by Nazri Noor
“This is worse than we thought,” Prudence said. “The Lorica has had its own contact with celestial entities, and each of them governs their own dominion, an aspect of the universe that they rule or represent. Angels of mercy, for example, or angels of wisdom.”
“Indeed.” Carver’s head craned towards me slowly. “Quite similar to how the demon princes of hell represent their own hideous virtues. But here we are now, plagued by an angel of death.”
Asher was on his feet now, the act of healing completely forgotten, the spigot on his magic turned off. “So what do you – Sam, was it? What do you represent?”
Sam cleared his throat. “That’s not important.”
Asher cocked one eyebrow. “And what’s with all the tattoos?”
Sam narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. “That’s even less important.”
“Then if you are who you say you are, you should know where to find this Adriel,” Carver said.
“He’s still in the city, and he still has the Tome.” Sam folded his arms, his nose in the air, defiant, haughty. “And I know where to find him.”
“Fine,” I said. “See? That settles it. We’ve all got the same agenda. Stop anyone from abusing the Tome, and prevent more casualties. Are we all on the same page?”
Everyone nodded, with the exception of Sterling, who stayed partly hidden behind the couch, and Carver. Carver fixed me with a look, one that challenged everything I’d just said. We were technically retrieving the Tome for Mammon, after all. We were pulling the grimoire out of an angel’s hands, and shoving it straight into the clutches of a demon prince.
Nope. Not happening. We had to find some way to keep the Tome away from Mammon, destroy it if we had to. My soul – whatever it was worth – was still less than the value of so many innocent lives, human or otherwise. I nodded, and Carver nodded back, as if in understanding.
“Right,” Sam said. “I’ve finally traced the location of the book. We need to find my brother before he decides to strike again. I don’t know why he’s doing this, only that the results will be catastrophic.”
“So,” I said. “The Comstock Building, right?”
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “How did you know?”
I shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
“The Sisters told him.” Prudence chuckled, then winced, holding up her hand limply. “Normally I’d volunteer to go with you guys, but I might have to sit this one out. I appreciate your hospitality,” she said to the room in general, and to Asher, patting him on the back of the hand. “But I can’t fight. Not in this condition. But Dust? You need to help Bastion. Save him.”
“I will,” I said, thoroughly unconvinced that I even knew where to start. Maybe Sam knew something that would give us an edge once we tracked Bastion down. I had the nagging feeling that he would be in the Comstock Building, too, protecting Adriel, if not fighting for him.
“Asher, you stay and tend to Prudence and Gil,” Carver said. “If they recover, perhaps they may yet join us in battle tonight.” He stepped around the sofa, placing a hand on Sterling’s shoulder, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Sterling. I give you a choice in this matter. You may come with us, or you may stay here in the Boneyard.”
Sterling was sitting on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest, fangs worrying at the edge of his lips. It sucked, seeing him so deeply upset, even afraid. I hadn’t felt the pain of Adriel’s celestial light, after all. I hadn’t come close to complete obliteration at the hands of a creature that was meant to work for the forces of good.
I couldn’t tell you all the thoughts that passed through Sterling’s mind then, but his decision came quickly. “I’ll come,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’ll fight.”
Carver nodded gravely. “Very well. Then so shall I.”
“You two don’t have to,” I said. “You shouldn’t.” As a lich, Carver was just as vulnerable as Sterling was.
“This isn’t your decision to make,” Carver said, though not unkindly. “We’ll function as your rear guard, and help you contend with your Bastion friend if necessary, but no further. An angel’s light would smite the undead, destroying us utterly. I am sorry, Dustin, but if it comes down to battling a celestial being, then that is our limit. I will not risk Sterling’s undeath, nor mine.”
“Nor would I expect you to,” I said. “But thank you. I guess it’s up to us four, then. With Vanitas, that makes five. He counts as – oh, hold up.”
My phone was going off from somewhere inside one of my pockets. Mrs. Brandt. I’d forgotten about her. I fumbled as I pulled out my phone, my hands sweaty as I picked up her call.
