Grave Intentions (Darkling Mage Book 3)

by Nazri Noor

  Prudence shrugged. “It’s already dead. Isn’t that what they say? You’re fine if the doppelganger dies.”

  I knew she was trying to be supportive, but it hardly helped, knowing what Sterling had said about the possibility of there being more of those things out there. Surely the same creature couldn’t have stolen the Heartstopper, then broken into Bastion’s place, and then Madam Chien’s, all in such a small span of time.

  “Could be fae,” Gil offered, sweeping at an already clean floor with a broom. “Which is even worse. A changeling? Cripes, it could be anything. It just needed a glamour.”

  “The fae would have left something behind. A token, a corpse, something to tie their bodies to their realm.” Sterling shook his head. “I’m telling you, this thing practically dissolved.”

  “Carver,” I breathed, finding my voice at last. “If anyone has an answer, Carver does.”

  Gil deposited his broom in a closet by the counter. “You two head back to the Boneyard and ask him, then.”

  “The Boneyard?” Prudence quirked an eyebrow.

  “Long story. But best option there is. You guys go talk to Carver. Prue and I will stay here with Madam Chien until morning, or at least until someone shows up to fix the window.”

  Madam Chien patted the back of his hand, her eyes brightening as she grinned. “Such a good boy. You’ll make a good husband. Stay here. I’ll make tea.”

  Gil blushed crimson. I grinned, but the smile dropped clear off my face when Prudence lifted her finger and rushed me.

  “Behave,” she said.

  I raised my hands, backing away. “Hey. I didn’t say nothing.”

  Her finger thrust past my head. “No. About that.”

  I followed where her finger was pointing. The grimace came naturally to my face. I wasn’t expecting Bastion to be standing on the sidewalk outside the apothecary. Sterling followed my line of sight, and I could tell that his posture tightened.

  The Boneyard and our “friends” at the Lorica might have broken bread together once, but it was clear that Sterling was still a bit sore about that one time Bastion dropped a car on him.

  “Hey,” I told Prudence, clenching my fist. “He threw the first punch, okay? I didn’t even get to hit him back.”

  “Just – he looks sorry, okay? At least I think he is. Look at the dumb idiot.”

  I did. Bastion’s shoulders were rounded, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. Even his hair, normally styled to looked mussed and effortless, seemed limp. I squinted at him, and grumbled. This was by design.

  The fucker needed something from me. I could say whatever I wanted about disliking Bastion Brandt, but I couldn’t call him stupid. He had his own brand of cunning, and I hated to admit that it was working – at least at raising my hackles.

  I gave Madam Chien and the others a curt nod, then pushed my way through the front door. The door chimes tinkled, then again as Sterling followed cautiously, sticking weirdly close to my back. Bastion’s lips were pursed. He looked up at me, back down at the sidewalk, then scuffed one of his shoes against the ground. The asshole. I knew that trick, too.

  “All right, Brandt. Spit it out. You want something, just say it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’ll be real, that caught me off guard.

  “I mean it. I’m genuinely sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like I did.”

  “Lashed out is an interesting way to put it,” I said, rubbing my jaw. Asher really did a great job. I thought there’d be bruising at the very least, but I felt fine. “So. You need something. You wouldn’t have shown up here past midnight if you didn’t.”

  Bastion clenched his jaw. Ah, I knew it. His eyes flitted from Sterling, then back to me. “Okay. But not here. We need to talk. Ride with me.” He thumbed over his shoulder.

  I’m not sure how I hadn’t noticed the black luxury sedan parked right behind him. I was just going to ask where his motorcycle was when an older man stepped out of the driver’s seat, then opened the rear door, his head bowed slightly.

  “Huh,” Sterling said. “Fancy.”

  “He’s coming with,” I said, patting Sterling on the shoulder.

  Bastion frowned. “Really? Is that necessary?”

  Sterling hissed. Vampire instincts, I guess. Old habits die hard.

  “Can’t hurt, can it? I’d feel safer. Shit’s going down in Valero, man. You’ve obviously heard about Prudence’s grandma, or you wouldn’t have known where to find us.”

