Grave Intentions (Darkling Mage 3)

The green light cloaking his hand faded, and he opened his eyes. “He’s alive.”

My heart leapt.

“But

not necessarily well.”

My heart pounded. “What do you mean? Is he sick? Is he dying?”

Asher deposited the slip of paper in my hand, then leaned back on the bench. “Not exactly, but there’s something off about his register. His aura felt dark, troubled.”

I bit my lip. “That makes sense. He’s been depressed since my mom died, and he’s been doing a lot of drinking. Well, more than he’s used to.”

“That must be it. Whatever it is, it’s taking its toll on his mind, his body, his spirit.”

I stared at the piece of paper in my hand, then looked up piteously at Herald.

“No,” Herald said, frowning. “Absolutely not. You’re thinking of seeing him, aren’t you?”

I barely had a chance to open my mouth when Herald cut in again.

“You’re forgetting the part where you’re supposed to be dead. Well and truly dead, as far as the normals are concerned. What about the Veil, Dustin?”

“Fuck the Veil,” I spat.

The Lorica was so keen to keep up appearances, to ensure that the rest of Valero, no, that the rest of the human world didn’t know about the arcane underground that coexisted in the same layer of reality as the regular world.

The Veil was the pact we mages held to keep regular humans – the normals – from learning about the supernatural. But the city had already been invaded by shrikes once, and its botanical gardens grown over with a hell-plant the size of a skyscraper.

How often could the Lorica send out its Mouths to erase the normals’ memories, to make them forget what they saw? And what did that grand scale of destruction and fuckery matter in the end if it meant that I didn’t have the chance to patch things up with my father? That was all I wanted. I’d fight to protect Valero, and I’d fight to stop Thea, but reconnecting with my dad? Didn’t I deserve that one little thing?

But before I could put any of that into words, a motorcycle revved its engine, pulling up angrily, it felt like, to the sidewalk. It was the kind of noise that belonged to a machine that belonged to a man who loved nothing more than the adoration and attention of the general public.

Ugh.

“Don’t look now,” Herald said. “Here comes Bastion.”

It was anyone’s guess, really, how he could find us so easily, but Sebastion Brandt had worked at the Lorica long enough to establish a sort of clout. That meant that he had a little influence over the Eyes, enough to ask them for small favors about locating a certain extremely handsome shadow mage. As big of a douche as he was, Bastion had just enough charm to get his way. Shame that it was offset by such a terrible personality.

He leapt off his bike then ripped off his helmet, the one with the blue flames on the side, shaking his blond hair loose like he thought he was in some perfume commercial. But there was something slightly different about Bastion that day. Normally he would have taken his time to saunter, savoring the opportunity to taunt me. But this time he was walking towards me briskly. A little too briskly. And his hands were both in fists.

“Oh,” Asher said. “He looks super pissed, dude.”

“Really? What tipped you off?” I fingered my jacket and picked it up off the bench, ready to shadowstep in case this meant real trouble.

“I think he wants to rip your head off.”

My ass had barely left the bench when Bastion grabbed me by the collar. He pulled me uncomfortably close, eyes piercing, cheeks red as he stared me down.

“The fuck were you thinking, Graves?”

I held my hands up. “Wow. Okay. Nice to see you too, Brandt.”

The last time we saw each other was at a getting-to-know-you dinner hosted by Carver, one that was meant to forge slightly friendlier ties between the Boneyard and the few members of the Lorica I considered my closer friends.

Nothing about Bastion was very friendly in that moment.

“Bastion, put him down.”