“You didn’t call me back,” Luella huffed. “Dustin. Be honest with me. What happened?”
“Mind control,” I said. “There’s not much time to explain, but Bastion is under someone’s spell. We think we can break it, if we can get close enough to knock some sense into him. Which we can’t. He’s hooked up to some limitless spiritual battery.” Oh, just an entire fucking angel, I thought, no big deal. “He attacked us. Prudence and the others were hurt.”
Luella was silent on the other end of the line for a moment, then she breathed into the receiver, a slow, heaving sigh. “Where is he now, Dustin?”
“We think he’s at the Comstock Building. At least that’s what we’ve narrowed it down to.”
“Then meet me there,” she said. “I can get you in. I’m part of the board of directors.”
Oh. Of course she was.
“That would be a huge help,” I said, recalling the tiny, inconvenient fact that it was well into the evening, and it wasn’t like we had some way of breaking into the building safely. Carver or Sam could teleport us in, sure – but one false step and we could appear right on Bastion’s location. Or worse, Adriel’s. This needed a little more finesse.
I nodded at the others. “We’ll meet you there, Luella.”
“Hurry,” she said. “I’ll bring something that can help, the one thing that might just break Bastion’s enthrallment.”
I joined the others in heading for the portal leading out of the Boneyard, resolute. As we entered Valero, one by one, I wondered if I had what it would take to defeat Bastion, the Lorica’s golden boy, a walking engine of destruction.
Either way, I still owed him a punch in the face.
Chapter 25
It didn’t take long to get to the Comstock Building, nor to find it, the way it stuck out like a sore thumb within Valero’s central business district. That meant a few things. One, that it was actually really close to Lorica headquarters. The Tome was under my nose the whole time. Go figure.
Two, it was located in Central Square, which was where I’d first encountered the tentacled, slavering creatures that the Eldest employed as their minions: the shrikes. That night, they were summoned by Thea in her hideous bid to use the entire city as a power source to fuel the resurrection of her children. The city – and myself – had narrowly escaped being torn to shreds, and I could only hope that our confrontation with Adriel wouldn’t mean more of the same.
Because seriously, I’m sick as hell of fighting shrikes. They’re rubbery, disgusting, and there’s also that small matter of them being really, really good at ripping people’s faces off, or tearing limbs out of sockets. But with Thea out of the picture, we had a little more time to prepare for the Eldest and their minions. At least I hoped so.
It meant that Carver – and, one hopes, the Lorica, and the rest of the magical community – had a little more time to figure out what, if anything, we could do to stop the Eldest from taking over the earth. But let’s be real: life in the underground is never, ever quite that simple. I looked up at the Comstock Building, dreading what we would find there.
It was chilly out in Central Square, the streets filled with the moderate honking of a late weeknight’s worth of traffic. I was bundled up in a jacket, my breath streaming out of me in little wisps as we stepped up to the Comstock sidewalk. I looked around, checking for sign
s of Luella’s presence. Sure enough, there it was.
A gleaming black sedan waited by the side of the street, its windows dewy with condensation from the night air. Since that one time Bastion had taken me on a tour of his home, the appropriately named Brandt Manor, I’d come to learn that his big-ass motorcycle really was mostly for show. The Brandts preferred to get around in chauffeured cars, complete with uniformed drivers, plush leather seats, and minibars.
The rear passenger window rolled down, and Luella Brandt beckoned me over. Ice clinked in the glass she held loosely in one hand, clear liquid sloshing over the rim and splashing onto the sidewalk.
“Hi, Luella,” I said, trying so hard not to focus on her drink that it made it more obvious I was avoiding it.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m stressing out. Something supernatural has hijacked my son’s brain, so I hope you’ll forgive me for trying to collect my fraying nerves by soaking them in vodka.”
Luella tipped the glass back, swallowing an ice cube with the rest of her vodka. She grimaced, then thrust the empty glass at her driver.
