by Nazri Noor
“Mammon,” I breathed. That was Mammon’s voice, coming right out of Scrimshaw’s mouth. “Is this some kind of warning? You’ve infiltrated the Boneyard before. Why not just come yourself? Or are you afraid of us?”
Mammon, wearing Scrimshaw’s face, grinned at me, sending a shiver down my spine. “Who is to say that Mammon has not already penetrated your flimsy defenses?”
I dashed the hell away from Scrimshaw, shouting bloody murder as I skittered down the halls, rattling and banging on doors as I passed them. This was no time to be sleeping. The one time Mammon made contact with me in the Boneyard, it was to suck me into its own home dimension. This time it had actually crossed over, and I had a good idea of where it was waiting.
The stone floor chilled the soles of my feet as I ran, but thankfully it was smooth enough not to cut or scrape my skin. As I made it to the Boneyard’s new section, the practice platform, I spotted someone else who’d decided that going barefoot was good enough for an attack. Mammon stood at the center of the dojo, feet planted firmly in a pool of rippling gold.
“Was Scrimshaw just a distraction?” I panted, already sweaty straight out of the shower.
“Perhaps,” Mammon said, filing its nails against each other, every scrape making a threatening metallic sound. “But a safety net as well. The imp is imbued with an enchantment meant to stop your sword from waking.”
I drew myself up to my full height and thrust my chest out, completely aware of how unimpressive I looked in just my boxers, but what the hell else was I supposed to do?
“You came to the wrong party, Mammon. We’re at full power here, me and my friends. Nobody’s ever stepped into the Boneyard to threaten us and left alive.”
That was a blatant lie, and Mammon could tell, I just knew it. First off, there had never been a fight in the Boneyard. Weren’t we supposed to be safe in our own home, after all? I knew I shouldn’t have fucking let Vanitas attack Mammon, but what difference would that have made? It wanted the dog, and it was sure as hell going to get it.
“What do you want from me?” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. My hands stayed loose at my sides, ready to engage the flames whenever necessary. I felt like a cowboy, almost, waiting to draw my six shooter – except that I was up against a goddamn cannon. I had to hope that whatever curse had been cast over Vanitas would be lifted soon.
“Do not be so coy, Dustin Graves. This is not about a bargain. Mammon is here for an acquisition. Yes. What Mammon wants, Mammon takes. The court of greed will not be denied.”
The demon snarled as its talons flashed through the air, brittle cracks splitting the room as it deflected and shattered two long, crude spears fashioned out of yellow-white bone.
“Little too greedy there, butthole,” Asher’s voice called from behind me, his footsteps ringing as he ran to my side. First to rise. Good. Or first to be alerted, at least. I’d made sure to talk loudly, too, just in case the others hadn’t heard. Carver. Where the hell was Carver?
The answer came in the ring of amber fire that burst around Mammon, encircling, imprisoning it.
“Nobody comes to my domain without my express permission, Mammon.” Carver’s voice lilted from down the corridor, his steps measured and slow, meant to frighten, to intimidate. “And that includes demon princes.”
Another convenient untruth. Arachne and Hecate had found ways into the Boneyard before, but neither of them had meant me or any of my friends any harm. An attack was unprecedented. I had to hope that Carver’s ring of fire was meant to keep Mammon locked in.
But Mammon only laughed, its cackles ringing across the platform, all around the Boneyard, as if the sound was made by several voices. “A seal? A simple seal? Do not embarrass yourself, lich.”
Mammon waved its hand, and the fires snuffed out. It took a step forward, grinning at me. I took a step back.
“Heed Mammon’s request. The court of greed desires new acquisitions, and if these assets are surrendered, then none who live within this residential dimension will be harmed. It is simple.” The demon reached out one hand, its golden talons curling as it beckoned. “Give Mammon the dog.”
“Over my dead body,” I shouted.
Have I ever mentioned that I become bolder and dumber the more frightened I get? Because that seems to be a trend.
Mammon’s eyes narrowed into emerald slits. “Give Mammon the dog – and the nephilim.”
