Last Rites (Darkling Mage Book 6)

by Nazri Noor

  “Charm means nothing if this is all that lies in his future,” Baba Yaga said, holding up the Death card. She tutted, slipping the card back into the deck, shuffling it expertly. It was then that I stopped paying attention to the tarot cards. What was the point? I already knew she was going to draw it again.

  Baba Yaga held out another card. I refused to look. A man in a top hat and tails stretched his neck over my shoulder, the set of dice he was fiddling with in the palm of his hand clicking as he clucked his own tongue.

  “Lucky number thirteen, yet again,” he murmured. Like I needed to know.

  “So.” I threw my hands up, rubbing the back of my neck in frustration. “What does this actually mean for me? Surely it doesn’t translate exactly to me dying. That’s not how the tarot works.”

  Carver said so. Otherwise, pulling the Lovers would always mean something about finding your ideal mate. Drawing the Tower would mean actually falling out of a skyscraper as it’s being struck by lightning. The signs aren’t that literal. A niggling voice tittered in the back of my mind. It whispered.

  But aren’t they?

  “At least the boy knows that much,” Baba Yaga said, returning the card to the deck, then separating her hands, turning her palms upwards. The deck of cards lifted into the air, hovering under the command of her power, tilting and turning slowly in place, as if held there by so many invisible strings. I caught glimpses of the cards as they spun and swirled. In the midst of them all floated the grisly visage of the skeletal knight.

  “The cards are never that simple,” Baba Yaga continued. “Death means change. Significant change, to be sure, enough to impact someone’s life in enormous ways.” She dropped her hands to the table, her palms slamming into its surface with a harsh crash. The cards fell in unison. “But what are the odds of Baba Yaga drawing the same card thirteen times in a row?”

  The animated piece of chalk flew into action, scritching and scratching against the blackboard as it attempted to calculate and solve Baba Yaga’s problem.

  One of the Sisters groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It was a rhetorical question. Honestly. Truly.”

  “I fear that terrible things are coming your way, boy,” Baba Yaga said.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know. The Eldest are coming, and they mean business this time.” I raised my chin. “And my name is Dustin Graves.”

  Baba Yaga scoffed. “What a fitting name you have, silly boy.” She lifted a finger, waving it warningly in my face. “Know this. The challenges that await you will test you wholly. You have used your mind, your body, indeed, your soul in your battle against the Old Ones. But this time, it will be your heart.” She pressed her finger gently against my chest, her face suddenly softened, and sad. “Baba Yaga can only pray that you will have the fortitude to withstand the onslaught of the Eldest.”

  The air went out of me. “But – we beat them before. We always did. We held them back, and we can hold them back again. Me and my friends. I killed Yelzebereth myself. The Eldest can keep sending their mightiest, and I’ll rip their entire pantheon apart with my bare hands if I have to. One by one.”

  “Do not make me repeat myself, boy. Baba Yaga has seen what she has seen.” She shook her head solemnly. “May your heart be strong enough.”

  What was that even supposed to mean? I looked around us, at the faces of the other entities. They were just as serious and severe, just as grave. One by one they headed back to their stalls, fingering their tools and devices for divining, turning them this way and that. It pinched at my chest to see the entities act that way. They were trying to find a different path for me, an alternate future. This was serious business.

  I whirled in place, rounding on the entities. “Then you all must know how big of a deal this is. If you care so much – if you care enough that predicting my fate is bothering you this badly – then why don’t you help?”

  “We cannot intervene, sweetling,” Arachne said. “Surely you know this by now. We are the oracles. We bear knowledge, and we dispense it to those who deserve to understand, and to listen. But our hands cannot spin the wheel. We only watch, and wait.”

  The Sphinx spoke next. “And all the roads we’ve prophesied lead to the unraveling of reality, Dustin Graves. It is not only your fate that we see. All other fates are intertwined, and in each one, the Eldest are victorious.”

  My nails were digging into the palms of my hands, my teeth clenched. “Then help us. Please. This affects us all. You must understand that.”

