Grave Intentions (Darkling Mage 3)

Like shrikes, like the children of the Eldest. I avoided Herald’s gaze, but I could basically hear his thoughts.

“Where are the rest of these objects, Mr. Graves?” Herald said, his voice level and artificially professional.

Dad looked between us, his face a mix of confusion and suspicion. “I’ll just go and grab them,” he said, heading to his bedroom.

I rushed to Herald’s side as dad sauntered off. Herald tugged on my wrist just as soon as we were in whispering range, his face conspiratorially close to mine.

“These artifacts belong to the Eldest and their servants. Where the hell would your mother get them?”

“How the fuck would I know?” I growled. “This is the first we’re both hearing of this.”

“This is bad,” Herald said, glowering. “First order of business is for us to remove them from the premises. I sense no enchantment on the amulet, but I can’t say the same for the others.”

“But the homunculus came specifically for the amulet. So it isn’t enchanted. Fine. It still gave off a signature strong enough to attract the creature.”

“Even more reason for us to remove the entire lot,” Herald said. “It sounds like Norman wouldn’t mind very much. He doesn’t seem attached to them. They’ll be safe back with the Lorica.”

My eyes narrowed. “Or,” I said, very evenly, “or at the Boneyard.”

Herald cocked an eyebrow. “The what now?”

“Shush. We’ll talk about this later. Here he comes.”

Dad was balancing a box in his arms. Not just a box, actually, but a proper wooden chest, about the size of a shoebox. It looked a little weathered, and unremarkable apart from the meaningless, generic designs carved into its lid and its sides.

Yet even without any real training for sensing the presence of magical objects, I could detect something sinister about the chest. It was that unsettling, uncomfortable feeling you get when something’s off, even if you don’t know what that something might specifically be.

I watched in trepidation as dad set the chest down on the kitchen table. Herald leaned closer, arms folded, like he was dying to know himself. Dad lifted the lid, and I held my breath.

It was a whole lot of nothing. Just junk: dented pieces of metal, broken jewelry, the pommel of a dagger with its whole blade missing, and something that looked like a metal chopstick. What did bind the objects together, though, was that all of them were made of tarnished bronze, in that same, strange verdigris color as the sacrificial daggers, as Vanitas. Here and there, I caught the dull, lifeless glimmer of dusty, long-hidden garnets.

“These things are functionally worthless,” Herald said, casting a professional eye over the contents of the box. One hand nudged at his spectacles, as if to afford him a better look. “They might have been enchanted once, but right now? Nothing. Still, even as junk, they give off enough of an energy signature, which explains why the homunculus came here.”

Dad sighed and clapped one hand on Herald’s shoulder. Herald looked abashed by the gesture, or perhaps by the sudden contact.

“Listen,” dad said. “You seem like a nice kid, but for all I know you may as well be speaking French.”

“I’m. I’m Japanese,” Herald stammered.

“Not the point, Herald. Dad? The thing that attacked you, it’s called a homunculus, and there’s a lot of them wandering out in the city right now. We’re trying to figure out why, but all we know is that they’re attracted to magical items.”

Dad raised an eyebrow, then picked up one of the verdigris objects. “This garbage is magical? It was just old junk your mom kept around.”

“Yes, well, about that,” Herald said, having collected himself. “We’ll need to remove these from your home to protect you. More homunculi might come for them if we don’t.” Herald nodded at me. “For that matter, we might have to set other protections in place.”

He was going to ward dad’s house? Oh, man. Herald deserved three steak dinners. I smiled at him, hoping it was enough to convey my thanks.

“But I hope you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Graves. Where did your wife acquire these? They’re quite rare, and frankly speaking, quite dangerous.”

“My wife had a thing for strange knick-knacks, see. She never really put much stock in them, but she liked to tinker, keep them around. I never thought much of it. I mean, how could a crystal really hurt you? But this box?” He tapped the side of the chest. “It was a long time ago. Someone sold it to her for basically nothing, this lady she met on one of those occult message boards. Blond woman, had kind of an odd name. Thay – something. Theya?”

My fist shook, and my nails dug into the palm of my hand. Herald looked at me, then back at my dad.

“Mr. Graves. Was it someone named Thea Morgana?”

Dad put down the pommel, then blinked.

“How could you possibly know?”