Oblivion Heart (Darkling Mage 4)

“So you did it. You used that spell, and now the Tome is gone, and you – ”

“Silence.”

The voice that boomed around me had changed. Hell, the entire room had changed. I wasn’t in the palace of Mammon anymore. And Mammon – wasn’t Mammon anymore. The demon was gone, replaced by a massive dragon, its scales made of cut rubies, its eyes searing like burning emeralds.

Oh. Oh shit.

“I take it that this is your true form,” I said, all while the voice in my head screamed for me to shut up.

“It is one of many,” the dragon said, its voice rumbling around the cave, its hide slithering over the mountain of gold and treasure that was its throne. “It appears that intimidation is in order. A pity, because this negotiation could have turned out far more smoothly. Must Mammon singe you with viridian flames or pass you through the gullet of this draconine form before you will listen to reason?”

I gulped, examining the surrounding shadows for a choice spot to exit, just in case. My feet shuffled – then I almost stumbled. I was stuck. A pair of golden hands – the fingers of which were tipped with gnarled, cruel talons – grasped tightly around my ankles. One of them ran its razor-sharp nails delicately across the hem of my jeans, making a soft, threatening scratch and leaving faint white lines in the denim each time, like a kind of warning.

“Fine. Message received. I’ll behave.”

The cave brightened, rock and earth sloughing away as if panned in river water, revealing the gleaming gold and marble surfaces of Mammon’s palace once more. In the dragon’s place stood the demon, wearing a more familiar and decidedly less frightening body.

“Gotta admit,” I said, wiping at the sweat on my neck. “The intimidation tactic worked.”

Mammon smiled. “Is it not easier for us to conduct negotiations as equals, perhaps even as colleagues? It is why Mammon takes a shape you deem palatable.”

I looked at the demon, at its tailored red suit, its face that could at once be described as handsome and beautiful, its androgynous swoop of raven hair, and wondered what it meant. I cleared my throat.

“So. Back to the Tome. You claim you didn’t do it.”

“Mammon claims nothing, human. Mammon only wants possession of the grimoire. That is all.”

“And what guarantee do I have that you aren’t going to use it for destructive ends? How am I assured that this isn’t part of some grand, demonic agenda?”

The voice screaming in my head told me that this was the wrong thing to say. Mammon’s expression didn’t change as it stepped forward, sinking into a puddle of molten gold. The demon reappeared mere inches from my face, like it had shadowstepped. It trailed a finger along my chest, its nails pressing gently, lightly, at the scar above my heart.

“You have no guarantees. Mammon has given you what you want, human. Perhaps you fear becoming complicit in the potential chaos that may occur from handing a ruinous relic to one of the princes of hell. And what of it? Guilt is only natural.”

Mammon’s nails pressed harder – not enough to hurt, but enough for me to wonder if it had plans to snatch out my heart. I raised my chin. Where the hell was this bravado coming from?

The demon prince lowered its hand at last, reaching for the beer bottle in my hand. Mammon balanced the bottle on its palm, eyes still gazing into mine.

“No more questions. Only results. You have profited from this business relationship, and now it is time for Mammon to reap the benefits of this investment. Bring Mammon the Tome, thing of shadows.”

The bottle shattered, its fragments clinking to the marble floor. I held my breath.

“Or you forfeit your soul.”

Chapter 5

“Oh, Dustin,” Herald muttered, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Listen,” I hissed. “I said I was sorry.”

“Oh, Dustin, Dustin, Dustin.”

Hah. He could judge me all he wanted, as long as he kept it at a tolerable, polite level. We were in, of all places, Valero Public Library, which I thought was a boring way to tackle our conundrum, but Herald insisted. I mean, he was the one who spent half his life working with old artifacts and dusty grimoires, so however reluctantly, I allowed myself to be dragged into a full day of research and burying my nose in way too many books.

Valero Public was actually very well-maintained, a freestanding, three-story building with a surprisingly extensive collection, ample parking, and plenty of crotchety little old women who didn’t work there, but acted like they did, anyway. You know the type, the ones who suck on caramels and give you dagger eyes if you so much as rustle the pages when you turn them, the ones who look like they’re all named Esther.

Herald Igarashi, naturally, fit right in, what with his tendency to wear ties and waistcoats and fitted trousers, and most days, a pocket watch. The horn-rimmed glasses he definitely needed, though. Herald was, professionally, an archivist for the Lorica, working in their Gallery to sort and contain artifacts that the organization’s Hounds found and, uh, confiscated. But he was also an accomplished sorcerer, a talented alchemist, and a bit of a demonologist. In fact it was his idea to beseech one of the demon princes for the favor of putting Vanitas back together again, which was why I felt more than a little comfortable trying to get him to share the blame with me.

“You said that none of the gods or entities would help, remember?” I said through gritted teeth. “You told me to go to Mammon. Hell, you came along, too.”