by Nazri Noor
The little Gil on my phone screen turned over his shoulder, glaring. “Will you put your fucking phone away?” he hissed, like the dead were about to rise up and confiscate it themselves.
“Fucking fine already,” I muttered, letting my phone fall from my hand into a jacket pocket, replacing it with a pack of cigarettes. I got what I wanted. I got what I needed. Gil didn’t need to know.
It wasn’t hard to find Uriah Everett’s grave. Silveropolis had few enough tourist attractions as it was, and Uriah’s remains probably came the closest in terms of any real historical significance. His tombstone rose twice as high as any other in the graveyard, kept clean and polished, a thick gray obelisk. His name was engraved along the front in somber capital letters, no gold leaf or any other ornamentation to decorate his place of eternal rest.
Asher lowered his head as we approached. I nodded at the obelisk. “What’s up,” I said, not really expecting anyone to answer. Asher threw me an icy glare.
“Sterling, could you not?”
I shrugged. “We have different ways of dealing with the dead. I talk to them like they’re functioning adults, at least, if they died as adults. You have a tendency to coddle them.”
He bristled, lifting his nose in the air. “You say coddle. I say it’s just a show of respect. I play nice with the unliving, and they play just as nicely back.” He knelt in the grass, Uriah’s journal still held close to his chest. Asher closed his eyes, then began to murmur. It wasn’t a prayer, that much I knew.
Asher Mayhew, polite late teen boy and immensely talented necromancer, got to where he was on the arcane power ladder by treating his craft with a slightly different approach. Okay, a wildly different one. The sweetness and charm he reserved for his interactions with the living were very much the same tools he used for manipulating – sorry, for entrancing the dead.
Other necromancers commanded spirits from beyond to do their bidding, bending them to their will. Not Asher. Asher could make a zombie his best friend, then convince the zombie that giving up brains and switching to a vegan diet was his idea to begin with. I’ve been alive for quite a long time, but I’d never met a nice necromancer. Not before Asher. There were so few of them in existence to begin with.
It was part of why we guarded him so closely. Asher was a great guy, but it was also nice to have someone on your team who could raise the dead for some quick backup in a fight. Hell, it was nice to have someone on your team who could conjure up his own entire sports team. I watched Asher as he incanted, wondering if there would be any merits to starting a zombie soccer league.
He stopped muttering, but opened his eyes, the sockets of them filled with the familiar sickly green of necromantic magic. Asher passed a hand across the obelisk, never touching it, but still leaving traces of his power drifting across the stone. Wisps of green energy filled the spaces of the engraved letters, lighting them up like a computer display. We could see the writing more clearly now. Gil squatted low to the ground, reading from Uriah’s gravestone.
“Here lies Uriah Everett, founder of this great community of Silveropolis. A kind soul, a proud leader, and a man of many faces.”
Underneath it listed the dates of Uriah’s birth and death. I pursed my lips in admiration. He lived pretty long for someone of his time. Eighty-plus years wasn’t something to be sniffed at.
The pale green letters faded, and so did the light from Asher’s eyes. “That lines up with what it says in his journal. Well, it’s a phrase that shows up a couple of times, at least. A man of many faces. Uriah was pretty popular with his people, it looked like. He wore many hats, did a whole lot for the community.”
I frowned down at him, then at the journal in his hands. “You’ve read that far into it already? Nerd.”
He frowned back up at me. “I only had to skim it. It’s not that hard, Sterling. It’s called reading? You should try it sometime.”
“Gimme that.”
Asher yelped when I snatched the book from him. It was both coarse and cold to the touch, its leather wrinkled and nearly brittle from age, the engraved brass clasps and hinges on its cover and spine like smooth shards of ice. I turned it over in my hands, peering at it suspiciously.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that this thing was a book of shadows. Uriah’s personal grimoire.”
Gil rubbed his beard. “You think so? There’s no evidence that he was a magic user. Not that Olivia would know. Uriah would have been careful to keep things to himself. Plus, this thing’s just one copy of several. A book of shadows is too personal to be reproduced like that.”
