Dark Harvest (Darkling Mage Book 2) Page 2

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “And we might have a chance of questioning him when he wakes up.”

  “Unless you knocked his brain out along with his teeth. Does he even have his tongue still?”

  “Hush,” Vanitas said. He hovered closer, floating at my waist level, blade upturned. “The cup. Where is it?”

  That’s right. I parted the curtain at the same side of the gazebo where the drugged-up dude had emerged. Vanitas stayed close, which filled me with some small comfort. Who knew if there was another one of these lunatics hanging out in there?

  Turns out there wasn’t. They were all dead.

  “This is bad,” Vanitas said.

  Bad was an understatement. The inside of the gazebo was decorated with the same mix of plants and silks as the outside, all formed around a small, shallow pool that had been built in the center. The Chalice of Plenty lay on its side, half-submerged, half-floating in the slow but steady tide of deep red wine that poured from its lip. The wine spilled over the edges of the pool, rendering the soil around it soft and muddy.

  In the mud, and partly in the pool, lay all the corpses. A dozen from what I counted, naked men and women, their bodies marked with hideous red gashes. The tips of their fingers and their nails were a macabre crimson, as if they had clawed each other – or themselves – to death. Worse still was how some of the corpses had ecstatic smiles frozen on their faces, mouths in grins, their dead eyes glassy.

  At least the ones that still had eyes, that is. Some of the grislier corpses had ripped their own eyes out. I held a hand up to my nostrils. Rot was far from setting in, but the sheer number of open wounds and the volume of gore made the gazebo stink of copper. Blood mingled with the wine spilling out of the Chalice, seeping into the mud. This wasn’t an orgy. This was a massacre.

  Vanitas spoke again. “We should go. Now.”

  “But what about the dead? What about the unconscious guy outside? We need answers.”

  “We came for the Chalice, and we’re leaving with it. That’s what Carver wanted. Besides – we’ve got company.”

  Weird noises emanated from far outside the gazebo, close enough that I knew they were coming from inside the house. I froze in place. Cops? Interlopers? No. Worse. I recognized those sounds, those characteristic hums and pops and squelches of human bodies materializing out of thin air. Teleporters.

  The Lorica.

  “You’re right,” I hissed. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

  I ran for the pool and grimaced as I waded in, the grotesque cocktail of gore and grapes filling my shoes. They were permanently ruined, but I didn’t want to know how much more screwed I would be if those people outside discovered me in there. I swiped the Chalice, the vines twined around its stem gone red from blood and wine.

  Behind me the curtains rustled. I didn’t turn to look, and whoever it was didn’t have a chance of catching me, anyway. Too slow, bro. I ran into the darkness under a palm tree. Clutching Vanitas close to my chest, I leapt into the shadows, and into the Dark Room I stepped.

  Chapter 2

  “And that’s when the Wings showed up. A whole bunch of them, from the Lorica.”

  All eyes were on me as I spoke. This was serious business, everyone knew, and Vanitas and I were lucky to have gotten out when we did. The hideout was as quiet as a tomb, but what else was new? Carver liked to keep things silent and still, and as boarders, Sterling, Gil, and I could only play along. I mean, I didn’t hate it. I kind of like when it’s quiet.

  I’d once been tricked into believing they belonged to a death cult known as the Black Hand. I’d learned two things since then. One, that the Black Hand didn’t actually exist, and was just something made up to manipulate me. Black Hand? More like red herring, am I right? And two, these guys were actually mostly okay. Mostly.

  “They knew that quickly?” Gil rubbed his chin. Swarthy, muscular, Gilberto Ramirez was the resident werewolf. Nice guy, actually, stolid, levelheaded, and neat, except, obviously, when there was a full moon out. “Why were they after the Chalice?”

  “They knew as much as we did.” Carver drummed his fingers against the sparse wooden table in what passed for our combination break room and mess hall, his myriad rings gleaming. Carver was our boss, landlord, and mentor all in one, and we each of us had reasons for being indebted to him. “The Chalice poses a danger to those around it. Say what you will about the Lorica, but it serves its purpose.”

