Shadow Magic (Darkling Mage Book 1)

by Nazri Noor

  I groaned.

  “Cheer up, Dust. Maybe you’ll be granted yet another favor. The entities seem to love you.”

  I pulled the covers up over my chest, honestly wanting to slip them all the way up over my head. “No more favors. I’m still reeling from the last one.”

  Thea chuckled. “Some Tylenol should fix that. Get some rest, Dust. And get in touch with one of us if you’re hungry. Someone will come. You shouldn’t be up and about yet.”

  I nodded and gave her a weak salute. Thea smiled again, then shut the door quietly behind her. Food was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted more sleep. I riffled through my side table – whether the meds were there because of Bastion or the Lorica’s bizarre sentience I couldn’t be sure, but whoever it was, thank you thank you – chugged some pills, then crawled back under the sheets. Twenty-seven hours? Hah. My head, hell, my entire body still felt like it’d been run over by a truck.

  When I opened my eyes again, I still had no real conception of time. Thea had dismissed Bastion and told him to grab a late lunch, so I guessed that it must have been mid-afternoon when I woke the first time. But how long had I been asleep since then? What time was it now? I looked around the room, wondering where my cellphone was, and started checking on the side table when the door creaked open again.

  “Dust?”

  I looked over at the door and perked up instantly. “Herald. Buddy. Old pal.”

  He returned that with a tight smile, stepping into the room clutching what looked like a large paper cup. A familiar, rich aroma wafted through the air above my bed, into my nostrils, and –

  “Is that. Is that coffee?”

  “Got it in one. I know you like your coffee. I mean I’m not entirely sure I made it the way you like but – ”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I snatched the cup eagerly out of his hands as soon as he and the coffee were within grabbing distance. When did I last have any caffeine? God. Maybe I was addicted.

  I blew across the lid, took a tentative sip, then hummed contentedly. “This is so sweet.”

  “Oh.” Herald adjusted his glasses. “Maybe I added too much sugar after all.”

  “No, no. I meant it’s really sweet that you brought me this.” I sipped again, savoring the richness, that hint of chocolate and milk. I held up the coffee cup. “You didn’t have to, and I really appreciate it.”

  He shrugged. “It’s no bother. I would have come sooner but things have been hectic over in the Gallery.”

  That was when I noticed that Herald’s tie was looser around his neck, his waistcoat more creased than usual, his hair slightly mussed. Strange. The guy was always so put-together. I took another sip.

  “You’ve been working too hard.” I don’t know how many times I’d said that to him, but between Herald’s responsibilities and his own alchemical experiments, it was a wonder how he hadn’t already collapsed from overexertion.

  Herald grimaced. He liked to give off the impression that he was stern and stony, but I knew better. “No. I haven’t. And anyway, I came to check on you. How are you feeling?”

  “Bored.” I took another swig of coffee and smacked my lips. “Boring? Pick one.” I realized it was true. I’d had enough sleep, and I was aching for something – no, anything to do.

  “If you weren’t in such a condition I’d take you over to the Gallery, show you some of the new stuff that’s rolled in. That wouldn’t be boring.” He waved his hand around the emptiness of my makeshift apartment. “Well, at least not as boring as this.”

  “We should go,” I said, throwing the covers off. “Like now. I’m better, I promise.” As if on cue, my stomach grumbled. “Also, I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?”

  Herald glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Well it’s almost seven, so I think most people have cleared out by – ”

  “Seven? What the hell are you still doing at work?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Graves. We’ll order in, fill you up. Then you can come and check out all of the Gallery’s new toys.”

  Chapter 15

  “Wow. Slow down there, tiger.”

  If I had room in my mouth or energy enough to do so I would have blurted out an aggressive “No.” I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days and that Thai green beef curry went down fast. It was the good stuff, too, made with coconut milk, and spicy enough to get me forcing more rice down my throat.