Chapter 27
“You’re not getting either,” Sterling said coolly, soundlessly appearing at my side. His katana, the one granted as a gift by the storm god Susanoo, was gripped tightly in his hand, sparking with jolts of electricity. “And we’re more than prepared to beat the shit out of you until you get that.”
Somewhere down the corridors, Gil howled from deep inside his werewolf throat. I stared directly into Mammon’s eyes and smiled.
“You’re severely outnumbered,” I said. “And Sterling’s right. We’ll wear you down, one way or another. You’re not getting Banjo or Mason.”
Where the hell was Mason, anyway? And Banjo, for that matter? Whatever. Safer was better for them both.
“Give them names,” Mammon said, leering, “and you give them agency. Think of them merely as bargaining chips. Liquid assets. Allow Mammon to keep this simple. Surrender the dog and the nephilim, or – ”
“How do you even know about Mason?” Asher said. “The nephilim.”
Mammon laughed again. “How foolish. The fruit borne of a fallen soldier of heaven and a mortal woman has ripened. Do you truly believe that the forces of hell will turn a blind eye? This ‘Mason’ will be a fine addition to Mammon’s menagerie. A fine addition indeed.”
“Banjo, wait, no!” This time it was Mason’s voice, calling from somewhere near our dormitories. My blood went cold.
“Ah, just in time. The goods have decided to deliver themselves straight into Mammon’s deserving hands.”
I whipped around, my heart sinking as I saw Banjo streaking down the corridor towards us, followed by Mason, who in turn was closely followed by a slavering, frothing Gil in werewolf form.
“Intercept the little bastard,” Sterling cried.
Carver thrust his hand out, a web of amber fire launching like a net from his fingers. “Come to Papa, Banjo.”
The corgi kept on running, dodging, weaving, practically dancing away from our fingers and from Carver’s magical net. I spun in place again, leaning into a sprint as Banjo ran straight towards Mammon, stopped just paces away, and gave an unearthly bark.
Mammon exploded.
Wet, steaming pieces of demon prince went scattering all over the dojo, its flesh and blood a bizarre, marbled mess of crimson and gold. An eyeball rolled towards my bare feet, its bright green pupil staring accusingly at me. I backed away a couple of steps, my stomach churning.
“Oh my God,” I stammered, clutching fistfuls of my hair. “Oh my God, Banjo, what have you done?”
As if in understanding, Banjo turned to me, waggled his butt, then gave a happy yip.
Carver swept Banjo up in a fatherly embrace, rubbing his head and nuzzling him, and was rewarded with a series of licks to the face. “Good Banjo,” he cooed. “Smart Banjo. Daddy’s little murderer.”
“We’re fucked,” I said.
“Possibly,” Carver said. “But not if we get to work strengthening the Boneyard’s spiritual barriers.” He gazed around us thoughtfully, his false eye glowing as it saw things only he could see. “The walls are thinner than I’d hoped.”
Behind us, farther down the corridor, Gil growled, then whimpered as his transformation reversed. The sprouted fur all over his body receded into his skin – that alone looked hellishly painful – and his bones cracked and snapped back into place. With a final agonized groan, Gil flexed his jaws and rolled his neck, his joints popping.
Mason joined our huddle, gripping his knees as he panted. “Tried to stop Banjo. But he got spooked.” He gave Gil a passing glance, but said nothing more.
&nbs
p; “Gilberto.” Sterling pushed his hands into his sides and gave Gil a stern, hard glare. “Did you try to eat Banjo? Be honest, now.”
“Yes,” Gil droned. He stared at the floor and nodded, his lip upturned. “It won’t happen again.”
Mason clapped Gil on the back. “Cheer up. If you hadn’t tried, Banjo wouldn’t have gotten here in time to – Jesus, to do whatever the hell it was he did to that demon thing.”
“Prince,” I said miserably, gesturing at the clumps of mangled flesh and viscera strewn across the practice platform. “That was Mammon, the demon prince of greed.”
“Well,” Carver said, “technically, it still is. Observe.”
Mammon held true to its word: demon nobility could most definitely survive outside of their domiciles. The loose bits and pieces of its corporeal form smacked and squished as they crawled across the floor, picking up dust and grit as they slithered home to the golden pool where Mammon’s disembodied feet were still planted.
