Oblivion Heart (Darkling Mage 4)

Chapter 27

Royce, a Scion of the Lorica and a certified pain in the ass, peered around a cubicle, then stepped into our path. His cheek was criss-crossed with fresh, newly-healing scars, the underside of one eye still bruised.

“Royce,” I said.

So he’d made it out of the Prism after all. I didn’t know whether to feel disappointment or relief. He was a major asshole

, yes, but I wasn’t sure he deserved a bloody death at the hands of the red sector’s prisoners. Still, the way he leered at me, I had a feeling I was going to change my mind on the matter pretty quick.

“Dustin Graves. I see you’ve brought friends.”

Sterling bared his fangs. Sam remained stoic as ever, but the sudden radiance from his tattoos spoke volumes. Carver muttered under his breath, a curse, perhaps, or a new spell.

“This time,” Royce said, “let’s even the odds. I’ve brought some friends of my own, too.”

From around corners or inside cubicles, in such a way as to very conveniently box us in, appeared two men and two women. Some I remembered from the night I sprung Mona from the Prism. I didn’t need to be told that all four were Hands.

“If you join us,” Carver said, “if you help us retrieve your colleague, then no harm will come to you.”

“The way that no harm came to these innocent people?” Royce guffawed, gesturing at the unconscious, bloodied bodies of Comstock Media’s employees. “I know who you are, lich. Your kind knows nothing but to seek power for power’s sake. I admire your restraint, though.” He held two fingers to his forehead, his eyes scanning. “No fatalities. Quite impressive.”

“We do things differently,” I said. “We don’t just burn down an entire warehouse full of corpses to hide the evidence.”

“And what would you have me tell the papers, exactly? Imagine the headlines.” Royce tilted his head, sticking his hands in his coat pockets. The others sank into guarded stances, watching him warily. What if he had a wand on him, or some other device? “Weren’t you a Hound, Graves? Back when you worked for us, I mean.”

“A Hound, yeah,” I said, all the while internally shouting for Vanitas to stand down. He was still sheathed, but I knew that he was only waiting for one false move from the Lorica to fly into a slicing frenzy. “What’s your point?”

We flinched when Royce pulled his hand out, but he only used it to stroke at the bare stubble on his chin. My eyes flew to watch his concealed hand, but my gaze kept going back to Royce’s face, and the way his features rearranged into something so derisive, so irritatingly arrogant.

“So you were a dog, then. You didn’t know anything about how the Lorica worked then, and you still don’t know now. It’s all about communication, public relations, keeping a squeaky clean image for the arcane underground.” He frowned, sneering when he spoke again. “It’s because of my dedication to the Veil that the normals haven’t tracked down and flayed your sorry asses, and you know it.”

“So much talking,” Sterling said. “Are you a Mouth? You are, aren’t you? First order of business: I rip your tongue out, then ram it down your throat.”

Royce gave Sterling a withering look, but he said nothing. No one ever talked about it, but the Lorica obviously had its prejudices against non-humans. Then he pointed at me.

“Hurt them,” Royce commanded. “Take them alive, but hurt them as much as you want.” He grinned at me. “Hurt this one the most.”

The Hands sprang into action, moving as fast as streaks of lightning, as quick as the crackling bolts of electricity one of them fired out of the tips of her fingers. We scattered, each of us instinctively pairing off against one of the Hands. Unfortunately, that left me to deal with Royce one on one.

“No deaths,” I mentally yelled after Vanitas as he sped across the room.

“Blood,” he thought back.

“Okay. But try not to take any limbs. Or fingers.”

His gleeful laughter rang around the inside of my head just as I heard one of the Hands scream in surprise, or possibly pain. I didn’t have time to look and check if Vanitas obeyed – Royce had already disappeared.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself, slipping into the Dark Room. For once I didn’t have a target. I’d never considered fighting another teleporter before our first encounter in the Prism, and I still had no idea how to handle him. The best approach was to avoid getting touched at all. That was his deal: if he made skin on skin contact, he could gain control of my mind.

I ran through the Dark Room, hesitant about emerging back in reality. But what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to leave Carver and the others to fend for themselves. I reappeared in a far corner of the office, my back to the wall so I could strategize, gain my bearings.

A fist slammed into the back of my head. My skull went ringing, and my vision spun.

“Fuck,” I groaned, stumbling away from Royce. The bastard had Sneaky Dustin Specialed me. Me. Dustin, the guy who invented the move in the first place. I rubbed the back of my skull, grimacing at the bone-deep pain and gritting my teeth against the buzzing in my ears.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” I said, my eyes refocusing on Royce’s shit-eating grin.

“Funny.” He shrugged. “You know, that’s what my last two girlfriends said.”