Oblivion Heart (Darkling Mage Book 4) Page 5

  “This is the place,” he said.

  I looked at the dented cones, at the limp ribbons of caution tape and the weathered “Men at Work” signs.

  “Really? Here?”

  “Should be the right spot, according to what their last location is supposed to be.”

  I scratched my head. “Is there some kind of supernatural newsletter I’m not subscribed to? How do you guys know about this place?”

  “Shut up.”

  Sterling muttered soundlessly to himself, then, using one of his fangs, bit down into the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

  He dripped a single bead of blood into the open manhole, which just sat there, because it was an open manhole. Granted, you might be wondering why no one was stopping to see why some tall, skinny rockstar wannabe was dripping his blood into a hole in the ground, but for all anyone cared, we were just a couple of street performers. The more likely explanation was that the hole was surrounded by a weak enchantment, and we were close enough to be shrouded in its glamour. We were probably already invisible to the rest of the world.

  “Well,” Sterling said. “We’ve knocked on the door, and I don’t think anyone has reason to keep us out. Get in there.”

  I peered into the hole, so dark that it very nearly looked like a black circle that had been painted into the asphalt.

  “Nah,” I said. “You first.”

  Sterling sighed, and I thought, at first, that he’d acquiesced. But using his crazy vampire reflexes, he moved inhumanly fast, blurring into position behind me – then shoving me into the open manhole.

  Chapter 7

  I screamed as I fell – which was when I realized that I had really only fallen a couple of feet. It was like jumping off the side of your bed. My shoes clomped on the ground as I landed, but my brain hadn’t caught up with my body’s realization that we were, in fact, totally safe, so I was still screaming.

  Two women walked past me, aghast, tittering into their open hands. “Must be his first time,” one of them whispered.

  Sterling landed beside me with feline grace, hardly mussed and barely wrinkled. He ran his hand through his hair, then clapped me on the back.

  “You okay there, buddy? You were screaming. A lot.”

  “Little warning would have been nice.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s just get going. Gotta find what we’re looking for.”

  The question was, where to start? The Black Market was massive, and as I can tell you now, absolutely mesmerizing.

  There happened to be a very clear reason for the bazaar’s name. We were in some kind of parallel dimension, an inverse of Silk Road, where every physical structure – the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings themselves – was made of a glimmering black material. It looked as if everything had been sculpted out of solid shadow, like every surface in this reality was made of midnight velvet. It’s what the Dark Room would look like if it wasn’t so terrifying, and abstract, and populated with its violent, hungering mists.

  The Black Market’s occupants were very much human, practically indistinguishable from the parade of shoppers we’d left behind at Silk Road. Or so I thought, until I looked closer. There were definitely a few outliers from the general Californian population here – a couple of gentlemen with green skin, for example, or the woman with a blue face and four arms. So this was where the arcane underground could actually go to let its hair down. Well, its hair, and its wings, and its tentacles, and –

  “Follow me,” Sterling said. “We’re looking for a word-eater, right?”

  “Yeah. But where do we even start?”

  Sterling, it seemed, had an approximate idea, and I was quietly grateful that Carver had asked him to accompany me in the first place. Labyrinthine wasn’t even the right word to describe the Black Market. Bright signs and symbols hovered in midair to indicate which stall sold what, and even then it was all so confusing. Okay, maybe not so much with the plumes of fire that indicated where we could go to buy miniature pet dragons – I made a mental note to go back and check those out – but the place was just massive.

  There were shops for reagents, grimoires, magical creatures, wands, and ensorcelled weapons, and I caught glimpses of way too many different kinds of currencies changing hands. Some paid in dollars, but others traded in gold coins, seashells, old bones. That night I learned that little phials of blood were commonly used as payment at the Black Market. The question, of course, was who the blood actually came from.

  More than twice I had to stop and spin in place, taking in the sights and lights. The pervasive blackness of the dimension made anything colorful pop that much brighter. It was like Vegas, in a way. Ultra-Vegas.

