False Gods

by Nazri Noor

  “It’s like that Scion woman we met the other day.” Florian audibly shivered. “She gives me the creeps.”

  “You’ve got a Scion on your tail? The Lorica really thinks you’re that important and dangerous?” Sterling sniffled, dragging a finger under his eye, feigning tears. “My baby is all grown up.”

  “Very funny, Sterling. Have you heard of her, maybe? Goes by Maharani. Rani for short.”

  He shook his head. “That’s totally new to me. Must be a transfer, or a recent promotion?”

  “Whatever it is,” Florian said, “she can stop time.”

  Sterling’s laugh was hard and humorless as he looked at Florian in the rearview mirror. “A chronomancer? Man, you guys really are popular. Which is a polite way of saying that you two are mostly fucked.”

  I sighed, melting in defeat into the leather upholstery, cupping my chin as I stared out the window. “Buddy, tell me something I don’t already know.”

  26

  It was an hour or so away from midnight when we finally arrived in Silver Lake. A very pretty district, fitting of the name, and exactly as expensive as I imagined. The part of the area we were in had houses on a series of rolling hills that overlooked the rest of the city. The specific house we were staking out was modern and boxy, all smooth white walls and huge glass windows.

  We were careful to make little noise as we exited Sterling’s rental, gently shutting the doors and parking a full block away, just to be sure. The air was cool, and almost sweet, which was weird for basically anywhere in Los Angeles, as if paying for a premium spot on a hill translated to getting slightly improved atmospheric quality.

  “I like this area.” Florian dug his hands into his hips, breathing deeply as he took in the surroundings. “And shame that we might have to break the windows on that thing just to get at this Wyatt Whateley guy. It’s really a very pretty house.”

  “Very modern.” Sterling’s fingers shook as he fumbled for a cigarette, the pack trembling in his hand. “Very chic.”

  “Dude.” I pointed at the pack. “You need to cut down on those. Look at you, you’re a mess.”

  He bared his teeth at me, and I almost cowed from the sight of huge eyes and even huger fangs. “I’ve been driving for nearly two and a half hours and I haven’t had a single puff in all that time. That’s the longest I’ve gone without a smoke for decades.” He popped a cigarette in his mouth, his hands practically vibrating as he brought his lighter to his lips.

  “I’m just saying, this looks like it’s a problem for you. What if you have to get on a plane?”

  “Hate planes. Fuck planes. Why fly when Carver can teleport us long distances? Now shut the fuck up and go investigate. Figure out how we’re going to crack this place.”

  Sterling dismissed me by blowing a plume of smoke directly into my face. See, he’d been so nice to me all night that I knew it was only a matter of time until the real, asshole side of him came out to play. This was more like it. Good old nasty Sterling.

  “Rude,” I muttered, coughing. “So rude.”

  “Come on, dude.” Florian tugged on my upper arm, peeling me away from Sterling even as I protested.

  “I should have let Florian stake you, damn it.” I coughed some more, snorting and sniffling as I tried to get the acrid smell of cigarettes out of my nostrils. “Right in the heart.”

  Sterling blew another plume of smoke after us, even if it didn’t stream out far enough to reach me, just as a last proverbial middle finger. “Kiss my lily-white ass, nephilim.”

  Oh yeah, bad Sterling was back in full force.

  Whateley’s house was even prettier and shinier up close, floodlights in the pebbled zen garden reflecting against the windows and making the whole thing gleam like a giant, polished marble box. Weirdly, it reminded me a lot of those Cube things that Loki was planning to mass produce.

  Now, the predicament here was that the inside of the house was just as brightly lit as the outside. Any aspirations we might have held of quietly sneaking in, smashing a vase over the back of Wyatt’s head, then absconding with his ancient magical collector’s item were quickly dashed.

  “I don’t like our chances here.” Florian peeked over a bush, trying to get a better view of the yard. “No cracked windows for me to sneak some vines in, either.”

  Shaking my head, I sighed. “Not that it’d help that much. We don’t even know where he’s keeping Mistleteinn. I mean, look. How are you going to find it? His collection looks huge.”