Asher grabbed the journal back from me. I cocked an eyebrow at him, impressed by both his vengeful rudeness and his speed. “Maybe it’s written in code,” he said, his eyes lighting up as he looked down at the cover. “Or maybe it’s hidden somewhere in the pages. Invisible ink, I mean. I can’t wait to try a couple of things on it when we get back to the cabin. I mean, it all hangs together, doesn’t it?”
“Does it?” Gil said. “This is the first we’ve considered the possibility that Uriah was a mage himself. Have we agreed on whether or not he had anything to do with the Filigreed Masque as well? He could have crafted it himself.”
“Anyone could have crafted it,” I said, throwing my arms up. “Silver mining boomtown, remember? Of course they had artisans all around. So Uriah wore many faces, but was he also a silversmith? A jeweler? Whatever. And on top of that, was he an enchanter, as well?”
Asher’s forehead creased as he looked down, though I couldn’t tell if he was staring at the journal or at the grass. “Whoever’s behind the killings happening now, do you guys suppose they’re also looking for the Masque? Cripes. Is the Masque itself sentient and ripping people’s faces off? Don’t forget what Bastion said about it.”
“Or the fact that there’s a potential other part involved,” Gil said. “Those bundles of twigs didn’t just show up on their own. Someone’s been planting fetishes throughout the woods. The question is why.”
“It feels like we’re getting a bunch of mixed signals all across the board. Nothing connects to nothing.” I paced a small circle in the grass, until I decided to sit down in the same patch I’d flattened. I pulled my knees up to my chest, frowning at nothing. “It’s a lot of crap thrown together. I’m more confused than anything. So now we’ve got dead bodies, a killer artifact that potentially, possibly, maybe ripped the faces off those dead bodies, and some twiggy person who’s putting down toothpick sculptures for – for what, exactly?”
Gil scratched his fingers through his beard, up his sideburns, then all the way up to his hair, groaning. “I need a drink. Several, if I’m honest.”
Asher pressed his lips tightly together, like he had something to say that we wouldn’t like. He looked between us, then decided to spill after all.
“We could try a communion.”
I rolled my eyes, then fell backwards into the grass, stretching myself out. “Absolutely not,” I said to a sky full of stars. “Out of the question. Last resort. I owe Vilmas this thing, Bastion thinks we owe him that, and now we’ve got to owe some all-mighty immortal being a favor, too? Pass.”
Gil remained perfectly quiet. That made me nervous. He was probably considering the idea.
“Fine,” Asher said. “I was just floating a suggestion. It’s not like we have a ton of other ideas. I’m hoping old Uriah here at least has some answers for us.”
He leaned forward, this time pressing his open palm against the obelisk. Asher shut his eyes, little rays of green light escaping through his lashes, but his forehead wrinkled in confusion. His eyes flew open, normal and brown.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured.
I sat back up, brushing blades of wet grass off my jacket. “Hmm? What’s up?”
“It’s Uriah Everett. He isn’t here.”
19
“Some spirits move on,” Asher said. “And others just aren’t talkative. Uriah, though? I couldn’t feel his pres
ence. He just wasn’t there. I don’t think his body was under the obelisk, either.”
“The plot thickens.” I took a drag of my cigarette, the smoke merrily stinging at my insides, then exhaled, slowly. We were back at the Everett House, loitering in the driveway, mulling over our next move. “So what you’re saying is that Uriah Everett has moved on?”
He shrugged. “Hard to say without getting real confirmation from the dead. The ones that linger in Silveropolis are strangely quiet. I can’t reach out to the victims, either. That guy we found in the forest? It’s like he never existed.”
Gil grunted as he lugged both crates of fruit out of the trunk. “Then maybe they’ve moved on, too. But it’s always possible that it’s something more sinister than that.”
