by Nazri Noor
I cleared my throat, blindsided by Vanitas’s melancholy. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, now. I’m only doing this to get the Eldest out of my hair forever. Then it’s just beer and burgers and my boyfriend,” I said, sweeping my hand out into the distance. “From here to infinity.”
Vanitas chuckled, a rare and rumbling sound, like distant, friendly thunder. “If you say so. Just look out for yourself, Dustin. I’m nothing without you.”
My heart twinged. “Hey, what did I say about getting sentimental?”
“No,” Vanitas said. “The attunement. It fades when you’re not around, and then I’m just some inanimate, useless lump of metal. I’m literally nothing without you, you walking bonehead. So don’t go dying on me.”
“Right, right,” I grumbled. “Love you too, you grumpy old bastard.”
Chapter 8
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Dustin, why in the blue blazes are you traipsing around Valero in the dead of night, with nothing but a backpack and a bloodthirsty talking sword for company?
Admittedly, I was feeling a little bit nostalgic myself. This was how it all started, after all, how Vanitas and I met. I was picking him up for a mission, back when I was still working for the Lorica, and our very first encounter involved some thugs and a couple of severed limbs. Ah. The good times. The simple times.
The real reason, though, was that I had a magical backpack, the kind that could store a whole ton of stuff on the inside without ever getting bloated or heavy. And we didn’t have many leftovers back home, not as many as we would need for that night’s particular communion.
The mission, in short, was to pick up a couple of trash bags filled with unwanted food, the kind that restaurants left out by the dumpster. And before you ask, no, Mama Rosa’s leavings from one day of her restaurant’s operations were certainly not enough for what we needed. If you wanted to summon Scrimshaw the imp, it was kind of a given that you had to present an offering of trashy food. Literally. The last time it was just a paper plate’s worth. That was because we needed a small favor.
This time, though? What we needed from Scrimshaw was going to be slightly problematic. I wasn’t privy to how the hells worked myself, the laws that they operated under, but I was pretty sure our request was going to be tantamount to utter betrayal. Treason, that is.
Yeah, so three trash bags was going to have to be a soft minimum.
Vanitas grumbled when I loaded my backpack with the first trash bag, one full of leftovers from a bakery, the kind that still don’t sell off after they discount everything at eight before closing. “It doesn’t even smell,” I told him. “It’s just a whole bunch of day-old bread. Quit your bitching.”
I didn’t have the same excuse for when I loaded a second bag into his pocket dimension, this time a pile of leftovers and vegetable cuttings. They were from Naan Stop, an Indian restaurant that had become one of my favorites, a place that Herald and I liked to visit on date nights. I pulled my hoodie over my head as I snuck the trash bag away from the dumpster, just in case one of the employees happened about and noticed me.
“Oh gods,” Vanitas breathed. “I like Indian as much as the next guy but – oh, oh gods, help me.”
“First of all, you’re being a huge drama queen,” I said. “Second, and I can’t believe I’m just now realizing this, I didn’t even know you could smell things.”
“I didn’t either,” Vanitas groaned. “How much onion is in here? How much garlic? I’m dying, Dust. I must be dying.”
I shadowstepped all the way from the dumpster back home to the Boneyard, partly to get Vanitas to stop whining so much. It was safer to be off the streets at night, anyway, not that I really had anything to be afraid of anymore. Not thugs, not demons, not entities. I swallowed thickly as I reappeared in the Boneyard and headed for Carver’s offices. Nothing bothered me anymore. Nothing but Agatha Black, and the Eldest.
“Oh my God,” Gil growled from all the way down the corridor. “What the – did you just bring home like an entire bag of raw onions? Dust, what did you do?”
“Oh my God,” I echoed, growing more irritated when I found him with his hand clapped over his nose. “It’s just some leftovers. But I think I might have grabbed the wrong bag. They tossed a whole bunch of raw onion and garlic in there. Like a lot of it. Maybe it was going bad, I don’t know, but how can you even smell when it’s – ”
“Oh my God,” Sterling shouted. “Who the hell is trying to murder me in here? You can’t kill me with garlic. Many have tried, you sons of bitches, and – oh. It’s just you.”
