Blood Pact (Darkling Mage 7)

Chapter 1

I ran up the driveway, the fragrant air of the gardens around me filling my lungs. This place was teeming with flowers, their petals pale and gorgeous among leaves that were damp with evening dew, that glistened like shards of black glass.

But the mansion itself was even prettier. Sorry, stately would be the word. Maybe even regal. Jazz music – live, naturally – streamed out of the crack in the double doors in its facade. I could imagine the notes tumbling playfully down the marble steps, sounding in time with the click of my borrowed dress shoes as they pattered against the cobblestone driveway.

Hi, I’m Dustin Graves, and I’m a dirty, dirty peasant.

At least compared to the people around me, all of them streaming gracefully up towards the house while I ran helter-skelter. Everyone else had gotten out of expensive chauffeured vehicles. I had to clamber my way out of a dented rideshare. Kind of embarrassing, frankly, but I still gave my driver five stars on the app. So his car was dinged up. He was nice, okay?

I panted as I reached the mansion. Not easy running with a mask on your face. I should have mentioned, really, that everyone had to wear masks for this particular ball. Yeah, it was that kind of event.

My mask was in the shape of a fox, because I’m sly, and cunning, and all those other words people use to describe roguishly handsome rascals like yours truly. Plus Herald said it made me look foxy, which is a word that rhymes with sexy, and I knew that was what he really meant, so I rolled with it. Five bucks at a costume store. Why the hell not, right?

Sterling stood at the base of the steps, looking like he’d been poured into his suit, which fit so supernaturally well on his slender frame. He wore a mask in the shape of a cat’s face. No real explanation required, honestly. Sterling’s basically a cat given human – well, vampiric form, as the case may be.

He tapped his foot impatiently on the marble, one hand pushed into his hip, the other held up to his face, like he was indicating an invisible watch to me.

“You’re late,” Sterling snarled. “I’ve burned through half a pack of cigarettes by now.”

“Sorry,” I said, skidding up to his side, wiping the sweat off my forehead. “Sorry. Herald and I had a hard time picking out the right suit.”

“Right. If you say so.” Sterling’s eyes trailed up and down my body. “You look good, I have to admit.”

I grinned, taking the rare Sterling-brand compliment and shrugging. “I do, don’t I?” I adjusted my tie, smirking to myself. “Maybe I should dress up more often.”

“Okay, it was one tiny compliment. Geez. Let’s go in.”

Sterling rolled his shoulders, then adjusted the skinny gray tie he’d selected for the occasion. I’d never, ever say it to his face, but even with his features hidden, I had to admit that he looked incredibly dashing. He marched up the steps, invitations in hand, and I did my best to imitate the confidence in his stride.

The place? The Ramsey House, mansion of sisters Delilah and Marybeth Ramsey. The pair of Texan transplants had come to Valero with their oodles in inherited oil money, to set roots and spend their wealth somewhere among the California folk.

Or at least that was what I’d read in the makeshift dossier we’d built on them back at the Boneyard. The Ramseys were the belles of Valero society, feted and adored from the day they first set foot in the city about a decade ago. Silver-haired, stylish, and outrageously wealthy, they were everything to aspire to.

And our aliases? Easy. Sterling was Mister Silver, an eclectic jeweler just passing through town, and I was his apprentice, the young, handsome, and totally ripped, totally not scrawny Justin Braves.

As for how we even got invited to such a fancy society event to begin with – well, we didn’t. All it took was a little trickery, a combination of Sterling’s alarming skills in forgery and a small dose of Carver’s enchanting prowess. Together they whipped up a pair of convincing invitations that allowed us to breeze right through the front door.

We weren’t on the list – I mean come on, Silver and Braves didn’t even exist. But through magic and mimicry, Carver made us exist, and at least to the ushers, their minds enfeebled by the enchanted invitations, Mister Silver and young Master Braves not only belonged, but were honored guests. Hell, the lady with the clipboard and the headset even sent someone to escort us into the ballroom.

And man, the ballroom. At least a hundred guests, easily, filling the manor’s great hall, some swaying to the live music, others gossiping eagerly with each other, conspiratorial and familiar despite the anonymity of the masquerade. A herd of slender women with the heads of gazelles whispered in one corner, as men wearing lion manes and masks loudly argued politics in another.