“Entrapment,” Asher said, shaking his head. “Terrible thing to do. Some magical traditions still practice it, I’m sure. Put someone’s soul in a jar, keep it as long as you like, forever, even. Fate worse than death. Blasphemous, as far as I’m concerned.”
“There’s also the very real chance that their spirits have been snuffed out, too,” Gil said. “Eaten by something, maybe. It’s not unheard of. And speaking of eating, just who the hell needs this much fruit, anyway? Will one of you help me with these at least?”
“But you’re so big and strong, Gilberto,” I purred. “All those huge, enormous werewolf muscles. You got this.”
He frowned harder because I knew he was trying not to show how he was at least a tiny bit affected by the compliment. Flattery really does get you everywhere. At the very least it gets impressionable werewolves to haul around your kumquats for you.
“Stupid thing, buying all of this just to show off to your lady love. This stuff is all going to spoil unless we eat apples for every meal. Just enthrall her officially and be done with it already.”
Asher peered into one of the crates, then shook his head. “I don’t even understand how she turns a profit on any of this. The lady loves her fruit. Eventually she’s going to run out of funding. Gil’s right, Sterling. If you’re looking to keep yourself fed, you really should just make her your thrall already. You’ll be supporting a local business.”
“Supporting a local – mind your own damn business! The both of you. I’ll ask her when I’m good and ready.”
Which was going to be when, exactly? The process of making someone your thrall wasn’t just something that came up over a cup of coffee. It’s a matter of ethics in many ways, really, but vampires the world over have different approaches to keeping up their food supply. I couldn’t even say it was a cultural or a regional thing.
A lot of it came down to personal beliefs and preferences. You might think an ancient vampire would be perfectly happy to use hypnotism to take all the blood they needed, for example. But I’d heard of at least one old fart in Romania who housed and supported his very willing thralls all under the same roof. One big happy family.
A younger, newer vampire might be someone who’d be more willing to go through the social complexities it took to establish a relationship with their very first thrall. Still, limited finances and desperation could very well mean that they would end up resorting to hunting city streets past midnight, anyway.
You only had to look to the jargon to know that the vampire world had progressed, even if only a little. No one really called their human juice boxes cattle anymore. Thrall was a much nicer way to put it. You could argue that “human juice box” is even ruder, but hush, I’m talking.
At the end of the day, the word enthrallment didn’t really hold to either of its definitions anymore, at least when it came to the vampire-thrall dynamic. I liked making contracts. There were fewer problems that way. Not as many hurt feelings, for one, and smaller risk of a scorned thrall turning around and stabbing you in the heart with an ice pick. That way you could sort out little details, like the frequency of feeding, or even the delivery method. Some preferred more mechanical ways of extracting their blood before giving it to me. Others enjoyed the eroticism of the vampire’s kiss. Either way, I got to feed. It was worth it.
You’d be surprised at the sheer variety of people who open themselves up to enthrallment. The bottles I’d brought with me, you already know about their sources. Both the kindergarten teacher and the aspiring actor liked it when I visited, when I took my fill with their permission. The teacher, I appreciated how her skin smelled and tasted faintly of distant flowers. The actor, the way he squirmed and moaned when I sank my fangs into his neck, it was almost as satisfying as his blood itself.
But what all thralls had in common was at least some small awareness of the supernatural, of our existence among them. I’d met a few of mine through exhibitions of the darker sort of art, in underground sex dungeons, even clubs or concerts that catered to those with more aggressive tastes in music. Think goths, fetishists, fanciers of horror, my favorite kind of human, the type that belonged to one or another counterculture. The human version of freaks.
And then you had Olivia, who loved fruit. Fucking loved it, enough to make a living off it. She was sweetness and light, pretty dresses and blushing cheeks. How the hell was I even going to bring up the subject of turning her into a blood donor? It didn’t feel right to just yank the veil off of someone’s eyes like that, especially not someone like Olivia.
“You like her.”
The night came spinning back to me, Asher’s eyes staring deeply into mine. He was suddenly standing too close. I shoved him lightly in the chest. He laughed.