  I was glad that Herald had the foresight to order three extra helpings of rice. And pad thai, and some spring rolls, all of which I’d devoured. He gave me the leftover half of his red curry, too. I didn’t know if he really was full, or if he just felt sorry for me, but I demolished that as well.

  I found a moment to actually swallow, and a second to wonder when my body was finally going to realize just how much food I’d dumped into it.

  “Let me live my damn life, Herald.” I washed it all down with what felt like half a takeout cup of Thai iced tea, that beautifully sweet and creamy stuff that they made with lots of condensed milk. I’d finished mine, too, so technically I was sucking down on Herald’s share. He didn’t seem to mind, but that didn’t keep the look of bemusement off his face.

  “Just saying, it could be a shock to your system, the way you’re shoving all of that right in your face.”

  “I know,” I conceded. I waved at the table. “But there’s nothing left, so there’s nothing else for you to worry about just now.”

  Herald furrowed his brow. “You’re not still hungry, are you? We can think of something else to eat later.” He was fiddling with something at his workspace, the usual little phials of powder scattered across his desktop. “Well, after I’m done.”

  I swallowed the rest of the iced tea – sweet nectar, I tell you – and tipped a couple of ice cubes into my mouth, letting them dissolve into cool water. “You aren’t seriously still staying, are you? I thought you were heading home after we ate.”

  Herald scratched his chin, his nails making a faint scraping over his stubble. It was a pretty clear visual indication of how little attention he’d been paying to himself in favor of his work.

  “I know, I know,” he said, still scratching at his chin. “I’m just trying something different, all right? Itches like hell, but can’t hurt to test out a new look.”

  I shrugged. “Suits you,” I said, tossing back the last of my ice cubes.

  “Thanks. You can stop worrying. Like I said, this is temporary. There’s just been so much happening.” He swept his hand around the archives, and I picked up on what he meant.

  I hadn’t really noticed in my feeding frenzy earlier, but there did seem to be several new installments from the last time I’d visited. I say installments because the Gallery really did look like a museum at times, with all those books and artifacts under glass. Bulletproof, of course, and not because the archivists were trying to keep prying fingers out, but to keep the artifacts in where they belonged. Some of them could get pretty frisky.

  “Just saying,” I said. “I can see you’ve been busy, but it doesn’t hurt to take a break once in a while.”

  “Fine. Just finishing this one thing, and I’ll head home.” His nose crinkled as he furrowed his brow, his glasses slipping again. “You sure you don’t want to grab something else on the way out?”

  I patted my belly. “Nah. I think I’m good.” I probably was. My body was starting to acknowledge the fact that I’d filled it to capacity. “Plus I really don’t think Thea wants me roaming around after dark. Especially not now. I’ll order something if I get hungry.”

  Herald nodded at his desk. “There are takeout menus in my left drawer. Or, you know, just look stuff up online. And be sure to deactivate the wards.”

  “Got it.” He’d shown me how to do that earlier on, shortly after I first joined the Lorica. I believed him outright when he said it was crucial. The best case scenario for not deactivating front door security was a pile of ash that used to be a delivery man. Worst case involved being incinerated yourself. />
  “Make yourself busy,” Herald said, shooing me away with one hand.

  He bent closer to his desk, and then it was like I wasn’t there. His mouth went slack as soon as he started peering through that enormous magnifying glass he kept suspended on a weird multijointed arm bolted to his desk. Kind of like a jeweler’s loupe, only way bigger. I’d noticed that the other archivists had their own glasses at their stations as well, so it wasn’t an apparatus he used exclusively for his powders. The Lorica liked it when the artifacts were properly sorted and categorized, down to the smallest details.

  Actually, sometimes it was the smallest details that mattered. Herald once told me that they found a little box with sigils and etchings carved into its surface. It took some very close inspection to discover that there was a series of buttons embedded in the cube, and that activating them in a particular sequence opened a portal to hell itself, or a place very much like it.