Sterling folded his arms across his chest, the wind knocked out of him by the sight of me. I narrowed my eyes at him, trying not to get any angrier, because I didn’t want either of us to continue having this weird, stupid fight.
“Can the two of you really smell that?” I said. “It’s in an entirely different dimension, guys, how could you possibly – ”
“Gods above and below, Dustin, what toxic hell have you brought into our home?”
Carver came storming out of one of the corridors, his fingers pinched across his nose, Banjo nipping at his heels.
I scratched the back of my neck. “Maybe my sense of smell is just really, really terrible.”
“Get me the hell out of here,” Vanitas shouted.
I flipped open my backpack, dodging out of the way as Vanitas sped out of his dimension, a greenish-gold blur desperate to get out of his onion-y cavern. I got a whiff of garlic as he flew out, and yeah, okay. They weren’t exaggerating.
“The good news,” Carver said, “is that part of the food you’ve collected will be consumed as we summon your devilish little friend. The bad news is that it will take the rest of my immortal life to scrub the smell of so much garlic and onion out of my undead respiratory system.”
“Everyone here is a drama queen,” I said, my eyes watering as I extracted the bag of what I was beginning to understand really was just raw onions and garlic, followed by the bag of bread. Banjo sniffed at one, then the other, then retched before he trotted off to push his face into his bowl of water. I shook my head. “No exceptions. Everyone.”
Chapter 9
Asher and Mason came down the corridor from our living area. Asher was probably doing a better job of hiding his dismay, but Mason winced the very moment he stepped onto the platform that held Carver’s office.
“Oh,” Mason said. “Oh wow. We should – we should get this over with as soon as possible.”
“Agreed,” Asher said, coughing as politely as he could into his hand. “I’ll do the honors.”
He collected a piece of chalk from somewhere in Carver’s desk drawers, quickly and expertly drawing out a makeshift summoning circle on the ground, tracing it around the twin bags of leftovers I’d collected. Mason hauled over the third bag, the one from Mama Rosa’s restaurant, then produced a glowing golden knife from the palm of his hand, summoning it from the Vestments. I bit my tongue, holding back a comment about how frigging cool I still found it that he could conjure just about any weapon he could borrow from heaven’s armory.
Huh. Which gave me an idea. I studied him as he slit each of the garbage bags open, his free hand covering his mouth and his nose. We did need a sword from the celestials to complete the Apotheosis. Mason was probably our key for that. One down, I thought. Actually, with Vanitas, that was two down, and if Scrimshaw gave us the information we needed, it’d be three swords down, and only two to go.
“We’d better get this started,” Gil said, his eyes puffy, his T-shirt pulled halfway up his torso and covering his mouth. “I can’t take this much longer.”
I couldn’t judge. Poor guy had werewolf senses even in his human form, after all. Fine. I went down on my knees, holding my hand out to Mason, who immediately understood. He took my hand, then carefully cut a shallow, surgical line into the tip of my finger. My blood dripped into the circle, hissing as it fell onto the stone.
I closed my eyes, prepared to intone the market
ing copy I’d long ago memorized off of the back of Snacky Yum-Yum packages, when the smell of onions and garlic was instantly overpowered by the horrific stench of farts. I didn’t even get the first word of my incantation out, stumbling back as I coughed, desperate to clear the repulsive odor out of my lungs.
“Oh my God,” Sterling cried out. “This is so much worse.”
My eyes flew open to find Scrimshaw, the misshapen little bronze imp, already swimming through the humongous pile of leftovers we’d acquired for him. Mercifully, just as Carver said, the ritual had consumed the smellier bits of the imp’s meal in a merrily burning arcane fire, which had the lovely side effect of keeping the food nice and toasty for Scrimshaw’s benefit. He was doing some very indecent things to a stale baguette when I finally got myself together and cleared my throat.
“Scrimshaw,” I said. “Dude. Scrimshaw. Stop it. Stop that.”