  Baba Yaga sighed, and I turned to her again. “There is one way,” she said. “A way of strengthening the barrier of our realm against theirs. No more rifts opening around this city, around the world. Though there is a problem.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “But of course there is.” Baba Yaga scowled at me, but said nothing.

  “Only the earth’s most powerful entities have access to these methods,” said one of the Sisters. “The mothers and fathers of all things. The kings and queens of pantheons.”

  I folded my arms, my head tilted as I considered the problem. “So this method of yours. All I need to do is track down one of the creator gods. That’s it?”

  Baba Yaga laughed derisively. The Sisters chuckled. Some of the other entities shifted in place, uncertain, discomfited.

  “If it were only so simple, silly boy,” Baba Yaga said.

  “I have a name,” I spat back.

  “As does Baba Yaga,” she said. “And as much joy as traveling with the Bazaar of Wonders has brought me, I fear my time as Madam Babbage has come to an end.” She looked smaller when she exhaled.

  “I still don’t quite get that,” I said, lowering my voice, sensing that something was off. “The legends never said you had any particular affinity for divination. Do you just like hanging out with the oracle entities, or is this one of those things where the stories got it wrong?”

  She waved her hand, beaming. “No, no, child, the stories got it right.” Her smile was beautiful, lighting up her face in a way that made her look like an entirely different person. “Baba Yaga comes and goes as she pleases, and the Bazaar was a welcome diversion – if only for a short century.” The smile fell from her face, and she was the old witch of folklore once more, sallow, sour, and underneath it all, somehow, quietly sad.

  Baba Yaga rose to her feet, gathered her skirts, then nodded. “Come now,” she said, to no one in particular. “It’s time we made a move.”

  I looked around, expecting the rest of the entities to respond. None of them did. But the earth did begin to tremble. I hung onto her stall for dear life. Hey, it’s California. You never know if it’s the Big One until the Big One actually hits.

  The rumbling continued. The sound, I realized, was coming from the entire carnival around us. The tents, stalls, and booths lifted into the air, as if levitated by some unseen force. No, wait. Not levitated. My head spun as I looked to opposite ends of the carnival grounds. Sprouting from the earth was a pair of massive legs, each as tall and as thick as an ancient redwood. Not just any legs, either. Chicken legs.

  My jaw hung open. I couldn’t help myself. “Just like in the stories,” I muttered to myself. Except in the stories, Baba Yaga only commanded a hut that could walk on two legs, her own version of a mobile home. Over the centuries I guess she’d gained enough power and resources to put an entire goddamned carnival on stilts.

  “Farewell, Dustin Graves,” Baba Yaga called out as she soared into the air, her feet planted firmly in a flying cauldron. Holy crap, that was in the stories too. “And I mean it in the best possible way. Fare well, for your sake. For all our sakes.”

  The earth shuddered again and again as the carnival’s legs began their tumultuous, terrifying strut through the outskirts of Valero. I watched in open awe as the carnival vanished into the horizon, as the Bazaar of Wonders began its trek across California.

  And with the carnival gone, that only left me and the other entities, back in a familiar, mist-shrouded dar
kness. We were in the Dark Room again – but not for long, it seemed, at least not for the remaining members of the actual Bazaar of Wonders. They faded into the blackness one by one, much like the Midnight Convocation. The Sisters gave me a cursory synchronized wave as they vanished. Finally, only Arachne remained.

  “I am sorry that I can do nothing more to help, sweetling,” she said, her voice laced with uncharacteristic sadness.

  I tried to keep the bitterness lodged firmly in my throat. It was up to humanity – hell, it was up to the Boneyard to save the day, yet again.

  “I still have the lock of hair you wanted from Nyx,” I said glumly.

  “Keep it,” Arachne said. “You may yet find a use for it.” She winked at me with all eight of her eyes. I kept the twitch out of my face. So she never wanted Nyx’s hair after all?

  “I will send my children in search of the rulers of the gods,” she said. “I make no promises, sweetling, but should we find one that will speak to you, then one of my offspring will be in touch.”