  The Lorica were my former employers. As the premier organization of mages in North America, they took it upon themselves to regulate the use and exchange of magic and magical items, ensuring that it stayed out of the wrong hands. An artifact that drove those around it to murder certainly qualified as something that needed regulating.

  Sterling – the vampire, you might remember – leaned over the table, an unlit cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His leather jacket was so snug that it squeaked as he moved, wrapped tightly over his frame. Slender as he seems, though, Sterling is packed with supernatural strength, just one of the reasons Carver liked to keep him around. “How many Wings?”

  “Hard to tell,” I said. The Wings were the Lorica’s teleporters, mages who specialized in transporting themselves and others across vast distances. I was a Hound when I worked for the Lorica, which meant that I was tasked with infiltration and intelligence. I couldn’t take people with me when I shadowstepped, which meant I never qualified as a Wing. “Does that matter now, anyway? I’m sure they brought Hands with them, which is much worse.”

  Hands were probably the most dangerous of all the members of the Lorica, mages with talents specifically geared towards combat and destruction. They hurled fireballs, created electrical storms, shot razor-sharp shards of ice out of their hands – crazy lethal stuff.

  Technically the Scions – the Lorica’s elders – would be the deadliest, but they’re so rarely seen on the battlefield, except for that one time they were forced to fight when my former boss Thea ripped open a portal to another dimension. Long story. Like I said, someone should have written a book about it.

  “So let me get this straight,” Sterling said. “The Lorica knew all along about this mug thing.”

  “Chalice.”

  “Sure. Chalice. And now we have it here.” Sterling gestured at the cup, looking all innocuous on the wooden table, and not at all like the epicenter of murder and debauchery it had been just hours ago. “Which means the Lorica’s liable to kick our door down any minute to take it from us.”

  Gil folded his arms and grunted. “I’d like to see them try.”

  “Gil’s right,” Carver said, taking the goblet by its base, rotating it a few degrees, tilting it to study its sculpted rim. “Our home is warded. Their Eyes can’t see us here.”

  Eyes, of course, were mages who used scrying to track down anything or anyone the Lorica deemed useful. Seriously, the Lorica had an answer for everything, and just as well, since it was structured like a corporation, or somewhat more disturbingly, like a government agency. But I believed Carver. The man – if he was a man – was likely the most powerful sorcerer I’d ever met. All I knew was that he had somehow lived for centuries, and that he was responsible for creating the hideout we lived in, possibly quite literally carving it out of empty space. I’d wondered, briefly, if that was why he called himself Carver. It was an obvious alias, after all.

  But about the hideout. The only way to access it was through a portal installed in the brick wall set by a service refrigerator in the kitchen of a Filipino restaurant somewhere in the Meathook, a shitty and hilariously unsafe district of Valero, California. Yes, that’s extremely specific, and just as well. The hideout wasn’t located in regular reality, as it were, but a kind of pocket dimension that Carver had assembled himself, like real estate that he had created out of thin air.

  It was mostly dim, lit by enchanted flames hidden away in alcoves or hovering above torch brackets. Everything was hewn out of smooth stone, from the floor to the pilla
rs to the massive skeletal statues that adorned the dimension’s every corner. It had the look and feel of a mausoleum, as well as the deafening silence of one. Fortunately, though, through whatever kind of sorcery, Carver maintained a comfortably toasty temperature throughout the entire structure. It was pretty considerate to the dimension’s human occupants – me, basically, and Gil when the moon wasn’t full. Our rooms even had windows that let in sunlight, somehow mystically piped in from its source. Sterling’s room, for obvious reasons, had no such windows.

  Carver, whatever he was, never seemed to need to eat or drink, or even sleep, for that matter, but he was kind enough to provide facilities for those of us who needed to. Our break room-cum-mess hall served as a dining area and kitchenette. It was weird to look at, just an oven, a sink, a dishwasher, and a few fundamentals like a microwave and a coffee machine set on top of a bunch of counters, all of it suspended on a stone platform that was surrounded on all sides by total darkness. Most of the public area of the hideout had no walls, so breakfast, lunch, and dinner had to be enjoyed in what essentially looked like the cold vacuum of space. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a bowl of sugary morning cereal while staring off into a pitiless void.