  “What are we talking about?” said a third voice.

  I almost screamed. Sterling’s head was poked between us, his cold, dead arms draped over our shoulders. I’d forgotten that about him. Sterling had all the beneficial traits of a vampire. He had improved strength, an inability to die barring some very specific conditions, the works. But he was exceptionally good at two things: being super fast, and being super sneaky.

  “Will you not do that, please?” I hissed. “You almost made me crap my pants.”

  “That would have been hilarious. Imagine.” Sterling squeezed my shoulder, leaning against my back as he peered over the same bush. “So what are we looking for, exactly?”

  “A sword.” I gestured vaguely at the Whateley house’s enormous windows. “But that’s really all we know. I don’t have a description or anything.”

  “And it’ll be tough to find regardless.” Florian pointed at the house. “Look at all that stuff in there.”

  To be fair, Wyatt Whateley made an effort to make his collection as presentable as possible, and you’d never get away with calling it a mess. But the man kept a lot of paraphernalia around. Like, a lot. He was lucky to have so much space to keep it in. There were glass cases for every last precious item in his collection, too: sensitive-looking books opened to specific pages, ancient pottery, statuettes made out of precious, rare materials. But no sword.

  “Just you let Uncle Sterling handle this. Follow my lead.”

  Florian blinked at me. “Uncle Sterling?”

  I groaned. “Bad joke from back at the Boneyard. My father, Samyaza? His blood brought Dustin back, so the joke was that Dustin was also sort of my father.” I rolled my eyes and thumbed over my shoulder at Sterling. “Which makes this jerk think that he’s my uncle.”

  “Respect your elders, damn it.” Sterling tugged on me by the scruff of my jacket. “Uncle Sterling says we’re heading in. Now.”

  Was he joking? I glowered at him, ripping his unsettlingly cold hand away from my jacket. “It’s really cute that you think you’ve got this covered, but how are we supposed to get in there? Throw a brick through the window?”

  “I could throw Sterling through the window,” Florian offered. “That might work.”

  Sterling rolled his eyes. “Amateurs. Look.”

  He pointed at the far left wall of the house. I almost slapped myself on the forehead. The front door was ajar. We could just strut into the place.

  “Wait.” I held my hand out against Florian’s chest, knowing correctly on instinct that he was always so excitable about getting a move on. “How do we know there wasn’t a break-in? Maybe someone’s already in there. Shit. Did someone beat us to the sword?”

  “Highly unlikely.” Sterling pointed at the driveway, then the sidewalk. “That’s probably Whateley’s car, and there, on the street. That’s a guest. Also, listen closely.”

  It was unmistakable. Soft jazz was streaming out of the doorway, along with the clearly titillated musical laughter of more than one person.

  “He’s hosting someone.” Sterling sniffled and rubbed his chin. “Maybe a lady friend. Or a buyer. Either way, they forgot to shut the door behind them, which works for us.”

  “So what do you propose we do, exactly?” It was a challenge, yes, but surely Sterling wasn’t suggesting that we just waltz in there uninvited.

  “I’ll do all the talking.” Sterling grabbed the edges of his leather jacket, tugging. “I’m good at dealing with rich people. Let me handle this.”


  Florian’s mouth was partly open as he marveled over Sterling’s harebrained plan. “You’re really good at this.”

  “Oh, well, you know how it is.” Sterling grinned at me as he stretched, rolling his neck around, his joints popping. “I’m an old hand when it comes to this kind of stuff. Mason’s great in a fight, but he’s a goody two shoes. Not very useful for breaking and entering.”

  I perked up, my spine stiffening as I bristled. “I am, too.”

  “Shut up.” Sterling pulled on us abruptly, lowering us behind the bush. “Someone’s coming.”

  Heightened senses were definitely part of the vampire skill set, and I credited Sterling’s for warning us about what was approaching. Footsteps from inside the house leading to the front door, first of all, followed by a voice.

  “Hang on in there, Wyatt, I just need to get something from the car. You really are twisting my arm on this, you know.”

  It was a man’s voice. Wyatt’s voice joined it in pleasant laughter, and it was so familiar that I just had to poke my head up over the bush, to see for myself.

