Last Rites (Darkling Mage 6)

“I still have the lock of hair you wanted from Nyx,” I said glumly.

“Keep it,” Arachne said. “You may yet find a use for it.” She winked at me with all eight of her eyes. I kept the twitch out of my face. So she never wanted Nyx’s hair after all?

“I will send my children in search of the rulers of the gods,” she said. “I make no promises, sweetling, but should we find one that will speak to you, then one of my offspring will be in touch.”

So she was still on my side of the court after all. “Thank you,” I said, relenting. “Anything helps, Arachne. Thank you.”

She gave me a tight smile as she lifted her abdomen, a thick rope of web firing like a grappling hook up into the darkness. “Farewell, Dustin Graves. Be safe.”

I waved at her as she spun upside down and ascended into nothingness. I pursed my lips and shook my head. All that trouble and drama of going after Nyx’s hair, all for nothing. Typical entities. Flighty, and fickle.

But I couldn’t begrudge Arachne for wanting to help all the same. Still, I knew never to depend on the entities entirely. I had to count on myself, on my own network. So a creator god could tell me how to stop the Eldest, huh? Good thing I had someone I could turn to.

It was time to give the All-Father a phone call.

Chapter 7

Except that I didn’t have his number. I mean who the hell gets direct access to Odin’s cellphone? Did he even use one? But we’re talking about a god who got so bored with immortality that he opened a bed and breakfast – one that served live goats and warm ketchup. Probably a no, then.

I scrolled through the contacts on my phone as surreptitiously as I could. Asher had already scolded me about it once. Sure, I got what he meant. Being glued to my phone wasn’t very polite, but it was his fault that we were in a graveyard in the first place.

Let me explain.

After the impromptu trip to Madam Babbage’s now-migrated chicken-legged carnival, I’d fallen asleep, hoping to get enough shuteye to be fresh in the morning. But no such luck. It must have been the butt-crack of dawn when Asher shook me awake. I wanted to get mad, but it was hard to be grumpy with the kid, especially with the way he was beaming at me.

“The hell are you so happy about?” I grumbled, pulling the covers up over my chest.

“Come on,” Asher said. “Carver’s taking me out, and he wants you to come with.”

I buried my face in my pillow, letting a low whine into it. “Why me, though? Tell him to bring Gil. Or Sterling. Wanna sleep.”

Asher nudged me again. “Don’t be silly. Sterling would burn to a crisp, and Gil’s not home.”

I grunted angrily into the pillow. Gil probably stayed over at Prudence’s place again.

“Besides, Carver specifically asked for you. Come on. Dust. Buddy. Old pal. Come on.” He shook me by the shoulder. “Come on.”

“Don’t wanna,” I whined. “Go ’way.”

Seriously. Dustin needs his beauty sleep. The world’s handsomest thief has a reputation to uphold, I’ll have you know. But Asher was persistent.

It took some effort, but I grumpily hauled my carcass out of bed after a little more of his prompting. More like begging, really, but he sounded so excited to head out of the Boneyard. All that time locked up with the Viridian Dawn – like I said, it was hard to be angry with him.

However, I have to say, it wasn’t all that hard to be angry with Carver, who for reasons I couldn’t initially fathom had decided to lug us all the way to Latham’s Cross, Valero’s biggest and certainly creepiest cemetery. I get that he wanted Asher to commiserate with the dead, and it wasn’t until I’d spent a whole minute grumbling and whining to Carver about being brought along that he gave me an answer that shriveled me with shame.

“If you’re quite finished,” he said icily, “I recall your father mentioning that Latham’s Cross was where your mother was laid to rest. When was the last time you visited her grave, Dustin?”

My face turned red, burning hot even in the dewy, crisp air of an early morning. I shoved my hands in my pockets, then toed at the grass, saying nothing. He was right, though. As much as it hurt to think of Mom being gone sometimes, I could have bothered to visit her a little more often. Despite reconciling with Dad all that time ago, somehow I’d never thought to consider going with him.

And so there we were, Carver, Asher, and myself, walking along the dew-slick grass of Latham’s Cross. Sunlight streamed in through the trees, the twittering of birds the only real sound to break the silence of the morning. The faint chill of the air left more dew on slabs and headstones, on the leaves of little saplings pushing up through the earth, a melancholic reminder of how death inevitably follows life.

I was still checking my phone for contacts, trying to keep it hidden from Asher, which wasn’t much of a problem with how absorbed he was in one of Carver’s droning lectures. Damn. Nothing. I thought I had the Twilight Tavern’s contact info saved somewhere.

Maybe I could call that valkyrie – Olga, was it, or Helga? I could ask her to put in a good word for me. But as a quick web search showed, finding a number for the Tavern was impossible. They didn’t even have a website. Come on, Odin, get with the times.

Carver must have used some other method to book our rooms for us – telepathy, an arcane contract, hell, maybe a non-electronic transfer from a magical bank account. Hmm. With how much Sterling was hitting on Olga and the other valkyries, surely he would have some way to get in touch. I fired off a quick text to him, then dropped my phone in my pocket, just as Asher threw me a dirty look.

“Seriously.” He gestured just past my head. “Those people think you’re being rude.” I turned to look where he had indicated, seeing, as expected, nothing but a clump of trees.