  “Fine. Just – fine. Hurry and get in.”

  Sterling slipped into the car first, and I followed, ending up sandwiched between him and Bastion. The first thing I noticed were the leather seats. Firm, but somehow luxuriously buttery. The second was the minibar. The third, when the driver climbed back in, was the fact that he was wearing gloves.

  “Either you’re planning to murder me somewhere nice and private, or this is the beginning of a very interesting party.”

  “Neither.” Bastion leaned forward, and in the calmest, kindest voice I’d ever heard, spoke again. “Remington? Home, please.”

  The driver bowed his head of white hair, muttering something that sounded very much like “Yes, sir.”

  I eyed Bastion incredulously. “This is like the snazziest rideshare I’ve ever been in. Does the Lorica pay for this?”

  Bastion chuckled. “Please. I don’t need the Lorica paying for my shit.”

  Realization dawned. I should have figured it out sooner. This was a chauffeured car. My very first impression of Bastion being a brat raised in a mansion by nannies was on the nose after all. His family was super rich. Which meant –

  “We’re heading to Brandt Manor, aren’t we?” I felt silly just saying that out loud.

  Bastion nodded. Sterling snorted. “Seriously? Brandt Manor? That’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

  “If you say so,” Bastion said, sinking back into the seats, sifting through the bar. “Cocktail, anyone?’ He gave Sterling a passably sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, we don’t have plasma, though. Can I offer you a Bloody Mary?”

  “Bite me,” Sterling grumbled.

  “So Brandt Manor is totally real, right?” It sounded so farfetched. What kind of family had a named estate? Rich people, that’s who. Crazy, rich people.

  “Absolutely. It’s where I’ve lived all my life.” He transferred some ice into a glass, then tipped in a can of diet soda. “You’ll have to forgive the mess though. Mother’s having some work done on the helipad.”

  Chapter 10

  “How do I not know this about you?” I waved around myself, my sneakers looking so utterly pedestrian against the polished cobbles of Brandt Manor’s driveway. “How come none of us have ever heard of your family? Jesus, is that a tennis court?”

  Bastion followed my finger, then shook his head. “Badminton, actually. We don’t talk about it much, that’s why.”

  I blinked. “You’re the most self-absorbed, conceited human being I’ve ever met. That doesn’t make sense.”

  He shrugged. “We keep to ourselves. We don’t display our wealth.” He cleared his throat, perhaps aware of how insincere he sounded with his family’s hedge maze standing just a few dozen feet away. “People have heard of the Brandts, but it’s not because of the money. Besides, sometimes you have to look beyond yourself, Graves. Sometimes, it’s about protecting family.”

  He turned away, beckoning us to the mansion that must have had at least twelve bedrooms – and that was just in the front. “Family.” He’d said the word with a curious mix of gravity, and awe, and spite.

  It made me want to rear up and poke him in the chest. Who the hell was he to say that I didn’t know anything about family? But I just grumbled to myself, following as he took the first of several steps leading up to the front door.

  We’d hardly reached the top landing when one of the double doors creaked open, which was kind of a shame. I was very curious about the brass knockers set into each door,
the ones shaped like the heads of lions. Maybe it’s childish to admit that I kind of wanted to use the knockers myself, but really, when else was I going to get a chance?

  “Master Brandt,” the man said, his head bowing slightly. A butler? Had to be. His eyes swept over Sterling, then me, and he smiled in that polite kind of way that said you were welcome, but only if you didn’t put your feet up on the ottomans.

  Bastion nodded. “Silas.”

  We followed closely as Silas ushered us through the front door. I only just caught a glimpse of how he was also wearing white gloves before he slunk off and disappeared into a side entrance. I couldn’t tell you which of the doors he vanished into, if I’m honest, because there were a lot of them. Far too many.

  I’ve infiltrated mansions before. You know that. We’ve been through those places together, the ones owned by wealthy reality TV stars who’d just come into money, or by manic California party people who snorted their inheritance and burned their wealth on huge Roman orgies. None of those compared to the heart-wrenching opulence of Brandt Manor.