  The archivist who figured that out was very lucky, or not at all, depending on how you looked at it. On one hand, he got a sizeable bonus for ensuring that no one at the Lorica got sucked into an infernal dimension. On the other, he made the discovery himself, which meant that he got a glimpse of said dimension. He was never himself after the incident, plus his eyebrows never really grew back.

  And that was how I knew to be extra vigilant as I wandered around the Gallery. Arcane acquisition was dangerous enough without the risks of accidentally pressing the wrong button on some mechanical artifact, or of accidentally triggering the contingency spells on a grimoire that alerted its owners when it was in danger.

  All of its owners. Seriously. One of the Hounds experienced that, and it was pure chaos. Everyone who had ever owned the grimoire, dead or alive, came all at once to retrieve the relic, fighting the Lorica’s people and even each other in increasingly desperate bids to reclaim the book. We really deserved to be paid more.

  Not all the artifacts were dangerous, though. There was another book, bound in a strange blue leather, that was actually benign. Helpful, even, which was a word that few could associate with the denizens of the Gallery. It allowed you to store your memories and show them to others, even posthumously.

  That made it an excellent method of recording knowledge, whether mundane or magical, in the form of text, photos, or even what looked like videos projected directly on the grimoire’s pages. It had other abilities that gave you a glimpse at the public lives of your friends and loved ones, but I was told that most mages who used it ended up just scrying on the people they hated. According to Herald, for a time, everyone wanted a turn on the Phase Book.

  Speaking of grimoires, the Book of Plagues was still there, with its doubled protective measures: multiple strands of ensorcelled chains, and a case made out of bulletproof glass. I knew it had no eyes but I could swear it was staring me down, like it knew that I was the one responsible for its incarceration.

  “Listen,” I said, keeping my voice low. “We both know why you’re here, and that’s to make sure you don’t go around killing people. Okay? You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”

  The book ruffled its pages indignantly, like some irate bird of prey, but it said nothing, because it was a book. That was inaccurate, though. Some enchanters were talented enough to give their creations voices, sometimes through a kind of mouthpiece they could use to communicate, or even through telepathy. Which, incidentally, reminded me of Vanitas. I thought that it couldn’t hurt to check on him again, just to see if he’d left his dormant state.

  I craned my neck over to Herald, to see if he’d noticed me talking to the grimoire. He was buried in his work, as usual. He was one of the Gallery’s favorites, from my understanding, because of the sheer speed and efficiency of his work. I knew that he wanted to get that stuff out of the way to have more time for his alchemical research, which, in itself, was such a flexible branch of magic already. The feats Herald had us Hounds performing with his powders were nothing short of impressive.

  Who else could make an instant-action sleeping powder, or that stuff that covered tracks, and all that other dust he created? To be funny I once suggested that we should bootleg some of his inventions and sell them to the normals. Herald got all serious and put me through a fifteen-minute lecture about magic and ethics. Never again.

  I always thought that it was a large part of why we became buddies. I joke about him, but I always appreciated that he took the time to explain things about the Veil and the underground to me. Being pretty close in age helped, and we did share common interests in gaming and geek culture. Still, one of the biggest reasons we were friends was our mutual dislike of Bastion.

  It was a couple of days after we met. “Can you imagine the cheek of him? That Brandt moron said he was surprised I dabbled in alchemy. Dabbled! ‘I thought you just worked in the archives,’ he said. Oh, yeah, that’s me, all right. But I’m also an accomplished alchemist, an amateur demonologist, a certified librarian, with a master’s degree and everything, thanks very much, not that anybody ever fucking asks, and a level twelve barbarian at my weekly tabletop game, but yeah, sure. ‘I just work in the archives.’” I knew then that Herald and I were destined to be the fastest of friends.

