by Nazri Noor
I scowled. “This isn’t funny, Sam. I need that book. People’s lives are in danger.” I kept the grimace on my face. What the hell did I even know, anyway? I still had no idea what Mammon had planned for the manuscript.
“I suppose it’s a matter of who finds it first, then,” Sam said, examining his nails. He gave me one last smile. “Until then, Dustin Graves, take care of yourself.”
“Wait,” I said, as the runes on his body began to pulse a brighter blue. I clenched my fists, ready to step into the Dark Room in case he was preparing to attack. “Who are you?”
Sam laughed again. “Your best friend, Dustin Graves.” His eyes shone electric blue. “Or your worst enemy.”
And for the third time since I met him, the thing that called itself Sam vanished.
Chapter 19
The grumbling from my stomach matched the unintelligible grumbling that streamed from my mouth as I stood in line at the Happy Cow. My hands were deep in the pockets of my jacket, the greasy air and oily floors of the burger joint doing nothing to sweeten my horrible mood. So not only was I scrambling to find the Tome for Mammon – I had competition, too.
I put in my order, nearly stumbling over myself when I muttered “The usual” to the gangly and somewhat pimply dude who usually took night shifts. He stared at me quizzically, and I realized I was still wearing someone else’s skin. Of course. I was a regular, but I was hidden by the glamour. He didn’t recognize me.
“Sorry,” I said, forcing on a smile. Just because I was in a different body didn’t mean I had to be rude about it. “Double cheeseburger, large fries, large onion rings.” And a diet soda – because it tastes great. Yes, I acknowledge my hypocrisy, stop laughing at me.
I slunk off to a corner table, then moaned as I took the first bite of my double cheese, instantly forgetting why I was in such a foul mood. This had to be the reason they called it the Happy Cow, right? Either those patties were treated with antidepressants or they really were just the best burgers I’d ever tasted.
Without pausing for breath I alternated between shoving fries and onion rings down my throat. I savored the opportunity, pretending that I wasn’t totally ruining my body because I was still in my twenties. I knew I still had the youth and strength to recover from a cholesterol-laden fast food death-binge. I could worry about treating my body like a temple in my forties. For now I’m content to treat it like a public toilet.
As I reached for the last clump of my fries, I noticed that they were giving me some resistance. Which is so not cool, especially when you’re aware of the existence of magic, because sure, getting poisoned is bad, but have you ever heard of cursed food? That shit goes down your throat then swells up three times in size, choking you out from the inside. Imagine choking to death on a cursed hotdog. I don’t know if I could imagine a more unglamorous way to die.
I dropped the fries, one hand clutching at my stomach, and I briefly considered running to the bathroom to, um, relieve myself of the hypothetically cursed dinner I’d just eaten. But the fries were still moving, and as they shifted about in their little fry-box, I peered in to check why.
“Scrimshaw,” I growled, watching as the little imp nibbled at a fry like he was a wood chipper. He ignored me, stuffing his gob full of ill-gotten potatoes, burning through my leftover fries with alarming speed. For reference, imagine a man speed-eating a baguette. I mean really going to town on it, finishing off that sucker in half a minute flat. That’s how horribly Scrimshaw was violating my fries.
I sipped on my soda, slurping through the straw noisily, waiting for the imp to notice that I’d already spotted him ankle-deep in my food. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat. He stopped mid-nibble, then looked up at me sheepishly, grinning with his mouth full.
“Hi,” he said, waving meekly with a tiny, clawed hand. Somehow not so unfriendly anymore, or at least not as cantankerous as the last, and technically, first time I saw him. “Nice hair,” he added, stifling a giggle. Either Scrimshaw knew how to find me by the scent of my blood, or he could see through my glamour, too. I guess both.
“Yes,” I said, patting self-consciously at my head of fake hair. “Hello.”
“Um.” He pointed at the rest of my onion rings. “You gonna eat that?”
I sighed and nudged the carton over. “Knock yourself out.”
The demon’s eyes lit up, and he dove into the mass of fried onions, sharp little teeth gnawing at the breaded coating of one particularly anemic ring.