  I gaped openly at its marble floors, its rich wood-paneled walls, at ceilings that were far too high to dust yet still looked spotless, at the chandeliers dripping with crystal. I followed the curve of the grand, sweeping staircase that connected the already massive first floor to a second level that, beyond my comprehension, looked even more lavishly decorated.

  Brandt Manor was a castle, and I was a nose-picking peasant who’d happened to wander in by accident. Even through the soles of my sneakers I could sense the chill emanating from the marble, the cool, refined temperature of old money.

  On top of everything bizarre I’d already encountered in the arcane underground, it had to be something so mundane that put the cherry on top. But that’s inaccurate. I don’t know that you could look at Brandt Manor, at the family sigil of a lion that welcomed us at the front gate that was now prominently displayed on a frigging heraldic shield over the fireplace, at anything in this picture of ridiculous grandeur and think that it was anything approaching normal.

  But a woman appeared at the top of the staircase, and as she descended, the word “mundane” and all of its sibling synonyms vanished. She didn’t descend, actually. Float might have been more correct. And not in a metaphoric sense, either, because this woman, clad in a flimsy dressing robe thrown over a silk shift, was literally floating down the stairs, her body suspended a few inches in the air.

  If you had told me that slow, seductive jazz played in the background as I gawked at her, I would have believed you. She was a deeply attractive older woman, the kind of lady who might accurately be described as a mother I’d like to – um, follow on social media.

  In one hand she held a glass of something clear and brown. She watched me as she sipped, as if sizing me up, her eyes maintaining their searing contact over the rim of her glass. They reminded me of Bastion’s, flecked with the same brutal, unshakeable confidence. Her hair was the same blond. As Sterling and I were to find out, that wasn’t where their similarities ended.

  “Mother,” Bastion said, his tone flat, but soft enough to be respectful, though not enough to be affectionate. It’s strange how much you can glean from a single word, if you pay attention.

  “Sebastion,” the woman said. There was fondness there, to be sure, but it was hidden behind a thin sheet of ice. “You’ve brought guests.”

  Mrs. Brandt said the word in a way that suggested we were welcome, as long as we didn’t leave with our pockets jangling with their expensive silverware.

  “You didn’t have to make such a grand entrance,” Bastion said.

  Mrs. Brandt held her hand to her chest, feigning surprise. “Oh, was it grand?” She turned to me, then Sterling, the same mocking lilt in her voice. “Was I being grand, gentlemen?”

  I shook my head, meaning to be polite. Sterling grinned, and drawled. “Oh, yeah. Grand’s one way of putting it.”

  The corner of Mrs. Brandt’s lips lifted in a grin. That was a wink she gave Sterling. It must have been. I fought hard not to look Bastion right in the face to see how he was reacting, but out of the corner of my eye I could tell that his skin was going red.

  The foyer was silent again. The single, perfect sphere of ice in Mrs. Brandt’s drink clinked as she took another sip. She held the glass at waist level as she floated lower, her feet finally touching the ground. The ice clinked again.

  “You haven’t introduced me to your friends, Bastion.”

  He scoffed. “I’d hardly call them friends. But whatever. This is my mother, Luella Brandt.” He nodded at Sterling. “This one’s Sterling. That’s all you need to know about him.”

  Sterling grinned again, making no effort to hide his fangs. Luella bowed her head and returned a smile of her own.

  “And this one’s Dustin. We used to work together at the Lorica.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Brandt.”

  “Please, call me Luella.” Her eyes widened. “And ‘used to,’ is that what I heard?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was a Hound back when I was still working for them. I have, um, a different employer now.”

  Luella threw her head back and guffawed. “You see, Sebastion? There’s life after the Lorica after all.” She gripped her glass in both hands as she sashayed towards me, leaning in conspiratorially. “I tell him that he wastes his potential there, but he never listens,” she whispered, loud enough for everyone in the foyer to hear. Her breath smelled like expensive whiskey, and a hint of cinnamon.

  “Mother, please don’t start.”