“Remington,” she said, her voice huskier. Maybe it was the cold of the drink, or she could have been holding back a burp. “Mix me another one. Actually, make one for yourself.”
“But I’m driving, madam,” the poor man said, shaking his head of white hair.
“Fine,” Luella said. “Then I’ll drink yours. Make it a double.”
“Hi, Remington,” I said, waving through the window.
“Sir.” Remington nodded curtly as he mixed up another drink. Such an exemplary employee, really. A chauffeur, a bartender, and let’s be honest, probably a skilled gunman, too.
“Luella.” Sterling’s buttery tones slinked past my ear as he leaned one hand against the car, cocking his hip. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“And you.” Luella squinted. “Stirring, was it? Spurling?”
“It’s. It’s Ster – ”
“Anyway.” Luella nodded gratefully as Remington deposited a fresh drink in her hand. “I want my son back. I’ve called ahead. The doorman in the Comstock lobby should let you in. The question is, where will you go from there? How can you hope to find my son?”
“Divination,” Carver said, gently nudging a crestfallen Sterling away from the window. “We haven’t met, Mrs. Brandt. My name is Carver. I am unable to determine the exact cause of your son’s changed behavior. We have – theories, of course.”
It was probably for the best not to worry Luella with the details of Bastion’s condition. But Carver technically wasn’t lying. If he’d known, we would have been able to track Adriel down a long time ago.
“But Bastion himself should not be too difficult to locate.” Carver raised his head to the Comstock Building, all fifty-something stories of it. One of his eyes pulsed with a dull, amber glow. He nodded. “Yes. The thirteenth floor.”
“Ominous,” I said.
“Indeed.” Carver bent closer. “Mrs. Brandt, you told my young charge here that you had a device for us, something to help us retrieve your son.”
“I do.”
Luella reached for something on the seat next to her, a long, slender object wrapped in a bundle of cloth. I knew what it was before she even presented it to me. My hand buzzed as it made contact, the object’s emanations disrupting the flow of magic in my veins. I remembered that sensation. All those years spent dormant in the Vault of Brandt Manor, and the family’s most worthless artifact would finally have its turn to shine.
“The Null Dagger,” I said. “A family heirloom. Mrs. Brandt told us about this once,” I continued, explaining to the others. “It can dispel powerful enchantments. Maybe we can use it to disrupt Bastion’s possession.”
“Of course, proper use of the dagger involves actually stabbing Sebastion with it,” Luella said. She stared at me hard, then grabbed my hand even harder. “Bring back my boy, Dustin. Do what you must to make that happen.”
I squeezed her hand back. “I will, Luella.”
Alive, preferably, I thought to myself, but again let’s not skirt over the fact that he was essentially an angel’s plaything. Said angel was feeding him with a ridiculous supply of psychic energy, too. Assuming we found Bastion and somehow stabbed him in the neck with the Null Dagger without being torn to pieces, we would still have to deal with Adriel.
“We’ll do what we can,” Sam said, clapping me on the shoulder. I’d forgotten he was even there.
Luella’s eyes flitted to him for a moment, and she squinted again. “This one I haven’t met,” she said.
“He’s not important,” Sterling said, elbowing Sam out of the way. “So anyway. Me. Sterling.”
“Right, of course,” Luella said, waving a hand and turning her attention back to her drink. “Dustin,” she said, after another long gulp. “Please. Save my son.”
And again I nodded, hoping that it constituted a promise. What exactly that promise entailed I couldn’t be sure, and I thought about it the whole way through the Comstock Building’s gleaming marble lobby, as we passed the mustachioed security guard who very hurriedly waved us through.
I was especially glad for that. Vanitas was sitting in an alternate dimension, but I didn’t like the idea of someone groping through my knapsack. I knew that Vanitas would like it even less. And sure, he’d been blooded recently – on angel blood, no less – but something told me that Vanitas was still hungry for battle. Hungrier than even before, perhaps.