“Could you settle down?” I hissed. “Someone could see you.”
Scrimshaw wiped his little hand across the back of his mouth. “Actually, normals can’t see me. Not unless I want them to. So that lady over there, and that kid in that booth?”
I turned to follow where Scrimshaw pointed.
“They think you’re some crazy person because you’re talking to a box of onion rings.”
“Fuck,” I muttered, pulling out my earphones and plugging them in. At least then I’d look like I was on a phone call. “Damn it, Scrimshaw, you should have told me.”
“Was busy,” he said, attacking his third onion ring. Had he not eaten in, I don’t know, centuries? It was terrifying, and kind of pitiful, if I’m honest.
“So,” I said. “About the Tome of Annihilation.”
He stopped mid-nibble once more, his eyes turning towards me slowly. “Uh, yeah,” Scrimshaw said. “About that. I think I’ve narrowed it down.” He set down his half-eaten ring, then turned to face me fully, his head raised, his little chest puffed out. “I’ve determined that the Tome of Annihilation is somewhere here in Valero.”
My jaw fell open. I had to stop myself from crushing my soda cup and spilling its contents all over my pants. Fucking demons, man. I should have known better.
“I gave you ten drams – and I still don’t know what a dram is – of my blood, and I gave your master three hundred bucks, and you’re telling me shit that I already know?”
“What?” Scrimshaw said, his eyes wide as he backed away from me, his feet leaving oily prints all over my plastic tray. “Listen, you didn’t specify how closely you wanted to find the thing, all you said was – gack!”
My soda was safely intact in one hand, because I’d used the other to grab Scrimshaw and squeeze him by his tiny, stupid body. The demon’s eyes bulged as I gripped harder, my teeth bared.
“I paid a premium,” I snarled. “I expected premium results.”
“Gack,” Scrimshaw sputtered, hitting limply at my fingers with his tiny hands. “I – that kid over there really thinks you’re nuts, you’re talking to your hand now and – gack!”
“Coming back to me with ‘The Tome is in Valero’ is not good enough, Scrimshaw, and you know it.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my lips curling back. “Now. You’re going to be a good little imp and uphold your end of the contract. All you did was give me information I already knew. If you swear to properly narrow down the book’s location – and I mean narrow this time, not just its general whereabouts in a city a hundred miles wide – I’ll let you go.”
Scrimshaw wriggled in my hand, beating at my fingers. “You’re killing me,” he gasped. “Can’t breathe – turning blue.”
I squinted, and when I found that he was still the exact same copper color from before, shook my head. Demons. Damn liars, all of them.
“Tell you what,” I sighed. “You do this one thing for me, and once this is over, you can come back and see me. I’ll buy you some more food. Consider it part of the contract. Your own takeout to bring home to – well, wherever the hell it is you sleep.”
“Under Nick’s bed,” he said, no longer struggling, not quite so resistant. He stopped slapping at my fingers. “And really? My own burger?”
I smiled. “Two burgers. I promise.”
Scrimshaw squinted back, then held out his little hand, shaking the end of my finger. “Deal.” I set him down on the tray, ready to swat him in case he tried to vanish in a puff of farts.
I raised m
y finger at him. “Don’t think I’m not still pissed about this. And it’s probably none of my business, but Nick should probably feed you more. The way you inhaled all those fries I’m starting to think you don’t get fed at all.”
Scrimshaw shrugged. “Actually, I don’t need to eat. It’s a luxury. Nick gives me an allowance, and I make money from freelancing, but I spend it all on whiskey.” He held out his hands to either side and made a comical shrug. “What’re ya gonna do?”
I shook my head. “Tiniest drunk I’ve ever met.”
“I find that offensive,” he grunted. “I can’t even get drunk, I just like the taste. Now, if we’re talking about baby’s blood? Now that’s – ”
“Stop talking,” I groaned. “Please. I’d really rather not find out.”
“Fine,” he said. “Suit yourself. But if you want more information on the Tome, that was the best I could offer. It’s not like anyone’s really seen this book. Even the city’s strongest seers and diviners can only give you a rough idea of where it’s hiding.” He folded his arms, rubbed one of his horns, and tapped his foot. “Unless – ”
“Unless?” I glanced around me, growing increasingly annoyed with nearby diners who had grown increasingly interested in my eccentric conversation.