“Stop trying to read my mind, Mayhew.”
“Oh my God,” he said, chuckling. “You like her too much to corrupt her. Is that it?”
“Fucking fuck off already,” I said, stubbing my cigarette out on the ground. “It feels wrong, okay? I’m not saying she’s some delicate flower that needs preserving under a bell jar, but I don’t know about just plunging her into our world like that.”
“Ew,” Gil said, wrinkling his nose. “You do like her.”
“I fucking hate you guys. We need to figure this Uriah shit out. Why are we focusing on Olivia? Shut the fuck up about her already.”
“Fine. If you say so.” Asher shook his head, wiping away a tear, his expression going serious again. “But I’m going to go back to suggesting the thing that you don’t want us doing. I’m serious, Sterling. It’s looking like a communion is the best way to go about this.”
I scowled at him, then turned to Gil, questioning. Gil tilted his head and shrugged.
“He’s not wrong, man. We’ve got way more questions than answers at this point. We need some clarity. It honestly can’t hurt to try.”
I ran my hand through my hair, scratching in annoyance. “Fine. Okay. Say we do this. Who would we even consult? Not someone from the underworld, surely? Asher said so himself. The dead are being wishy-washy on the details. Not much use talking to one of their own, is there?”
“Yeah,” Asher said. “I wouldn’t recommend it. I know I’m supposed to make nice with them and all, but the entities of death aren’t the easiest to deal with, even on a good day.”
That was what communions were about, after all. You scrawl out a circle, make the proper offerings, and add a little blood and some muttered incantations, depending on the entity in question. Then hey, presto! You’ve got your own private audience with one of the many, potentially horrifying supernatural powers of the earth.
Entity is more of a loose, catchall term, really. These were the super supernaturals, not just common creatures that lived on terra firma. Entities, in most cases, held their domiciles in separate dimensions, whether that was heaven, hell, or somewhere tethered to the earth itself. So yes: angels, demons, ancient gods? Dial the right number, and you get to meet with the right person, or talking animal, or floating mass of eyes and tentacles.
And your problem could be practically anything. Maybe, as in our case, you really need a healthy injection of information that isn’t normally privy to us, the unwashed masses stuck suffering on this hovering clump o
f dirt we call home. You might want an artifact or special spell for some extremely dangerous and extremely specific purpose. Come to the right entity with the right problem and you could walk away with knowledge, power, riches beyond understanding.
The real problem of coming to an entity with a problem was, of course, that they would always want something in return.
“So death gods are definitely out of the question,” Gil said, huffing as he negotiated the walk over to the porch. “Seriously, one of you assholes could have unlocked the door for me.”
“But you’re so big and strong,” I droned. Gil tilted his head, his ears pricking up reflexively, like a puppy being told he’s a good boy. “Yeah. No death gods.”
“Maybe we need to talk to someone a little more local. Someone who’s used to these woods.” Asher cupped his chin, his eyes gazing up at the night sky as the gears in his head turned. “What are your thoughts on getting in touch with Gaia?”
20
If I’d been drinking something when Asher made his suggestion, I would have spat it right in his face. Not on purpose, either. You wanted someone local, and you were going to try and tap the mother of Greek mythology for help? No question that Gaia knew what was up. She wasn’t just in touch with the earth. She was the earth. Not just local, but literally global.
“Please, could we not think a little smaller, here?” I said, pinching my fingers. “Just a teensy bit smaller. Not a progenitor of an entire pantheon.”
Asher shrugged. “I was just throwing out names, is all. And if we’re talking locals and progenitors, the All-father is right on top of that list.”
Gil came back huffing, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You bastards really didn’t help at all, huh? And no. I don’t like the idea of calling on Odin at all. The man’s out on some drunken cross-country road trip. If you want to call him back from a Wild Hunt, be my guest.”
“Again,” Asher said. “Just a suggestion. Fine. I’ll stop bringing up pantheon mothers and fathers. No, you know what? I’ll stop naming anybody at all if you guys think you know so much better.”