Little by little, the many, many fragments found their way into the pool, sinking into the molten gold, no doubt returning to Mammon’s hell to regenerate. And the next time we saw Mammon, I had no doubt that it would be very, very pissed. Its emerald eye rolled all the way to the pool, gave me one last baleful stare, then sank into the liquid gold.
A pair of lips slurped over, crawling like a fleshy slug. The lips moved, a voice emanating from somewhere within the pool. “Now Mammon wants the dog even more.”
Then the gold itself sank into the stone floor, leaving nothing but horrible smears of demon blood.
Something that smelled faintly like farts fluttered by my head, then sat on my shoulder.
“What’d I miss?” Scrimshaw said, munching on a handful of Puppy Yum biscuits. Banjo stared up at him curiously, or maybe he just wanted a treat.
“By the gods above and below,” Carver muttered. “What a mess. See that you clean this up. All of you. We need to strengthen the wards in this place. No more bloody gods and demons strutting in whenever they please.”
“Aww,” Scrimshaw said. “Well that’s no fun.”
“Wait,” I said. “About that. Can you make one exception?”
“Is it me?” Scrimshaw said.
Carver’s eyes smoldered like embers as he glared at Scrimshaw, then at me. Sufficiently shaken, Scrimshaw mewled, then vanished in a puff of farts. I coughed, choking on the smell, but Carver’s stare made sure that I regained my composure pretty damn quickly.
“The longer we put this off, Dustin, the more likely we are to be assaulted again. Perhaps next time Mammon will be more cautious. Perhaps it will bring minions.” Carver’s lips drew back. “Or the other princes.”
I put my hands up. “Okay, fine. I’ll help you ward the place.” I looked down at myself. “Um, after I put on some pajamas or something.”
Carver’s gaze trailed down, then up my body. “That would be advisable. Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back. One thing, though. How do you think Mama Rosa feels about roasting a whole pig? And is the restaurant big enough for a party? Plus, say, two entities?”
Chapter 28
It turned out that the kitchen of Mama Rosa’s Fine Filipino Food was too small to accommodate the roasting of an entire animal. Or a lechon, as she called it, the Filipino name given to whole roast pigs or cows. We had to look up an actual caterer, one that Mama Rosa selected herself out of her phone. That she had them in her contacts was interesting enough. The fact that she had one business in particular on speed dial was even more curious.
Carver yelled at me a little bit, but otherwise was pretty much okay with the idea of performing the special communion in the restaurant. Mama Rosa’s was small, but there was no chance of it happening in the Boneyard because of the fresh wards. Plus, where the hell else were we going to pull off a feast on such short notice?
Or a fiesta, as Mama Rosa called it.
“Piyesta, to be accurate,” she said, dropping some fresh Tagalog knowledge on me shortly before sending me out to fetch the pig. “We will show this goddess a good time.”
Artemis was going to have a great time, judging by the size of the damn thing. I wasn’t sure a rideshare was going to take me while I was lugging the equivalent of several hams joined end to end, and the sun was beating hot that afternoon, which meant very bad things for transporting porky perishables, but the lady running the caterer was nice enough to send me off with her brother, who drove me back to Mama Rosa’s in a truck.
“You guys deliver, don’t you?” I said, hopping out of the passenger side.
“We do, actually.”
I frowned. Then why did Rosa send me out personally?
“To save money,” she said sagely as Gil helped me carry the pig, wrapped in its own special box, into the restaurant. “And to get you boys out of my hair while I decorate.”
She clapped her hands, and the inside of Mama Rosa’s Fine Filipino Food lit up with tiny fires hovering in various corners. My jaw dropped. There were palm fronds everywhere, growing out of the walls, it seemed, which themselves were covered in deep green moss. The tables were covered in huge banana leaves, topped with silver plates and silver utensils, as per Apollo’s instructions. And the greasy linoleum floor was nowhere to be found, carpeted in lush blades of grass. Mama Rosa had magicked the restaurant into a miniature jungle, not unlike Artemis’s domicile.
“Holy crap,” I said, lowering the pig onto a table. “It’s beautiful.”
“I know,” Rosa said, frowning at her surroundings. “I am incredible.”