That was the theme, after all: animals. The masks came in all flavors: simple paper ones, more ornate headdresses made with real feathers and adorned with fake horns, even a couple of lifelike rubber and silicone numbers that made their wearers look almost convincingly anthropomorphic.

And as much as the quality and creativity of the masks differed, one thing stayed uniform throughout: the utter opulence of what everyone was wearing. Women came in sleek gowns as sharply cut and as richly hued as jewels. The men wore crisp, creaseless suits and tuxes so finely tailored they shouldn’t have been able to move.

I smoothed down my clothes, feeling positively underdressed. But that was okay. I lived and died by charisma, and a little bit of arrogance. I was going to be fine. And really, I half expected to see Bastion in the crowd, though considering how masks were de rigueur – that’s French for “wear that shit or get out” – it would’ve been next to impossible to spot him. What really took me by surprise, though, was how quickly Sterling slipped into his persona, easily blending in with the richies.

Now, you know me. I’m good at lots of things, and between working as a Hound and having so much contact with the shadows, you would think that camouflage would be my forte. It’s very different, though, trying to mingle with the moneyed masses versus breaking and entering to steal stuff. Sterling seemed prepared for this sort of thing, and I just felt like an overgrown boy wearing a borrowed suit and his father’s shoes.

/> Regrettably, both of those details were factual and true. You’re nuts if you really think I’m about to drop cash on buying or renting a suit. I’ve needed a suit all of two times in my entire life: a cousin’s wedding, and my mom’s funeral. I wasn’t looking to attend one of either of those any time soon.

I’ll let you in on a little secret, though. Herald was really nice about letting me borrow one of his suits. Sure, I was a little taller than him, but his charcoal jacket and pants fit me just fine. He even threw in a vest for me to wear underneath.

The best part of it was when he started – and literally could not stop complimenting me. He was sneaking pictures with his phone and everything, pulling at my jacket, adjusting my tie. I kept flustering at the attention.

“Stop it,” I said, laughing, batting his hands away. “I can’t tell if you want me to wear this out or rip it off me again.”

“The second thing,” Herald breathed, his hands working surprisingly fast.

And – and you don’t need to know the rest, but it most definitely messed up my clothes, and my hair. And Herald’s sheets.

Yeah. That was why I was late. I still needed to book a car to get from Herald’s apartment all the way to the Ramsey House, too. But Sterling didn’t need to know, right? I was sure he had a hunch, but I wasn’t about to give him more ammunition.

“Mister Silver,” our escort said, depositing us, to my delight, very close to a number of banquet tables groaning with appetizers. “Mister Braves. Please enjoy your evening.”

The man had only just turned around and I was already stuffing myself full of tasty treats. Six kinds of cheeses, delicate little slices of fruit, what I could only assume was caviar, my first taste of foie gras – was this how the rich lived and ate? These were all the shitty parts of animals that the rest of the world didn’t want. Holy shit, it was great.

“My God, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Sterling hissed. He tipped his champagne flute back, delicately grasping it by the stem, like – like some fancy rich guy. “Try not to look so poor.”

I frowned at him through a mouthful of melon and ham. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Even from behind his feline mask Sterling managed to give me a withering glare, his eyes traveling up and down my body. “Swallow everything that you’ve shoved in your face, and then maybe talk to me again. I’m going to mingle, get some information. You stay here and – masticate.” Then he walked away – no, glided away, the pompous ass.

“Yeah? Well fine! I’ll stand here and masticate all night long.”

I swallowed thickly, took a swig of champagne, then wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. A nearby clump of women in butterfly masks unfolded their fans and whispered to each other, clearly discussing me.

Okay, fine. So maybe I did stand out a little. Get some information, huh? Shit, no sweat. I’m Dustin Graves, the handsomest, charmingest so-and-so in Valero. Nobody said this was a competition, but since Sterling was being such an ass, I was happy to make it one now.

Time to put all of that charisma to good use.

I smoothed down my jacket, broadened my shoulders, put on my best smile, then sauntered over to the butterfly women, positively sparkling from the inside. Whatever I did seemed to work, the three of them tittering as I approached.

“Ladies,” I said, infusing my voice with – I don’t fucking know, man, with money, I guess, just like Sterling said. It was all about the fantasy, the masquerade. “A fine evening, isn’t it?”