Midnight's Son (Darkling Mage 5)

The goddess turned to look at me, favoring me with one last enigmatic smile over her shoulder. Her form slowly faded into the abyss, leaving her lips and her teeth last, a Cheshire grin.

“Consider the Crown, fleshling. Before it’s too late.”

Chapter 9

Patronage, huh? Not damn likely. I was going to exhaust all possibilities before I would even consider wearing a Crown of Stars, whatever that was. Besides, I had a plan. I had something – rather, someone to fall back on.

Carver said that the rift being opened by the worshippers of the Eldest was a distinct possibility, that it might have involved a ritual, or a spell. Well then. We just needed someone who was good at sniffing those out.

I talked it over with the boys – and with Carver, naturally – and we figured it was worth a shot. I raided the Boneyard’s fridge for whatever leftovers we could spare. Loading my arms with plastic containers, I dumped everything onto the kitchen counter, picking out a single paper plate as a vessel for our offering. I ladled out some mashed potatoes and threw in a couple of cold breakfast sausages. Then I spooned over some relish and squirted on a little mustard for good measure.

“This seems like a lot,” Asher said.

“Shh. It’s part of the process.”

Sterling peered over my shoulder as I kept piling more onto the paper plate, like I was building a little food fortress. “No, I agree, that’s a hell of a lot of leftovers.”

“Shut up for a minute,” I said. “Asher? Pass me that knife.”

He reached for the block as I set up a spot at our dining table, a sort of makeshift altar. But let’s be real. It wasn’t like the creature I was summoning would demand such an elegant setup considering the very mundane nature of our offering.

I popped the plate in the microwave for a quick spin, then thanked Asher as he handed me the biggest knife we kept in the kitchen. I might have said it before: the kid’s not the brightest, but he means well.

Ding. The microwave was done. I placed the plate back down on the table, then pulled up a chair, straddling it and resting my chin on its back. Very carefully I pricked the tip of my finger with the edge of the meat cleaver, dripping a single drop of blood over all the grub.

Carver watched me with mounting curiosity. “Are we quite certain this is going to work, Dustin?”

“I’m casually optimistic,” I said.

Watching the paper plate, I sucked on my finger until the coppery taste of my blood faded. Soon enough the telltale odor of rotten eggs wafted into the room. In a cloud of fire and brimstone – which honestly smells like a puff of farts – Scrimshaw the imp appeared.

“Sweet Lucifer,” the demon said, his tiny hands trembling as he walked across the paper plate, eyes like lumps of amber staring hugely at his mountainous feast. “Is this all for me?”

“Hey, a promise is a promise,” I said. “I owed you two burgers, right? Well, this is even better. Plus I figured a little blood would sweeten the pot and help lead you back to me.”

“You figured correctly,” Scrimshaw said, collapsing into a pile of mashed potatoes, slathering it across his skin and moaning in a thoroughly inappropriate way.

Gil grimaced, and the peaks of Asher’s cheeks went red. Sterling, predictably, remained unperturbed, watching the spectacle and slurping from a mug of coffee, probably laced with a little blood, the way he liked it.

Scrimshaw was starting to do some very unseemly things with a slice of bread. In no time at all I suspected he was going to move on to the chicken drumstick. I cleared my throat noisily.

“So,” I said. “Scrimshaw. Little buddy. Come on, put that sausage down, man, seriously. We need a favor.”

The imp grumbled, clearing away the mashed potatoes he’d piled into a swirl over his head. “Aww, you’re no fun. Still, I’m pleased that you kept your promise from last time. What do you need help with now?”

Scrimshaw wasn’t like other imps. He was a word-eater, a very specific kind of minor demon that worked closely with documents and books, and therefore had an affinity for the written word. I’d previously hired him to hunt down a very flighty book known as the Tome of Annihilation, a slightly sentient grimoire that liked to teleport and change locations each time someone cast one of its spells. I had to hope that Scrimshaw’s peculiar talents would be of use to us again.

“This time is different,” I said. “We already know the spells that need tracking. That’s not what we’re looking for. We want you to hunt down the people who used those spells. Remember the last time I asked you to find a book? This time we need you to find the reader.”

Scrimshaw folded his arms and scratched at his exceedingly pointed and exceedingly knobbly chin. “An interesting challenge. And how do you propose we do that?”

I planted my hands on the table, leaning closer. “What if we give you copies of those spells?”

“Dustin,” Carver said, his voice ringing with warning.

“Trust me on this,” I said. Carver was basically flaying me alive with a scowl, but I needed him to understand. “The infernals won’t gain anything from letting the Eldest take over and slaughter humanity en masse. Mammon told me so.”

“Well,” Scrimshaw said, coughing into his little fist. “Mostly. Some members of the infernal court – not the princes, even they aren’t that crazy – seem to think