  “Start what?” Luella held her hand against her chest again. The splay of her delicate fingers against the curve of her breastbone made her almost birdlike, and the sentiment of her words innocent. But I could see the hawkish intent in her eyes. “Start another perfectly reasonable discussion about why you’re wasting your life for the Lorica’s sake? That last incident with that Morgana woman was unacceptable, Sebastion, and if you think for one minute – ”

  Luella stopped mid-breath, the talon of her finger pointed directly at Bastion’s chest, and she said nothing more. A lot had been at risk in our most recent brush with the mad sorceress named Thea Morgana, once my mentor, once my murderer. My life was in danger, as was Bastion’s, though none of us came closer to mortal peril than Asher. Luella’s lashes fluttered, and she seemed to remember herself. Sterling stood perfectly still. I cleared my throat as quietly as I could.

  “Not in front of guests, mother,” Bastion said. His voice came out softly, his shoulders hunched. I’d never seen him sad before. I wrenched my gaze away.

  “I – apologize, gentlemen. I can get quite carried away when the subject of Sebastion’s father comes up.”

  I bit my tongue as hard as I could to avoid stating the obvious. No one had brought him up. But Luella answered anyway.

  “He was killed in action working as a Hand for the Lorica. We lost him years ago, but every day I remember him still.”

  I didn’t know that about Bastion. I realized there was a lot I didn’t know about him, least of all that we’d both lost a parent.

  Luella turned her head, her eyes lingering on the portrait over the mantle. Painted there was a younger version of herself, holding the hand of a preteen Bastion. Behind them, standing proud, was a man I imagined Bastion would look like in thirty years. He was striking, imperious, his hair flecked with gray. Power radiated from his eyes. How a painting can do that, I couldn’t tell you, but I caught Sterling staring as well.

  “He was a great man,” Luella murmured. “Strong. Handsome.” She curled her hand into a fist, the ball of ice in her glass clinking as she gritted her teeth. “Vital, and powerful. One of the strongest the Lorica has ever known. He could have been a Scion.”

  Scions were the highest ranking of mages in the Lorica, at least that I knew of. I’d only ever met one, Odessa, a Scion who specialized in creating mystical shields. Looking back, Thea might have qualified as a Scion as well. I never bothered to ask
what her rank was. It was unimportant then, back when I believed she was a friend and mentor to me.

  Bastion’s lips were still pressed together, his eyes cautiously avoiding mine and Sterling’s, his gaze glued to the floor, his ears burning crimson. Luella reached out and made a motion with her hand that looked as if she was stroking the air. She stood several feet away, but Bastion’s hair lifted up and out of his face, as if swept by an invisible hand. Ah. Maybe magical talent was genetic after all.

  “I only want what’s best for you, Sebastion. And in my opinion, that does not involve a life led with the Lorica. You have no use for employment, nor for money. All your needs are paid for. Why do you put yourself in so much danger for the same faceless organization that killed your father?”

  Bastion bit his lip, his hand in a loose fist. “Because they still do good, mother. They can help, even in things like this break-in.” His eyes flashed to me, then to a far corner of the mansion’s atrium.

  It was a familiar sight. Moonlight streamed in through what was once a beautiful bay window. It was broken now, shards of glass strewn across the marble floor, over the plush seat in the window’s sill, scattered across the books set in the same alcove. The wind blew gently outside, but even with the window broken, the fine, gauzy drapes stayed perfectly still.

  “We cast a barrier as a precaution,” Luella said, as if in answer to my unspoken question. She lifted her glass to her lips, about to take a sip, when she seemed to remember something else. “And before you ask why we don’t sustain a magical wall at all times, you try maintaining a household staff of twenty and having to lower the damn field every time a chauffeur drives in or the gardener pops out.”

  Did she say twenty?

  “So you’ve had a break-in as well,” Sterling said, sweeping off to inspect the broken window. He made no effort to hide that he was sniffing at the air. He was looking for the same traces of blood. I caught him patting at his jacket, as if to check that the phial of corruption he drew from Other-Dustin’s corpse was still there. “What were they after?”