  So she was still on my side of the court after all. “Thank you,” I said, relenting. “Anything helps, Arachne. Thank you.”

  She gave me a tight smile as she lifted her abdomen, a thick rope of web firing like a grappling hook up into the darkness. “Farewell, Dustin Graves. Be safe.”

  I waved at her as she spun upside down and ascended into nothingness. I pursed my lips and shook my head. All that trouble and drama of going after Nyx’s hair, all for nothing. Typical entities. Flighty, and fickle.

  But I couldn’t begrudge Arachne for wanting to help all the same. Still, I knew never to depend on the entities entirely. I had to count on myself, on my own network. So a creator god could tell me how to stop the Eldest, huh? Good thing I had someone I could turn to.

  It was time to give the All-Father a phone call.

  Chapter 7

  Except that I didn’t have his number. I mean who the hell gets direct access to Odin’s cellphone? Did he even use one? But we’re talking about a god who got so bored with immortality that he opened a bed and breakfast – one that served live goats and warm ketchup. Probably a no, then.

  I scrolled through the contacts on my phone as surreptitiously as I could. Asher had already scolded me about it once. Sure, I got what he meant. Being glued to my phone wasn’t very polite, but it was his fault that we were in a graveyard in the first place.

  Let me explain.

  After the impromptu trip to Madam Babbage’s now-migrated chicken-legged carnival, I’d fallen asleep, hoping to get enough shuteye to be fresh in the morning. But no such luck. It must have been the butt-crack of dawn when Asher shook me awake. I wanted to get mad, but it was hard to be grumpy with the kid, especially with the way he was beaming at me.

  “The hell are you so happy about?” I grumbled, pulling the covers up over my chest.

  “Come on,” Asher said. “Carver’s taking me out, and he wants you to come with.”

  I buried my face in my pillow, letting a low whine into it. “Why me, though? Tell him to bring Gil. Or Sterling. Wanna sleep.”

  Asher nudged me again. “Don’t be silly. Sterling would burn to a crisp, and Gil’s not home.”

  I grunted angrily into the pillow. Gil probably stayed over at Prudence’s place again.

  “Besides, Carver specifically asked for you. Come on. Dust. Buddy. Old pal. Come on.” He shook me by the shoulder. “Come on.”

  “Don’t wanna,” I whined. “Go ’way.”

  Seriously. Dustin needs his beauty sleep. The world’s handsomest thief has a reputation to uphold, I’ll have you know. But Asher was persistent.

  It took some effort, but I grumpily hauled my carcass out of bed after a little more of his prompting. More like begging, really, but he sounded so excited to head out of the Boneyard. All that time locked up with the Viridian Dawn – like I said, it was hard to be angry with him.

  However, I have to say, it wasn’t all that hard to be angry with Carver, who for reasons I couldn’t initially fathom had decided to lug us all the way to Latham’s Cross, Valero’s biggest and certainly creepiest cemetery. I get that he wanted Asher to commiserate with the dead, and it wasn’t until I’d spent a whole minute grumbling and whining to Carver about being brought along that he gave me an answer that shriveled me with shame.

  “If you’re quite finished,” he said icily, “I recall your father mentioning that Latham’s Cross was where your mother was laid to rest. When was the last time you visited her grave, Dustin?”

  My face turned red, burning hot even in the dewy, crisp air of an early morning. I shoved my hands in my pockets, then toed at the grass, saying nothing. He was right, though. As much as it hurt to think of Mom being gone sometimes, I could have bothered to visit her a little more often. Despite reconciling with Dad all that time ago, somehow I’d never thought to consider going with him.

  And so there we were, Carver, Asher, and myself, walking along the dew-slick grass of Latham’s Cross. Sunlight streamed in through the trees, the twittering of birds the only real sound to break the silence of the morning. The faint chill of the air left more dew on slabs and headstones, on the leaves of little saplings pushing up through the earth, a melancholic reminder of how death inevitably follows life.