“Unless you contract someone for a little more concrete direction.”
“So a communion with an entity?” I asked.
It was how the arcane underground had come to call contact with any of the numerous gods, demons, and powerful mythical creatures that dwelled in the cracks found in our world. Communions were serious business, ritual magic that almost always constituted binding contracts. Kind of like that bum deal with Mammon, a voice in my head sarcastically mumbled.
“A communion,” he said. “Right. We should go scrounge up some reagents for this one.”
I groaned. It had been such a long day, and while I wasn’t at all in the mood to commune that night, the Tome situation was urgent, bordering on dire. Any information would be more than welcome.
“So not in the mood for a communion right now,” I said, clearing my table and collecting my trash. “But fine. Which entity are we contacting?”
“Entities,” Scrimshaw corrected. “Three of them. At once. Let’s be honest, when it comes to esoteric matters, there’s no better source than the Sisters.”
Chapter 20
In retrospect I was kind of grateful that Scrimshaw had eaten his portion of my dinner. We’d spent the next couple of hours running around securing reagents – not exactly the easiest task considering what was on the shopping list – and it would’ve been way more challenging if a bloated stomach had been involved. Plus it was basically closing time for most shops. Good thing I knew about the Black Market this time.
If I’m honest, the lock of my hair was the toughest part. Not just anyone’s, mind, it had to be the petitioner’s hair. Granted I’d grown it out enough not to miss, like, just one little braid’s worth, but I’d been in the arcane underground long enough to know what a competent witch could do with even just a single strand of hair. Bindings, curses, and potentially much worse.
I also didn’t appreciate the obvious enjoyment Scrimshaw took in cutting it off my head with a tiny pair of bronze scissors he’d produced seemingly out of nowhere. He wasn’t wearing pants, and that just made it extra upsetting. Do you know what a jail purse is? No? Welp. Now you do. Congratulations.
Scrimshaw’s instructions were simple. I just needed to cast a circle at a very specific spot in Silk Road. Quite convenient. It was the space in between two buildings, not quite an alley, but a strip of concrete that could only fit one person passing sideways.
He’d sized me up as he explained, his eyes lingering over my belly. “Good thing I ate all those fries for you, eh?” He poked me in the gut. “Wouldn’t fit otherwise.”
“Hey,” I said. “My weight is attractive and appropriate. I’m not going to be body shamed by an imp.”
Scrimshaw sniffed, looking slightly hurt. “Well, now that’s just prejudiced.”
That was essentially Sterling’s catchphrase. I wasn’t sure how to feel about those two idiots being so similar, down to being the only two creatures who’d ever tasted my blood – that I knew of.
I hadn’t unplugged my earphones the entire time, just to make sure nobody questioned why I was walking around talking to thin air. Scrimshaw sat with his legs draped over my collarbone, very much like the proverbial demon on my shoulder, which would have been kind of cute if I wasn’t so aware of how pantsless he was.
It was better, I suppose, than having a matching angel hovering over my other shoulder, considering what I knew of angels so far. Pretty damn unfriendly, and going by Mona’s retelling of her experience the night at the warehouse, not at all opposed to mass murder.
“This is the place,” Scrimshaw said. He pointed at the thing that wasn’t an alley, sandwiched between a high-end retailer of luxury clothing, and an even higher-end retailer of luxury leather goods made out of only the rarest, softest animals. “Turn sideways and slip through there.”
I tilted my head. Cripes. The passage was even narrower than I’d expected, the approximate width of a bath mat. And peering in, I could tell that it only grew tighter as it progressed, coming to a totally angular point.
“How in the holy hell is anyone supposed to fit through that?” I frowned at Scrimshaw. “Is this some kind of trick? These walls are going to squeeze me into a human pancake as soon as I step in, aren’t they?” A beautiful pancake, yes, but a dead one nonetheless.
“Not at all,” Scrimshaw said. “It’s a tight fit, but it’s meant to accommodate anyone who’s coming in for a communion. I was kidding about your belly. Honest.”
