Blood Pact (Darkling Mage 7)

I reached for my backpack, prepared to unleash Vanitas. Could he see through magic, find our invisible attacker? One way to find out.

“What in gay hell is going on out here?”

Metric Fuck-Ton, queen of the Glovebox, stood at the entryway to the alley with her legs apart, her enormous breastplate thrust out as her voice boomed.

“We don’t know,” Sterling yelled back, “but we’d really fucking appreciate your help in the matter, ladies.”

Imperial stalked across the street, quite literally rolling up her sleeves as she did, muttering to herself. I thought it was an incantation at first, but as she drew closer, I clearly heard what she was saying.

“Bloody young idiots bringing their pert little arses around, causing trouble, never giving old Impy the kissies she deserves, and what do the Fuck-Tons get for their trouble? Little pricks. You!”

I jerked, startled when she thrust her dagger nails directly at my face.

“Out of the way,” she snarled.

“Yes ma’am,” I stammered.

Imperial and Metric walked on, converging on Sterling. I was half convinced that they were about to start beating him up for all the trouble we’d caused until I noticed the glint in the pink glasses they were each wearing.

Enchanted. They could see the invisible stalker. Well, well. This was about to get very interesting.

Imperial reached forward, digging her nails into Sterling’s back, except they didn’t connect, only meeting with thin air. Said thin air screamed in agony as Imperial bared her teeth and kept on digging. Then she wrenched her hands away from Sterling. Metric mirrored her actions, stabbing her own nails into her own expanse of thin air. They stood that way, struggling with something invisible, and for a moment it looked like they were just waving their hands randomly in the air.

And then the air was wavering, exactly like it does over the pavement on a hot day, like a mirage over sand dunes. A brief flicker of light, and there he was – the rat bastard who’d attacked me and Sterling in Heinsite Park, wriggling, struggling, and wailing as the Fuck-Tons dug their horrible, hot pink nails into his sides.

And I when I say hot pink, I mean hot – their acrylic press-ons were glowing with unearthly fire, imbued with a terrible arcane light. The stalker squirmed as he fought to untangle himself from twenty wickedly sharp enchanted nails. Hell hath no fury, I suppose, like a super pissed-off drag queen vigilante. Two of them, in this case.

Together, Metric and Imperial roared as they threw the figure to the ground. He twitched on the asphalt, coughing and retching, like he’d been tasered. Maybe those nails were electric pink, then. Hah. The Fuck-Tons extended their hands again, threads of light shooting out of their nails, tying the squirming man up within seconds.

I rushed to Sterling’s side, checking on him. “About bloody time,” he yelled, shoving me away. “You could have pretended to help, Dustin.”

I threw my hands up. “I didn’t know what I could do. If I used the fire, I could have killed you. And it was too dangerous to use Vanitas. You know how bloodthirsty he gets.”

Sterling pouted at me, brushing off jacket. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Whatever.”

Somewhere in the distance I heard Gil howl, perhaps his way of telling us they were safe. Higher pitched and slightly softer, I heard Banjo howling with him.

But it was a sound at the opening of the alleyway that truly caught my attention – multiple popping noises, which told me that quite a few people had just finished teleporting into existence. I groaned, folding my arms and looking down the alley to await our judgment at the hands of the Lorica, wishing more than ever that I could just shadowstep away from it all.

The Lorica’s mages crowded the alley as expected, a bunch of Wings and Hands – probably a few Mouths, too – sent to investigate the commotion. “Make way for the Scion,” one of them called out.

I squinted, peering out of the alley’s darkness and into the street’s lamplight, waiting for Royce to make an appearance, a

nd scoffed. So he was having himself announced now, like royalty?

But it wasn’t Royce who stepped into the alley. The Wings and the Hands parted, making room for their aforementioned Scion.

A familiar figure stepped through, dressed in a leather jacket and upsettingly expensive jeans, his hair swept up and mussed into an artful blond mess. The breath caught in my throat, and then I groaned.

“Hello, Dusty,” he said.

“Bastion,” I breathed.

Sebastion Brandt had become a Scion.

Chapter 11

Bastion, a Scion? Go figure. He’d been the Lorica’s golden boy for so long, one of its most powerful Hands. His father had almost become a Scion himself, and his grandmother was once one of the greatest witches alive. It only stood to reason. It was never a matter of if he’d be promoted to Scion one day. It was a question of when.