle Sterling? As if you couldn’t be any creepier.”
Sterling stopped mid-step. “You’re basically his father, aren’t you? That makes me an uncle.”
“He’s not my son,” I grumbled.
“And he’s not my dad!” Mason had that look in his eyes again, the one that said I deserved to be pulverized into mulch, except that he couldn’t be bothered to do it. Not just yet.
“Come on,” Asher said, cutting in smoothly. “You ever looked out into the abyss, Mason? It’s pretty terrifying.”
Mason threw me one last searing glance, but Sterling pulled him away, and Asher’s chatter distracted him soon enough. God bless Asher Mayhew.
Herald took my hand, squeezing it. His skin was so warm, just like his smile. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great dad.”
“To Mister Grumbles, sure,” I said, referring to the stuffed tiger I stole for him. “But not to that little asshole.”
Herald laughed, then sauntered off and trailed behind the others, curious about our new nephilim not-friend: half human, half angel, all douchebag.
