Blood Pact (Darkling Mage 7)

We got out of the car, and the little orb of ice in Bastion’s glass tinkled as he motioned at something in the distant darkness.

“Hmm?” I said, peering into the gloom.

Remington warbled something into the walkie-talkie again, and floodlights flashed open far across the lawn. I tried not to react when Sterling flinched and hissed at the sudden illumination. It was his reflex. Couldn’t be helped.

“The helipad,” Bastion said, nodding again, until I finally spotted the large patch of flat, concrete ground. “We were having it repaired the last time you visited.”

“Right.” I squinted at him, wondering why he was even bringing this up. He seemed to notice, and frowned.

/> “I was just being polite.” He scoffed, carefully deposited his empty glass in Remington’s hands, then thanked him. “We’ll be by the pool, Remington,” Bastion said in his soft, almost lilting talking-to-the-staff voice.

“Very good, sir,” said Remington, faithful driver, talented bartender, and for all I knew, secret assassin and combat butler.

Another staffer opened the mansion’s double doors for us, and as we stepped in the warm, scented air of old money wafted over us.

Not literally, of course. That’d be gross. You couldn’t see where, exactly, but someplace within Brandt Manor, someone had to be burning very expensive candles, possibly made from the oils of flowers that only bloomed one night a year, and only on the peaks of mountains that were exceptionally dangerous to climb. It was subtle, too, never too strong as to be overpowering, that smell that I could really only describe as French and floral. It was the subtlety that told you they were really, really, stupid rich.

“We can afford to burn more of these, but we won’t.” In the back of my head I took notes, because in my line of work, you never know when you might need to trick someone into thinking you come from money. I thought this all without laughing out loud, me, the same guy who crammed melon and Parma ham into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Bastion’s eyebrow raised slightly when Sterling’s phone went off, but he didn’t seem to mind when he answered. The rest of the house was mostly silent, the only noise being our footsteps ringing across the marble floor, and the muffled, staticky voice coming out of the earpiece of Sterling’s cellphone.

I cocked an eyebrow at him, too. It was Gil. Sterling shook his head at me, then nodded, in a way that was meant to reassure me that everything was okay.

“Is everything okay?” I asked as soon as Sterling put his phone away, because I’m equal parts stubborn and curious.

“Oh, sure,” Sterling said. “Gil was just worried about the puppy,” he continued, placing extra emphasis on “worried” and “puppy.”

It was odd, knowing that our big, burly werewolf was scared of one tiny little corgi, but I got where he was coming from. We’d all underestimated Banjo.

“But they’re both home at the Boneyard now,” Sterling said, “so it’s nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so,” I said, watching him warily, but nothing in his expression told me I had cause for concern. Whatever, Banjo was going to be fine. He liked everyone at the Boneyard, and I had to believe that he wasn’t about to bork Gil, or Asher, or even Carver into bloody little giblets any time soon.

“Trouble at home?” Bastion said, guiding us through yet another excessively large and sparsely furnished room. It kind of felt like he was walking us through a succession of ballrooms.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sterling said. “We got a puppy for the Boneyard, like a mascot. Name’s Banjo. Little corgi. He’s with Gil at the moment.”

“How sweet,” Bastion said, the light edge in his voice telling me that something cutting was coming. “Is that meant to be practice for when he and Prudence start raising their own litter?”

Sterling said nothing, only staring hard at the back of Bastion’s head. In confusion, I did the same. Surely lycanthrope infants didn’t come out in their animal forms. Did they?

“Very presumptuous of you to assume that about their relationship,” Sterling said.

“Oh please,” Bastion said. “Prudence and I talk, you know. She says that Gil is even more excited about their future together than she is. There’s been talk of babies.” I could hear the wince in Bastion’s voice. “Possibly marriage.”

Sterling rolled his eyes at me, then leaned in to whisper. “Probably true. Gil’s a hopeless romantic.”

I grinned. How sweet.

“If they ever get married, I’m sure Mother won’t mind if we host the reception here,” Bastion said. “Hell, we’ve got the space for it, anyway.”

And Bastion wasn’t even bragging that time. I swear, if he’d just left us there and disappeared, it’d probably take me and Sterling hours to find our way back to the entrance.

“Here we are,” Bastion said, pushing on one final set of doors, these only truly different from the six or so others we’d already entered because they were made of glass. As warm as the mansion was, this room managed to be even warmer – not stifling, though, just nice and toasty.

Because everybody knows that an indoor pool is better when it’s kept nice and warm.

Chapter 13