  I tapped Sterling on the shoulder. “I’m guessing there are other places for non-humans to visit, too? Say, like bars and stuff.”

  Sterling nodded, his cigarette smoke helping me keep track of where we were headed. “Lots of them walk around in glamours in Valero because they have to. Don’t think that I’m not aware of my human privilege. These guys have to go the extra mile just to blend in, so it’s a nice change for them. They’ve got their own establishments here and everything.”

  “So what happens when the tether has to change? Everyone uproots and rebuilds the Black Market someplace else?”

  “Not at all. Only the tether actually switches locations. You’re just moving the front door around. The building stays put.” Sterling tapped the side of his nose. “Anyway. We’re here.” He pointed down a narrow alley, past a streetlight tipped not with a bulb, but what looked like a crystal ball. “Wizard’s Quarter.”

  Which, apart from the aforementioned crystal ball, looked nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the Black Market. As we moved in, though, I suppose I did notice that there were a lot more old men with wispy white beards in the vicinity.

  “I thought we were looking for imps,” I said, nudging Sterling with my elbow.

  “Yeah. And it’s not like you’re going to find a free imp just wandering around the world. Either they’re working in hell, or for someone who contracted them.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Contracted?”

  Sterling sighed, exasperated. “Dustin. Come on. You’re a mage. Ever heard of a familiar? Witches and wizards tend to have them. So this is the place to look.”

  Ah. Right. It did make me wonder, though. I’d never considered getting myself a familiar – I mean, I suppose Vanitas counted as one – but I was at least aware that they came in a variety of forms. Some mages preferred cats, others liked owls, or snakes. But imps? Huh. You learn something every day. Between you and me though, if I had a choice? Corgi. One hundred percent.

  “This one,” Sterling said, walking me into a stall almost indistinguishable from the others. Well, indistinguishable apart from the overpowering smell of pot.

  A man who more or less fit the description of a wizard sat at the far end of the stall, which was filled with an assortment of wizardy knick-knacks: dried or pickled bits of animals, jars of unidentifiable goop, and one or two magical-looking scrolls.

  The man had long, white hair in a messy braid, a matching white beard, and was dressed in colorful robes that teetered on the precarious line between “gaudy wizard” and “time-traveling hippie.” I suspected that his round spectacles were really only there to hide the bleariness of his red-rimmed eyes. The smell, predictably, came from his wooden pipe.

  The old wizard blinked at us, then grinned. “Sterling? Is that you?”

  Sterling smiled with a mouth full of sharp teeth. “Nicodemus. Buddy. Old pal.”

  “Old is right.” Nicodemus laughed, giving Sterling a firm hug and slapping him on the back. “You haven’t aged a day, but that’s a given.”

  Sterling shrugged. “Comes with the territory. This is my colleague,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Needs a favor.”

  “Dustin,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Nick,” the wizard said. “Old Nick. No relation to the saint. Or the devil.”
He waggled his eyebrows, then raised his pipe. “Take a hit?”

  “I’m okay,” I said, hoping my smile was polite enough. The wizard shrugged and took another puff. “We’re here about some potential work.”

  Nick exhaled a wisp of smoke that curled into the shape of a question mark. “Oh. Are you now?”

  “You still got that familiar of yours, Nick?” Sterling rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. “Hmm. Can’t remember his name just now.”

  “Scrimshaw?” Nick said. “That little bum?”

  “Hey,” said a voice from somewhere beneath Nick’s desk. “If it wasn’t for my freelance work you’d be in the poor house, and you know it.”

  Nick sighed and pulled something out from under his desk. It looked like a little wooden trolley, with its own tiny staircase built into the side. On top of the trolley was an old-fashioned typewriter, a few pilot bottles of cheap whiskey – and a tiny, tiny man with skin that shone like copper.

  “Scrimshaw gets a big head just because he sells stories to some news sites.” Nick rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s somebody now.”

  I leaned into Sterling and whispered. “How does he get his stuff on the internet with that typewriter?”

  Sterling shrugged and whispered back. “Dunno. Demon magic?”