“Care to share why you don’t do something like this every day?” I said. “It might help for business.”
She glared at me. “Because we are entertaining a goddess. Diyosa. Say it with me. Diyosa.”
“Diyosa,” I said, eagerly receiving more of my education. Between Rosa, Asher, and Gil, if I lived at the Boneyard long enough, I might actually pick up a whole new language.
If I lived long enough, that is. Because both Mama Rosa and Gil were suddenly staring over my shoulder, straight at the front door, where two men were waiting.
“We’d like to eat some of your fine Filipino food, please,” one man said.
“We’re closed,” Gil said gruffly.
“Oh,” the other man said. “But we’re very hungry.”
He stepped into the restaurant, hardly perturbed by the decor, or the dancing flames. Behind him, more men intruded, until there were six of them in the restaurant with us. A tight fit, to be sure, not at all comfortable considering how threatening their body language was.
Mama Rosa muttered under her breath. “Mister Carver warded the entrance. They should not be here. They could not have entered.”
“Demons,” I whispered back. How I wished I had brought Vanitas and my backpack out of the Boneyard. “Sent from Mammon.”
One man smiled. “Oh, the prince didn’t send us. Tipped us off, though. We’re from the Society of Robes.”
Mama Rosa swept past me, pushing her huge fists into her waist, thrusting out her bosoms. “This means nothing to me. To me, you are all tarantado.” She turned her head towards me, then muttered. “It means ‘bastard,’ Dustin.”
“Got it.”
“Though it is difficult to translate,” she added. “Asshole, jerk, moron, it could mean one or all of those things. I think.”
“Duly noted,” I said, also noting the fact that this tiny space meant Rosa and I couldn’t risk using fire magic. I wasn’t sure how much of her enchanted jungle was real, but I wasn’t keen on the idea of burning down her hard work, or her restaurant, for that matter.
I cursed myself, wishing I knew how to work some of that more complicated pyromancy Carver had talked about. Boil their blood, burn their lungs? Less of a mess that way. But maybe I could improvise with some flaming darts, tiny projectiles I could fire into someone’s eyes. Hmm. That could work.
Gil, apparently, had less need for strategy. I hadn’t even noticed him engaging the wolf t
alons on his finger tips. He plunged them into the first man’s chest. Both of them screamed.
The restaurant – jungle, whatever – erupted into a brawl. Rosa had clearly thought things through, and threw flaming punches instead of fireballs, smashing anyone she could reach right in the cheeks, in the chest, leaving blackened imprints of her fists. It was fucking awesome.
I leapt into the fray, my own hands wreathed in fire, and in my head I was Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan – fuck, I was Prudence Leung, martial artist supreme, delivering flaming karate chops at everything I could reach.
There’s a reason martial artists train, though, and that’s to avoid the rookie mistakes someone like me would make.
I didn’t anticipate the first punch to my stomach, which knocked the wind out of me. I also missed the kick to my shins, which made a horrible noise, and hurt even worse. I fell to the ground, clutching my leg, watching as my attacker prepared to stomp on my neck with the sole of his boot.
He never did. Bright pink tendrils wrapped around his foot, reaching up to the rest of his body, until he was restrained in a familiar, hot pink cocoon.
“En garde, motherfuckers,” Metric Fuck-Ton yelled.
Behind her, Imperial Fuck-Ton delivered a spinning kick to another man’s face, her stiletto leaving a trail of arcane shimmer in the air, her heel smashing into his skull. Hot damn. The Fuck-Tons, just in time to save the day.
I struggled to my feet, then kicked at some dude’s stomach – which isn’t as impressive as it sounds because he was on his side, on the ground. With the Fuck-Tons present, it took a matter of seconds to restrain and bind the Society’s goons.
“Thanks, ladies,” I breathed, adrenaline still pumping through my blood. “I don’t know how you knew about this, but your timing is impeccable.”
“We’ve been tracking the Society’s activities since the incident at the Ramsey House,” said Metric, examining her nails.
“And there was some talk of an attempt to retrieve our furry little friend,” said Imperial. She looked around the restaurant, nodding approvingly. “We followed them here. They must have used some kind of artifact to pass through your wards.”