  Sterling was typically left to his own devices. We never asked what it was – or who it was – that enabled him to feed, only knowing that he slunk off every night to look for nourishment. To my dismay, it looked like he had discovered some new source tonight. He had set his cigarette aside and was fiddling with the Chalice, turning it this way and that, then finally discovering how to get it to work, tipping it on its end. With preternatural speed Sterling brought the rim of the cup to his mouth as a rich, viscous red fluid began its slow drip.

  “Oh, gross,” I said.

  Gil tutted. “So inappropriate.”

  Carver looked on, amused, his fingers curling at his beard. Sterling was latched onto the Chalice like a lamprey, lips suckling hungrily at its rim, working like a lover. I’m sure I didn’t imagine that his jaw was almost unhinging, to allow more of the Chalice’s bloody gift to tip down his throat.

  I wrinkled my nose at the acrid smell of metal, and really, at just the sight of the vampire going about his grisly business. Kind of cruel, I guess, being so disdainful of the undead equivalent of a dude just chugging a breakfast smoothie, but human blood? Honestly more than a little gross.

  “This is so, so very inappropriate,” Gil said.

  He must have consumed a gallon by then, but Sterling finally turned the goblet upright, slammed it back onto the center of the table, and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, smearing blood across the corner of his mouth. He was flushed, like the blood from the Chalice had already worked its way into his system and given him a kind of feed-driven afterglow.

  “Did you have your fill?” Carver asked.

  Sterling smiled, then nodded groggily, as if he had been drugged, eyes glazed in a kind of dopey euphoria. Was that how vampires behaved after they fed? I watched him closely for signs of violence, but if the Chalice was supposed to drive him into a frenzy, either it didn’t work on the undead, or it took longer to take effect.

  “Curious,” Carver said. “You look properly fed. I didn’t realize the Chalice could produce blood.”

  A dazed smile split Sterling’s lips. “Human blood, too.”

  Carver frowned. “Which makes this relic more dangerous than I initially thought.” He held his hand out – the one bound in a leather glove – and before Sterling could protest, curled his fingers into a fist.

  The Chalice shattered into pieces, crushed and splintered under the weight of Carver’s power. A brief sputter of light issued from its golden fragments, followed by a thin wisp of something effervescent, the last of the artifact’s magic returning to the ethers. Sterling stared at the debris dumbstruck, a tiny whimper emanating from his slack jaw.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Sterling?” Carver’s voice was soft and even, his expression neutral. “This is how the Chalice hooks you in. It encourages a dependency on its power, and once you’re in too deep, that’s when the frenzy takes over. It fosters obsession. Quite fitting for the artifact’s patron.”

  Gil nodded sagely. “Plus, whether or not the hideout is warded, the Lorica can’t come sniffing around, not when there’s nothing left to sniff after.”

  Carver curled his fingers and the remnants of the Chalice cracked and splintered even more, until they were reduced to specks of dust. He gritted his teeth as he worked, apparently satisfied.

  I cleared my throat. “A patron, you say? Like an entity?”

  Carver nodded. “The wine, the vines, the frenzy? All signs point to Dionysus, also known as Bacchus, the Greco-Roman god of indulgence.” He dusted his fingers off, an unnecessary gesture considering he didn’t even touch the Chalice. “I’ll need the three of you to investigate.”

  Gil nodded. Sterling folded his arms and sulked.

  “Can it wait until tomorrow night?” I said. “Just that I have plans during the day.”

  “Of course,” Carver said. “It’s too late to visit the god tonight, and his realm is only accessible after the sun goes down, anyway.”

  “Oh, you have something planned?” Gil asked.

  “Yep.” I beamed, my back straightening. “I’m going to see some friends tomorrow.”

  Sterling smirked. “Huh. I didn’t realize you had any friends.”

  “Die in a fire,” I said, through my most winning smile.

  “Can’t,” Sterling said. “Already dead.”