  I wandered off in search of Vanitas, weaving among the new artifacts, and wrinkled my nose. Even here – perhaps, especially here – there were signs that the city’s rodents were still disoriented. I couldn’t see a single rat, but here and there were droppings, and everywhere I could distinctly hear the maddening scratching of their paws. I shook myself off. Nature would take its course, and reality would right itself in time. As if in answer, a reminder that there was still work to be done, thunder clapped from somewhere above, hard enough to rattle the building. The lights flickered. I grit my teeth and turned my focus back to the Gallery.

  God, there really were a lot of new acquisitions. Had I really been away that long? Under another case was what appeared to be a beat-up cell phone. It didn’t even have a touch screen, mind you, just a keypad. My best guess was that it had a spell, maybe several stored on it somewhere, or a couple of demons saved in the contacts. Briefly, I wondered if it was possible to email a fireball as an attachment. Hmm.

  Possibly the most disturbing find for the night was a child’s crayon drawing of a man and woman, probably their parents. The woman had a knife in her hand, and she kept stabbing the man with it, generating little crayon spurts of blood. That’s right, I said “kept stabbing.” Who knew how, but the drawings were moving, locked in some macabre animation loop, the little stick figure daddy gushing blood as he held his hands up in a futile defense. I knew it was just a kid’s drawing, but it still creeped the hell out of me, especially considering how I had been killed in pretty much the same way.

  I finally reached Vanitas’s case, ready for the disappointment of once again finding him asleep. Yet something was different. The garnets set into his hilt were brighter, or maybe it only seemed that way because of the light. But then I realized they were shining, exactly how they did whenever he spoke.

  “Vanitas?”

  The voice rang clear in my mind. “Dustin.”

  “Holy crap.” I pushed my hand up against the glass, hardly caring that I was fogging it up and leaving fingerprints from pressing in so close. “You’re back. Where’ve you been?”

  “I – I’m not sure. Far away.”

  “What, you mean you were hibernating?”

  Vanitas paused, like he was thinking. “Possibly. I haven’t fought in ages. I must have been spent. It takes time to replenish my energies, even longer when I’m away from my master.”

  “I’m not your master.”

  “Friend, then. But you should know something. You’re in danger. There is another of my kind, somewhere here in this room.”

  “What do you mean, another of your kind?”

  “I’m sure you know already. There are other blades like me, made from the same metal, with the same coloration. Some are larger, like claymores, axes.” Another pause. �
��Some are smaller. Like daggers.”

  My blood went cold. The same metal. I never wanted to consider it but I always thought it strange that I would be so drawn to a sword made out of the same cold bronze that killed me. But this was different. Vanitas was my friend. Wasn’t he? More importantly: the sacrificial blade that pierced my heart was here, right in the Gallery?

  “Whoever brought it here must mean you harm, Dustin.”

  I was certain Vanitas was right, but some morbid part of me yearned to see the dagger for myself. It could have held answers, clues about those who had slain me. But why would an implement used by the Black Hand be here at HQ? I leaned against the display case, my mind a flurry.

  “I have to find it.”

  “A terrible notion. But it’s your funeral, Graves.”

  Despite his warning Vanitas guided me among the shelves and display cases, muttering instructions as I drew closer. “Left,” he said, “down that way,” and “nearly there,” until I found the blade.

  It was just sitting out there in the open, the dagger with its gold and greenish tinge, set with a gem that looked very much like an eye in its pommel. I remembered that gem flashing in the candlelight the night that dagger plunged into my chest. I remembered how the skin of my palms ripped to ribbons when I held up my hands to ward it away, when the delicate spines along its hilt and guard tore into my fingers.

  I stumbled over my own feet as I approached. My heart raced, and I knew sweat was breaking out across my forehead, my arms. You’ll pardon the reaction but I wasn’t exactly prepared to see my own murder weapon staring me in the face. It wasn’t even under glass, like the other artifacts.

  “Herald?” I just managed to say his name out loud. “Herald. Where’s this from?”

  “Hmm?” His voice was distracted at first, but maybe he detected the distress in my tone because I heard movement from his end of the room. “What are you talking about?”