  “Mason,” Sterling hissed, pulling on my arm, forcing me down again. “What the hell are you doing?”

  My lips drew back in anger as I verified the voice’s owner. “I fucking knew it,” I growled.

  There, walking out of the Whateley house, wearing casual clothes and an easy grin, was Quilliam J. Abernathy.

  27

  The blood rose to my temples, warming me more than usual against the cool Silver Lake air. It was something about my nephilim genetics, maybe. I was, just as likely, extra pissed about seeing Quill again. The fucker did try to make both me and Florian explode, after all, and he directly put a damper to my master plan of disappearing from arcane society altogether.

  My shoes scraped against the asphalt as Sterling held me back, grabbing me by the scruff yet again.

  “Let me at him.” My arms pumped in a windmill, and I kept going despite how stupid and cartoonish I knew I looked to the guys. “I’m gonna rip his fucking face off.”

  Sterling effortlessly shoved me into a bush. I landed on my butt, confused, in a tangle of leaves, twigs, and grass, shortly before getting even angrier as I started to formulate my protest.

  “Mason.” Florian held his palm against my chest, restraining me as gently as he knew how. “Chill out. Your sigils are going bananas.”

  That took some of the anger out of me. Florian was right. I was glowing like a firefly, the glyphs etched into my skin lighting me up like a Christmas tree. That only ever happened when I got too emotional, and I hated that I ever allowed it to begin with, but hey, I’m still half human.

  My breathing went into an even rhythm as I stilled my body and mind, shutting my eyes and regulating myself the way Carver had taught me, a kind of simplistic meditation. Even with my eyes closed, I could see the golden cast of my sigils fading.

  And fine, Sterling helped, in his own brusque, obnoxious way. I admit, the bush was a cool, if slightly damp enough place. Being tossed into it was a bit like getting spritzed with some cold water, which at least helped lower my temper and temperature enough to get me to settle a little. Sterling went down on his haunches, leveling his eyes with mine.

  “So, are we done being a rabid little honey badger now?”

  I bit the inside of my bottom lip, then nodded sheepishly.

  “So here’s the plan. Florian, you stay out here where it’s nice and full of nature. If everything goes to hell, you’re our backup. Use your vegetable magic and save our asses in there.”

  Florian gave a little salute, then nodded briskly, all seriousness.

  “And you. No more tantrums in there, okay, Mason? We’re doing this my way. We’re going to charm the pants right off of this Wyatt guy, then figure out how to take his goods.”

  “Right. I promise, no more tantrums.”

  I lied. I couldn’t promise that. Come on. Being grumpy’s my whole thing.

  We waited for Quilliam to collect whatever it was he needed from his car. When the coast was clear, Sterling and I stood up, leaving Florian hiding in the bush. Sterling kindly picked out some twigs and leaves from my hair, then brushed my clothes off a little, just to make us look convincingly presentable.

  “There,” he said, adjusting my jacket. “Now you’re good enough to trick the best of them with Uncle Sterling.”

  “Can we – can we please drop this whole Uncle Sterling thing?”

  “Never. Now come on.”

  I followed Sterling up the cobblestone path to the front door, which, to my surprise, was again left ajar. That suggested a kind of familiarity at play. Wyatt Whateley must have trusted Quilliam enough, and it did imply that this was going to be a short visit. But what the hell did Quill want with a collector of rare treasures? Was Wyatt in danger?

  Sterling shoved the door fully open with one hand and swept into the house. I scuttled in after him, and the warm, controlled temperature of the great indoors fell over me like a soft, comforting blanket. Wyatt’s house smelled nice, too, like someone had lit some scented candles before we came in. A fragrance I could best describe as green lingered in the air, making everything smell faintly like a forest.

  We passed the foyer, which opened up into a living area, where Quilliam stood at a high table opposite the man of the house. Wyatt Whateley was a mousier sort of gentleman, with beady little eyes that told me he was shy, but not unintelligent. Quite the opposite. He gave me the impression of someone who made himself seem smaller and more vulnerable precisely to put them off guard. It was clever. Too clever.