  The little man, with his hooked nose, slight pot belly, bat-like ears, and yes, a pair of gnarled, yellowing horns, pushed his fists into his hips and glared at Nicodemus.

  “Listen. You said I was free to do whatever I wanted in the time that we don’t work magic together, and if that means pursuing a career writing online, then – ”

  “Let’s not start with this again,” Nick groaned. “Diva,” he added under his breath.

  “Pothead,” Scrimshaw mumbled, sifting through the bottles of whiskey for one that still had dregs in it. He grappled with the bottle, unscrewed the top with some difficulty, then set to work lapping at the rim, glaring between Sterling and myself with a strange mix of curiosity and defiance.

  “Like an old married couple,” Sterling said, shaking his head. “Still, very modern of you to let Scrimshaw do his own thing.” He bent closer to the trolley, placing his hands on his knees. “We’re actually here with a job for you, Scrimshaw,” Sterling said, in a way that I found just a little suspiciously friendly. “We need you to find a book.”

  The demon’s eyes, rounded and yellow like polished pieces of amber, gleamed with greed, but he said nothing.

  Nick made a noise from inside his throat that could have meant interest, but also indifference. Maybe it was the pot.

  “We need you to find the Tome of Annihilation,” I said, leaning in to whisper, in case anyone outside the stall might hear.

  Nick started coughing on a mouthful of smoke. Scrimshaw looked up at me with an unchanged expression, except for how he was licking his lips and rubbing his hands together.

  “Right,” Scrimshaw said. “Heard of it. Likes to vanish after you read it, right? No worries. No problem. But there is the subject of payment.”

  Sterling elbowed me. “Cough up.”

  “Okay,” I said, eyeing Sterling irritably. “What’s it going to cost?”

  “Ten drams of your blood,” Scrimshaw barked, without hesitation. “And three hundred bucks in administration and miscellaneous fees.”

  “What!”

  I totally caught Scrimshaw and Nick giving each other knowing, covetous glances. Sterling said nothing, suddenly looking interested in the colorful tapestries festooning the stall.

  “Fine,” I said. “I don’t even know what a dram of blood – Jesus, ouch!”

  Scrimshaw had already clamped onto my wrist, his tiny, needle-like fangs piercing my skin, an equally tiny, presumably forked tongue lapping and sucking at my blood. I watched with revulsion and horror as the creature fed on me, but if this was what it took to find the Tome? I’d give him twenty drams, whatever the hell that meant.

  Nick just kept on smoking as Scrimshaw sucked at my wrist. Sterling, I noticed, had stopped pretending to care about woven goods, and was watching Scrimshaw with grim curiosity, and maybe a little envy. He made a soft cough.

  “Don’t you even think about it,” I said.

  Sterling shrugged and said nothing. Scrimshaw finally disengaged from my arm, wiping his horrible little mouth with the back of one tiny hand. He smacked his lips.

  “You’re a mage, aren’t you?” he said, his cocked eyebrow both inquisitive and critical.

  “Um. Yes?” I rubbed at my wrist, wondering if it was weird to ask if they stocked any magical adhesive bandages.

  “Hmm,” Scrimshaw said, rubbing his chin and smacking his lips again. “Your blood is – weird. Tastes like a California red wine. But like, the kind you can get at a gas station.”

  “Oh my God,” Sterling said, slapping his forehead. “Right? That’s what I said.”

  “Thanks guys,” I grumbled. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Anyway,” Scrimshaw said, waving a hand. “Now that I’ve got your scent, I can find you. That is, once I find the Tome. No guarantees that I can take it to you directly, but I’ll give you its location as soon as I track it down.”

  And with that, Scrimshaw vanished in a coppery puff of fire and smoke that smelled very much like rotten eggs.

  “Sulfur,” Sterling said, waving a hand under his nose. “Smells like farts.”

  Nick blew out another cloud of smoke, his eyes twinkling as he gave me a knowing smile. “And now for the admin fees. That’ll be three hundred dollars.” He reached under his desk, pulling out a credit card reader. “We’re good with cash, but we also accept all major credit cards.”