  I was still checking my phone for contacts, trying to keep it hidden from Asher, which wasn’t much of a problem with how absorbed he was in one of Carver’s droning lectures. Damn. Nothing. I thought I had the Twilight Tavern’s contact info saved somewhere.

  Maybe I could call that valkyrie – Olga, was it, or Helga? I could ask her to put in a good word for me. But as a quick web search showed, finding a number for the Tavern was impossible. They didn’t even have a website. Come on, Odin, get with the times.

  Carver must have used some other method to book our rooms for us – telepathy, an arcane contract, hell, maybe a non-electronic transfer from a magical bank account. Hmm. With how much Sterling was hitting on Olga and the other valkyries, surely he would have some way to get in touch. I fired off a quick text to him, then dropped my phone in my pocket, just as Asher threw me a dirty look.

  “Seriously.” He gestured just past my head. “Those people think you’re being rude.” I turned to look where he had indicated, seeing, as expected, nothing but a clump of trees.

  “Creeps me out that you can see them,” I said. The dead, I mean. That was part of Asher’s gift. “Also,” I added, waving apologetically at empty space, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. Honest.”

  “Tabi-tabi po,” Asher muttered softly. He’d used the Filipino phrase a few times since we entered Latham’s Cross.

  I’d learned snatches of new-to-me languages from living with the boys at the Boneyard – bits of Spanish from Gil, and surprisingly, Sterling, who religiously followed a shockingly large number of telenovelas. What very few Filipino words I knew were picked up from Mama Rosa and Asher.

  According to Asher, “Tabi-tabi po” loosely translated to “Pardon me,” or “Just passing through.” It was a catch-all phrase used to tell the spirits of the earth, whether or not they were human in nature, that we meant them no harm or disrespect.

  “Asher is quite correct,” Carver said, his eyebrow curved like a scimitar. “Cultivating a deep sense of respect for the departed is not only good practice for keeping their spirits appeased.” He turned his attention back to Asher, and I allowed myself to breathe easy again. “It is key to tapping into necromantic energies. At least if you want to do it the clean way.”

  I didn’t want to give much thought to the nefarious alternatives he was hinting at.

  “Can you sense them?” Carver said to Asher. “All around you. I know you see them, but as a necromancer, you must understand that they are drawn to you. They can see the living, but few will hear, or listen. Many mortals will be frightened and confused. That is not your place. I want you to accept your position in the world at large, Asher. I want you to see.”

  Asher’s eyes glowed
with green fire, the physical manifestation of his necromantic power. I knew that he could see and communicate with the dead – hell, barely hours after I first met him I found out that he sometimes liked to talk to the spirit of his own long-dead mother.

  Maybe it was that shared experience that endeared him to me in the first place, that made us friends. He had it worse off, though. I don’t think that poor Asher had ever even met his own father. At least I had Norman Graves.

  “There’s so many of them,” Asher muttered. “All around us. And they’re looking at me, Carver. They’re looking at me.”

  “Good. Don’t be afraid. Do nothing to harm them, and they will do nothing to you. The angry or hungry dead may hold ill will towards the living, but all understand and respect the power and stature of a necromancer. They can help you, Asher. Give you information, find what living hands and eyes cannot find. But they will want your aid in return.”

  As cool as this all was, I couldn’t help feeling a little left out. Asher gazed around him, eyes burning with emerald fire as he stared at the shades and spirits of Valero’s dead. Carver stood at his side, one hand gripped firmly around his shoulder – for support, or to anchor him to the world of the living, I couldn’t tell.

  So I wandered off, looking for some way to busy myself. And naturally, my feet carried me in the direction of the place I’d avoided for way too long: my mother’s grave.

  The slab that held her name wasn’t as grubby as I’d expected, and I knew that there was one reason alone for that. Dad had clearly made more of an effort to visit her. The browned stalks of flowers that had long ago lost their petals sat in a crumbling bundle on her grave, turning to dust under my fingers. I folded my feet under my body, sitting cross-legged on her grave, and I sighed.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I muttered. “I know it’s been a while – a long while. But you won’t believe how much things have changed for me. For Dad, even. I think you might even be proud of me. Of us.”