The elevator hummed as it began its ascent to the thirteenth floor. Soft, jazzy muzak streamed in through unseen speakers. I looked around myself, at the strange assortment of warriors that had deigned to accompany me to this even stranger battle.
Sterling leaned against the far wall, hands stuck in the pockets of his too-tight jeans, moping in a too-tight leather jacket, like some kind of bondage James Dean. Carver tugged on his tie, checking in the elevator’s mirrors to see that his signature tailored suit looked as crisp as ever, as impractical as it was for combat.
Sam looked especially out of place in the same tank top, jeans, and sneakers I’d seen him wear every single time. He was curling and uncurling his fingers, his tattoos glowing faintly, maybe his way of preparing his magic, whatever that meant in angelic terms.
Well, okay. So I didn’t look any snazzier myself in a jacket, denims, and sneaks, and yeah, maybe I felt a little underdressed. But I had the magical flying murder-sword, okay? That’s worth at least a hundred style points.
This was like some sort of heist, I realized, like one of those movies where a motley bunch of specialists who have nothing at all in common get together to rob a casino, or a bank, except not at all. Our stakes were way higher, in the order of stopping someone from wiping out an entire city, if not the whole state. Hell, maybe the world.
The elevator dinged, and the four of us braced ourselves, with Sterling moving to the front of our line. The doors slid open, and I groaned. Carver grunted under his breath, and Sam said nothing.
See, while there weren’t any shrikes this time, I could argue that the angel’s troops would be just as challenging to fight, if not more so. They were people. Regular human beings, office workers, all of them, with blank, silver-white eyes, wielding a haphazard assortment of makeshift weapons.
I wished we were robbing a bank instead.
Chapter 26
The entire floor was silent, every cubicle empty, computer screens blue and hazy, facing out onto conspicuously vacant desks and chairs. This was Comstock’s shared newsroom, where newspaper reporters and online writers congregated in the same rat maze to tap out their stories and hand them in to grizzled night editors.
But those job titles and distinctions meant nothing that night. Under Adriel’s thrall, every man and woman in that office was just another grunt, an expendable sack of meat.
“What the fuck do we do?” Sterling murmured out of the corner of his mouth, a pointless attempt at subtlety since the entire newsroom could hear him anyway.
“We do our best, vampire,” Sam said, cracking his knuckles. “To fight, without killing.”
Sterling bared his teeth. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, angel,” he said, spitting the word out with all the harshness of an expletive. “But all I do is kill. Undead bloodsucker, remember?”
“This isn’t quite the time for arguing,” Carver hissed. He nodded at Sam, an odd, unexpected sort of understanding passing between them. “I quite agree with the angel. Sterling, you’ve restrained yourself in battle before. Remember our rule. You may bleed them, and break their bones. But take no lives.”
A disappointed whine built in the back of Sterling’s throat.
“Don’t be such a baby,” I said. “I’ve got pretty limited options, too.”
Fisticuffs, mainly, and one half of an enchanted sword. The scabbard, specifically. I say half because this would be akin to both me and Vanitas fighting with one hand tied behind our backs. Yes, I’m violently aware of the fact that Vanitas has neither hands nor a back, just stay with me here. I opened my backpack, channeling instructions to him as he floated out of the pocket dimension.
“Listen,” I thought. “These are innocents. Hold back, and don’t use your pointy end.”
Vanitas made a little whining sound that was too strikingly reminiscent of Sterling’s. The fact that they both enjoyed drawing blood, and in a weird way for Vanitas, savoring it, was not lost on me.
“Hush,” I thought. “You’ll get yours soon enough. I promise.”
“And good thing, too,” he said, his voice ringing in my mind. “I’ve been asleep so long. I’m thirsty.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Uh, for battle,” he added in a hurry. “Thirsty for battle. Yeah.”
Again it struck me that Vanitas’s reforging at Mammon’s hands might have changed him. For the moment I was at least thankful that he’d agreed not to cleave wholesale through – hmm, maybe forty members of the Comstock print and online staff. They watched with glassy eyes, as if waiting for us to make the first move.