  Chapter 3

  I sank my teeth into my second lobster roll. Ever had one? Those things are amazing. Sweet, fresh meat, crisp bun, and a rich meld of mayo and butter. Total indulgence. I mean, Carver always made doubly sure to keep the hideout’s pantry well-stocked – or at least, Mama Rosa did – but there’s nothing quite like tucking into some hearty seafood to lift the old spirits. Or, depending on where you’re visiting in Valero, give you a case of explosive diarrhea.

  Lucero Beach was gorgeous. The day was warm, sure – okay, bordering on hellishly sunny, but not a lot can beat the marvel of seeing beautiful blue water against an equally blue sky, and a beach with sand so smooth that it looked like powder. A welcome salt breeze blew across the waterfront, though not strongly enough, and Herald wasn’t at all shy about reminding us of that fact.

  It was tank top weather, to be sure. Must have been ninety out, and Herald was in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, like I was, but his griping wouldn’t end.

  “It’s hot, isn’t it?” he said, tugging on his shirt. “I’m hot. Are you hot? God, it’s hot.”

  It certainly felt hotter the more Herald kept talking about it. I could feel the sweat beaded on my forehead trickle down my temple. I pushed the hair out of my face. Maybe it was time for a haircut.

  Prudence rolled her eyes and swallowed a swig of her beer. “It’s honestly not that bad. Stop being so whiny.”

  She was in a tank herself, revealing a tattoo of a blue dragon that I never knew was on her left shoulder. Hell, I realized I’d never seen either of them outside of work clothes at the Lorica, Prudence in her standard body-fitting ass-kicking clothing, or Herald dressed as what I can best describe as a stylish librarian.

  I hadn’t seen either of them in a while, and brunch seemed a good idea for a catchup. Prudence Leung was one of the first friends I made at the Lorica. She was a Hand, likely one of its most powerful ones, capable of imbuing her fists with arcane energy, enough to punch someone’s head off. I watched as she shook her hair away from her nape, revealing the small panel of locks she kept dyed blue, brushing off the last of it with delicate fingers that stealthily disguised her talent for breaking and smashing things with terrifying precision.

  Herald Igarashi worked there, too, as one of the Lorica’s archivists. His job involved cataloguing and researching the organization’s vast collection of artifacts. He was the reason I even had possession of Vanitas, who he’d smuggled to me through a mag
ical backpack. Long story, but one that could get him into serious trouble, which was probably why both of us carefully avoided bringing it up in front of Prudence. Herald was an accomplished alchemist, and a talented spellcaster to boot, though what all he kept up his sleeve, I was never truly sure.

  “I’m not whiny,” Herald said, whining. “Just hot.” His glasses slid down his nose from the sweat, and he pushed them back up with an expression of wrinkled annoyance. “I don’t know how you guys can handle this. Whose idea was it to come out here on this blistering bloody morning, anyway?”

  Prudence snorted. “Ask Dustin. Not that I’m complaining. I’m perfectly happy.” She signaled for another beer, her fourth, last I counted. I was only on my second mimosa and I was already feeling it. Where was she putting it all away?

  But yeah, brunch was totally my idea. I always loved the smell of the ocean, the sound of surf. They reminded me of family, and home, which was why I asked Prudence and Herald to come hang out at the beach. I’d promised to keep in touch with the two individually, but the forecast said it’d be nice out, and two birds with one stone, hey? Plus some part of me ached for a little bit of human companionship. Sure, Gil was nice enough, and Sterling was never nearly as much of a bastard as Bastion was, but I wanted to hang out with people who didn’t transform into flesh-ripping monsters every full moon, and who didn’t make creepy jokes about wanting to chew on my neck and suck out my blood.

  “I just need a change, okay?” I scratched the back of my neck. “I’m stuck indoors all day, or skulking around at night. Hardly see the sun. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” Prudence said, leaning in. “How is your fancy new job, anyway?”

  I shrugged, considering which parts of my new post-Lorica career I was technically allowed to share. “Office is nice, but a little dimly lit. Colleagues are pretty decent, and the pay is good.”