Shadow Magic (Darkling Mage 1)

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.”