Endless Knight (Darkling Mage 9)

“Yeah,” Asher said, clapping one hand on my shoulder. “Sterling doesn’t like being left out, but he’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

I happened to lock gazes with Carver just then, which was when I understood. Sterling was the only one at the Boneyard who knew about the true nature of the Apotheosis. The others had no idea what was in store for me, much less why Sterling was being so pissy. Carver very subtly shook his head, and I bit my lip.

“Yeah,” I echoed. “A baby. He’ll be fine.”

Like a pro – impressive, considering he got fairly nauseous the last time – Mason herded the five of us into a tight circle on the stone floor. Carver muttered softly to himself in a dead, ancient tongue, and wisps of orange fire licked up from the cracks between the stones, bathing us in both warmth and the unsettling, staticky sensation of teleportation magic.

Carver snapped his fingers, and little by little, I felt parts of me vanish. “Time to go on an adventure, children.”

Asher beamed at us, his eyes almost wet as they reflected the flames of the sending spell. “Time to go home.”

Chapter 11

It was hot. Not stiflingly so, but just enough to know that it was hotter than what I was used to, brighter than the California sun. The air was different, too. Moister, if that made sense. It was the humidity. But all of those sensations paled to the sheer visual majesty of Calaguas Island.

Bright sand, white and powdery, greeted us, the long, generous stretch of beach only interrupted by the tallest, greenest coconut trees I’d ever seen. I know the sky is meant to be one size, that same canopy that covers any span of earth you’re standing on, but my God, it seemed so much huger. The biggest, bluest sky I’d ever seen, and beneath it, pristine waters, sparkling like liquid sapphire, flowing off into forever.

Well, hot damn. Welcome to the Philippines.

“Oh my God,” Asher said.

“Okay, chill,” Gil said, placing one huge hand over his shoulder.

But Asher was faster than that, more slippery. He wriggled out from under Gil’s grasp, ripped off his shirt, then went running straight for the water.

“Oh my Goood,” he shouted, his voice trailing off as he plunged into the crystal blue.

“Damn it,” Gil grunted, sprinting off after him.

Carver looked unperturbed and only shrugged. “A quick dip can’t harm the boy,” he said. “It’s his first taste of home, after all. Now, the question is: has the imp deceived us?” He placed a hand over his eyes, scanning the beach. “I see no signs of a demon prince.”

“Aww, come on, you guys,” I said. “Scrimshaw hasn’t ever steered us wrong. Well, except for that one time.”

“Over there,” Mason said. “Just one recliner, and just the one lady in it.”

Carver’s false eye pulsed with light as he observed the lone figure. “Well spotted, Mason. That is indeed our quarry. The two of you, follow. Tread lightly.”

It was odd seeing Carver negotiate a sandbar in classy leather shoes, yet doing a good job of it. I was having a hard enough time in sneakers, and no matter how carefully I stepped, sand was getting into my socks anyway. Mason didn’t seem to mind, quietly enjoying the view for what it was worth. Said view, between you and me, happened to include the woman in the recliner.

She wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of tanning, that was for sure. Or regular exercise, for that matter. The demon prince of sloth occupied a body that could hardly be considered sloth-like. In fact, she was built like a supermodel, wearing an incredibly flattering and incredibly skimpy white cut of fabric that, I suppose, could charitably be described as a swimsuit.

Yet it all made sense. Sloth could manifest in different shapes, after all, and in some sense, luxury was just another form of it. In an enormous wide-brimmed hat and equally enormous sunglasses, Belphegor looked like she belonged in a magazine ad for some high-end resort. On a tiny table beside her, a pink cocktail glistened, dew dripping down its side, a tiny yellow umbrella poking over its rim. Picture perfect.

I nudged Carver as we approached. “I think I have an idea of how to handle this,” I muttered. “Flattery should work wonders.”

He gestured towards the recliner. “Well, Mr. Graves. Be my guest.”

I whistled loudly, trying to draw her attention. The woman lowered her sunglasses, her eyes glinting with bored annoyance as they fixed on me.

“Dang,” I said. “Sorry, ma’am, we were just looking for the demon prince of sloth. My mistake, seems we’ve found the prince of lust instead.”

The woman’s eyes trailed up, then down my body, and she chuckled, pushing her sunglasses back up her face. “Save your flattery for someone else, darkling mage,” she said, her voice languid and lilting, the exact sound a slant of sunbeam might hypothetically make as it streams through a window and makes a warm puddle on a parquet floor. “We know all about you and your monogamy. So boring.”

I felt myself redden even more in the hot sun, and I tugged on my collar. “Uh, you know about me, huh?”

Belphegor stretched out even farther on the recliner, as loose and relaxed as limp spaghetti. “I know all about you, baby. Everyone does. And I know that you’re here about a sword.”

Silence fell over us. How much did Belphegor really know? That must have meant that the other demon princes had word of what was happening on earth as well. Did she know about Scrimshaw, too? Was he in trouble?