“Hmm,” he moaned, finding a pile of longganisa – Filipino sausages – to do further awful things with.
“By the gods, imp, pull yourself together,” Carver barked.
Scrimshaw paused midway through molesting a cream-filled donut. He looked gingerly around himself, his metallic eyes reflecting the glow of the summoning fires. He blinked once, then gave us a toothy, impish grin.
“Old friends,” Scrimshaw said warmly, his gaze settling on me. “And some new faces, too. What can wee Scrimshaw do for you?”
“Nice touch with the rhyming,” I said, getting down on my haunches.
See, it’s always good to speak to someone on their level. I didn’t want to remind Scrimshaw of our difference in size. It was, in a weird kind of way, a show of respect, which was always important when it came to communions and forging spiritual contracts.
“We need something big from you,” I said. “Huge. A huge, big old favor.”
Scrimshaw’s gaze flitted around the room, his eyes filling with concern, and suspicion. “And – and what does this favor entail, exactly?”
Asher knelt down next to me, speaking in as friendly a voice as he could muster. “We need you to steal a sword from a demon prince.”
Good thing I’d gotten on my knees, because it meant that I had time to grab Scrimshaw by the waist before he could get away. “I should’ve known something was off when I saw all the food you prepared for me. I should have known!” He kicked and spat and screeched, his skin burning like a metal teapot in my hand, but I persisted.
“We just want to talk,” Asher said. “If you can’t help us steal something, then we just want to talk. If you won’t do this for us, then at least tell us what we can do. Tell us which of the princes we should target.”
I placed Scrimshaw gently down on his mountain of leftovers, holding my hands out as a show of trust, then backed away from the circle. His gaze shifted from one face to another, then fell on his feast of baguettes and sausages. His eyes widened, his little hands wringing together as his little brain ran through his prospects. Something clicked in his face just then, as if he realized that he didn’t have to put himself in danger, after all.
“We just need information, old buddy,” I said, softly. “Just information, and you can have all the food you want.”
Scrimshaw ran one hand across his brow, sweeping away the metallic sheen of sweat that had formed there. His little belly inflated as he drew in a deep breath, then sighed.
“Belphegor. You want Belphegor.”
Chapter 10
Pages and pages of ancient parchment rustled as Carver magically flipped through the dusty tome floating between his fingers.
“Belphegor,” he repeated. “The demon prince of sloth.”
“That’s the one,” Scrimshaw sniffed. “You didn’t have to go and verify it. I’m not gonna pull one over on you guys.”
The tome snapped shut, then disappeared in a plume of amber fire. Carver smiled sweetly at the imp, an uncharacteristic expression coming from him.
“You know better than I do, dear friend, that history’s demonologists have argued and clashed over which of the princes represent each of the seven deadly sins.”
Scrimshaw nodded, pawing at a mound of scrambled eggs. “That’s a good point. Nobody can ever make up their damn minds.” He shoveled two tiny handfuls of scrambled eggs into his face, chewing noisily. “And it’s all so political, actually. Sometimes someone else takes the post. Well, not for very long, really. Just until they get killed.”
Mason smoothed down his jeans as he took a spot on the floor, sitting just inches away from Scrimshaw and his disgusting throne of flaming leftovers.
“So why Belphegor, exactly?” he said, his face open with curiosity, and the kind of reserved, intelligent charm he sometimes whipped out when it felt convenient. “What makes them different?”
“Put it this way,” Scrimshaw said, munching. “If you’re thinking of stealing from one of the princes, there’s no way in all the hells that you’d want to go up against someone like, say, wrath, or pride. That’s just asking to be put into a world of pain.”
Asher nudged me in the ribs. “I like him. He’s very sensible, for a demon.”
Scrimshaw’s little chest puffed up with pride. “I really am. Thank you. But back to my point: sloth is possibly the least dangerous of the seven princes, mainly because they aren’t quite as temperamental or as vengeful as the other six.”
Gil nodded, then grunted as he stepped closer to the circle, eyeing me pointedly. “And let’s not forget how much Mammon is still nursing a hate-boner for Dustin.”