  Bled twice in one night. I sighed and reached for my wallet.

  Chapter 8

  I was three hundred dollars down, but at least we had one more avenue for discerning the Tome of Annihilation’s whereabouts. I had to hope that Herald was still looking, and I was identifying more places to check out in my head as well.

  In the back of my mind I left a note to ask dad if I could scope out his school’s library. He didn’t get his old job back, but there was an opening in another district, so at least he had something to do, and some money in the bank.

  Actually, that made me wonder whether schools exclusively built for magical people even existed. But just as soon as I’d thought it, I realized that one of them wouldn’t be found anywhere near the Black Market. It was what it was: a bazaar for trading illicit and often unsavory goods.

  Sterling and I spent another hour or two perusing the Black Market. I didn’t end up getting a pet dragon after all. Those things cost an arm and a leg, as well as five digits worth of my salary, plus Sterling said that they crapped everywhere. Maybe it was something to consider when I’d saved up more. Honestly, deep inside, I think I just really wanted a puppy.

  The Black Market really did have everything you could think of, and more. Voodoo dolls, soaps that could change your appearance, even instant curses to make your ex’s eyebrows fall out. I also discovered some exceedingly naughty books, and a half-dozen recreational drugs I’d never heard of, all of them only produced and traded in the arcane underground. More and more it made sense why the Black Market wanted to keep itself hidden from the Lorica’s prying, inquisitive fingers.

  It must have been a little past midnight when Sterling and I decided to head back into Valero. While mostly deserted, Silk Road was still brightly lit, and for once I actually felt safe walking my city’s streets after dark. Then again, Silk Road wasn’t like the Gridiron, the industrial district with its dark, dead warehouses, or the Meathook, where even the muggers got mugged.

  “But I think I’d be happier getting a ride from here,” I told Sterling. We’d gotten into one too many street fights after dark. Come to think of it, since joining the arcane underground, I don’t believe I’ve ever been able to walk into an alley or down a narrow street without the threat of getting beaten up hanging over my head.

  “Aww, come on,” Sterling drawled.
“We’ll be fine. I’ll protect you.” His leather jacket squeaked as he flexed his bicep – or at least tried to.

  “Don’t do that. You’re like a wet noodle dressed in leather. The vampire blood gives you crazy stupid strength, but you’re not fooling anyone with this bodybuilding routine.”

  He flexed and squeaked again, ignoring me. “Been working out,” he grunted. “Gonna break some faces. Beat up some nerds on the beach.”

  I rolled my eyes and pulled out my cellphone. “I’m calling us a car.”

  Which, initially, was what I thought was responsible for the intense flare of light that blinded me just then. But it wasn’t some douchebag’s high beams, not just some passing motorist’s headlights. This light had a different quality to it, like gossamer. I guess I’d describe it as – silvery.

  Oh. Shit.

  “Sterling,” I shouted, raising my forearm to shield my eyes.

  “I know,” he yelled back. “I recognize it from Mona’s concert. It’s back, whatever the fuck it is.”

  A spell? Was this the Tome’s doing? Whatever had initiated the massacre at the warehouse was back to finish the job. But we were immune to its effects the last time.

  “Dust,” Sterling mumbled. “It hurts.” I heard fear in his voice, and it made me panic. More than that, it made me angry. As arrogant, as bombastic as Sterling could be, he wasn’t supposed to be afraid.

  But what the hell was I supposed to do? It was so uncanny, this massive blast of light, and so powerful that it felt suffocating. I could throw a fireball, but what the hell were we even fighting? Where would I even aim it? I could shadowstep, but the light was so intense that it blotted out all shadows.

  Wait. This had happened once before, with Thea, when she’d blanketed the city in a choking mantle of pure, unearthly light. But it was impossible. The Eldest had taken her for a sacrifice. I saw them rope her through one of their gateways, swallowed by a rift into another dimension. It couldn’t be her. She was dead.