“Ugh. Fine.” I turned sideways, slung my backpack over to the front, then pressed it as flat as I could over my chest. “Here goes.”
“Oh,” Scrimshaw said. “And this is where I leave you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen.” He scratched the end of his nose. “You probably know this already but it’s not like demons are welcome guests everywhere. Besides, the Sisters have, uh, reasons to be unhappy with me.”
“Do tell.” I pressed a hand into my waist. “I’ve pissed off quite a few entities in my day. You can’t possibly be that far off.”
Scrimshaw swallowed. “Just trust me on this. I have my reasons.” He waved both of his tiny hands towards the passage. “Now come on. Through the eye of the needle.” He chuckled to himself. “Just thread your way in there.”
“Okay then. Thanks, I guess, for helping.” I raised my finger one last time in warning. “But I’m telling you, if this is some kind of trick – I know where you live.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before. What do you want from me? I’m an imp. It’s in our nature to be buttholes.” He made a salute, clicking his heels. “I’m off. Thanks for the fried goods, and good luck.”
And with that, Scrimshaw disappeared in a cloud of sulfur – right by my face. Fuck, I’ll never get used to the demon smell. And my mouth happened to be open then. Tasted like farts. Dead, rotten farts. And the sound he made as he teleported? Poot. Poot, I tell you.
After taking a minute to air out my nostrils, I looked around to check that no one could see I was about to squeeze myself into the death crevice, and went through. I shuffled, foot by foot, until I couldn’t anymore, the darkness of the passage pressing in on me, the closeness of the walls stifling, suffocating as my progress degraded to bare shambling inches. I gulped, trying – and failing – to turn my head back towards Silk Road, towards light and life.
There was nowhere else to go. This was the end of the line. Fine. I lifted my foot, meaning to bring myself out back the way I came – and my anxiety spilled into full-on panic when I realized I couldn’t move.
“Shit. Oh shit.” My voice traveled down the tiny, pitch-black space ahead of me. “Shit, fuck, oh no, this isn’t happening.”
The walls pressed in, close
r, and closer.
“Oh God. Please, help. Anyone.”
In the darkness before me, three pairs of eyes glowed gold.
“Please,” I choked out.
The shadows. I could meld into them, fall into the Dark Room and escape. But the door wouldn’t open. Some invisible force was keeping me there, holding me in place.
“Bleed,” three voices said.
Something needle-sharp pricked my neck. I cried out, my scream echoed by the clamor of terror in my head and my heart. The eyes blinked.
Three voices spoke.
“Enter.”
Chapter 21
The air rushed into my lungs all at once, sweet life returning with my every gasp. I was on my knees, my eyes shut, my forehead glazed in sweat. I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m not exactly the claustrophobic type, but imagine being trapped between two walls, unmoving, barely breathing. It felt like a coffin, the stone against my nose and my back like the inside of a sarcophagus.
Or the surface of a sacrificial altar.
I lifted my head, gasping again, bright light penetrating the thin skin of my eyelids. “Enter,” the voices had said. Three of them, not quite copies of each other the way that Hecate’s voices resonated. These were slightly different. Female, pleasant, but each subtly different in quality. And behind the voices I could make out the sound of things whirring, clacking, the percussion of machinery. My curiosity got the best of me, and I opened my eyes.
Not quite what I was expecting. Then again, I’d learned that there was no point in setting any expectations for what an entity’s domicile would look like. Arachne’s was the lair of a spider queen. The sun goddess Amaterasu lived in a translucent crystal, and Mammon opted for a veritable palace.
I was in a workshop of sorts, brightly lit, but mundane. Sewing machines stitched independently in endless rows, half-sewn clothing run through them by countless pairs of unseen hands. Tape measures writhed like flying snakes, sharp pairs of shears working their piranha jaws to cut patterns from huge bolts of cloth. The pearly, knobbed ends of pins glimmered in the workshop’s fluorescent light, hovering like mosquitos. I watched as they sank their needle points into the unfinished garments stuck onto so many shuddering mannequins.