  Wyatt Whateley blinked at us, once, twice, before asking a meek, soft question. “Who are you gentlemen? Is there some way I can help you?”

  Quill’s lips hitched into a satisfied smile when his eyes caught mine. I bit my tongue hard to stop myself from doing or saying anything that would blow our cover. It felt as if both Quill and I had silently agreed to pretend we didn’t know each other, to see how the rest of the evening would play out. I placed my focus on Wyatt instead, just about to respond, when Sterling swept in and, just like he promised, did all the talking for me.

  “We’re here about the wares.”

  Wyatt blinked again. “The wares?”

  Sterling tapped his foot against the marble floor and snapped his fingers impatiently. “The wares, man. The wares. We talked about this.”

  Recognition washed over Wyatt’s face. “Oh my goodness. Are you Mr. Devereux? Mr. Charles Devereux?”

  “Yes.” Sterling never missed a beat. “Exactly. And I’m here to see the goods.”

  The gamble paid off, then. Quill was here to buy something off of Wyatt, who apparently liked to collect and keep precious things, but not so much that he would turn his nose up at an opportunity to turn a profit. The good thing about this was that we would potentially get the sword without a fight. The bad news was – well, it was Quilliam.

  “I thought you would have more of an accent. I didn’t expect you to sound so – I don’t know, British.”

  “Oh, it’s been a while since I lived in Loosey-anna.” I nearly stomped on Sterling’s boot just then, and he just shot me this wild-eyed look that more or less said “The fuck was I supposed to say?”

  Improvise it was, then.

  “And this is my young associate.” Sterling pulled me closer, slinging one arm across my shoulders. I tried not to flinch over how it felt like someone had dumped an ice pack on my back. “Introduce yourself to the nice gentlemen.”

  “Of course.” I didn’t even bother with an accent, they could come to the conclusions they wanted. “The name’s Jason. Jason – Albright.” Nice. Nailed it.

  Somewhere in the back, I thought I heard Quilliam snorting.

  “Oh, my manners,” Wyatt said. “And this is Mr. Quilliam J. Abernathy. He’s just here to pick up a book. I should have everything in order soon, gentlemen.”

  “Well, hurry,” Sterling said, tapping his boot even faster. “We don’t have all d
ay. Jason and I are here to acquire Mistleteinn, and then we’re off. It’s a long drive down to San Francisco.”

  I blinked at Sterling, mildly impressed at the sudden backstory he’d cooked up for us.

  “Mistleteinn?” Wyatt wrung his hands. “The sword that once belonged to the draugr Prainn? Mr. Devereux, I thought you were interested in that vase we communicated about. A whole email chain, it was.”

  “Yes, yes, but I think I’ve changed my mind. I would much rather purchase the blade instead.” He cast his eye among the glass cases littering the room, somehow lucking out on the only one that contained a sword, then swept over to it dramatically. “Look at its majesty, how it’s so – so rusty and broken.”

  Wyatt Whateley followed after him with tiny steps, his little eyes already glimmering with the promise of a sale. I left them to it, my feet carrying me unerringly towards Quilliam’s side of the room, almost like I wasn’t even in control of them anymore. I glared daggers at him as he taunted me with a cocked eyebrow. Somehow the two of us ended up in an alcove, out of sight of both Sterling and Wyatt Whateley.

  Quill tilted his head at me and grinned. “Well, well – Jason Albright. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Can it, Abernathy.” I spoke in a low, rough whisper. “How many times have you fucked us over now? Don’t think you’re going to get away with your bullshit again.”

  To my annoyance, he ignored practically everything I said, simply folding his hands behind his back and peering past me. “And who the hell is this? Your sugar daddy?”

  “Shut up, Quill. You’re here to steal that book, aren’t you? You should pay for that, you fucking asshole.”

  “I’m a regular customer here. Wyatt Whateley is one of my best sources for new – ah, shall we say, scholarly acquisitions. Of course he’s going to be fully paid. Dear Mason, you must have me confused for someone poor. ”

  I glowered at him, my nails digging into my palms, ready to throw one or two punches upside his smug, snide face.