I held my hands up, eyes wide with annoyance. “What, just me? Really? I’m pretty sure Mammon hates all of us. Especially Banjo, who, let’s not forget, exploded Mammon all over the Boneyard with a single bark.” I winked at Banjo. “No offense, little buddy.”
Banjo angled his head up at me. “Arf.”
“If the demon prince of greed has lingering grievances with Daddy’s Little Murderer, then they can take it up with me.” Carver poked a thumb at his own chest. “Daddy.”
I stifled a laugh, but Carver looked completely serious, his chin lifted in open defiance.
“Right,” Sterling said, grunting impatiently, one hand still over his nose and mouth. “So, about this Belphegor. You’re suggesting we find a way into sloth’s hell, then steal a sword right out from under their nose? What kind of idiot just waltzes into a prince’s kingdom?”
Scrimshaw scoffed. “Pah. Aren’t you boys lucky that you summoned me, then? The first flaw in your plan is thinking that you could ever accomplish that. You don’t just saunter into one of the seven greatest hells and expect to get away with it. No. You’re going to deal with the prince the way that demons love. You’re going to bargain with Belphegor.”
I winced, narrowing my eyes. “Hmm. Yeah. That didn’t work out so well the last time. My memory’s fuzzy and I’ve probably got a couple of our agreements muddled, but the net result of bargaining with Mammon is that they want me dead.”
Scrimshaw pushed his fists into his waist, his stomach glistening and bulbous. “Well, can you blame them? You blew them up, and you didn’t hand over the corgi. Or the nephilim.” He gave Mason a curt salute. “No offense, buddy.”
“None taken,” Mason said. “But I think you’ve got it right.” He looked around at the rest of us, that righteous, decisive look already on his face – the one that reminded me that he really was Samyaza’s son. “I think it’s the best option we have, you guys. Really, it’s either a suicide mission into one of seven hells, or we bargain with sloth.”
“Hang on,” Sterling growled. “What if this is a trick? What if this little imp’s working with Mammon, like the last time?”
Carver held up a hand before Scrimshaw or I could protest. “Sterling. Don’t be so rude to our guest. Let us recall events as they transpired. Our poor friend Scrimshaw was bewitched by the demon prince of greed. That was an unusual situation.”
Sterling’s leather jacket squeaked as he folded his arms and stamped his foot. I wanted to le
t him get on my nerves, this bratty tantrum he was extending across the entire Boneyard despite only being pissed at me – and unfairly, at that – but Carver’s explanation came back to me. This was Sterling trying to be a friend, despite how horribly he was coming off.
“Then it’s settled.” Gil backed away from the circle again, waving his hand under his nose. “We go and find Belphegor, and we bargain. Where do we find them?”
Scrimshaw paused long enough from attacking a sausage to look down at his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but that didn’t stop him from peering closer. Whatever invisible device he had strapped there apparently had the answer.
“It looks like Belphegor is – wow, typical. They’re somewhere in the Philippines right now. Go figure.”
I shook my head. “Wait. Sorry. I thought we’d just have to go and find their tether or something. Mammon has one at an ATM in a rundown building, right here in the city.”
“That’s not how it works for sloth. Belphegor kind of wanders wherever they please. And right now, they’re chilling on some white, sandy beach somewhere in the equator. A place called Calaguas Island.”
Asher stared at a spot on the floor, his brow wrinkled in thought, before he spoke again. “With the time difference, it should be around noon or so. Maybe one at most. Which means that Sterling can’t come along.”
Sterling stamped his foot again, his head turning away as he gave a soft scoff. “Who said I wanted to come? I didn’t want to go anyway.”
I rolled my eyes, but bit my tongue. Carver sighed.
“It doesn’t matter. The Boneyard goes to bargain, not to battle. Dustin, Gilberto, Mason. The three of you will go to the Philippines.”
I stammered. “What? Just like that? How much do tickets even cost? When do we leave? And I have to pack, too. Also, I don’t have a passport.” I turned to Asher, forgetting in that moment that he’d never even been home to the Philippines before. “How’s the weather?”