Blood Pact (Darkling Mage 7)

I raised my jacket sleeve to my face, breathing through the fabric to block out the smell.

“Brimstone,” I said. “Demons.”

What the hell did demons want with the corgi? And was it even just a corgi to begin with?

Banjo’s tongue flopped out of the side of his mouth. He panted in my general direction, then made a small bark. I flinched.

Chapter 9

Imperial Fuck-Ton held a hand to her chin, her acrylic nails digging into the bottom of her lusciously painted lips.

“Hmm,” she said, staring at Banjo, who stared back and tilted his little head.

“Hmm,” Metric Fuck-Ton said, echoing her drag sister. “This is quite something.”

The Fuck-Tons, the proprietors of the BDSM club known as the Leather Glovebox, were dressed in their regular drag regalia. Okay, fine, there was nothing regular about it. The Fuck-Tons had looked completely different every time I’d seen them, dolled up in matching but incredibly unique outfits, and that night was no different. Their makeup, wigs, and outfits only varied subtly, but everything featured shocks of hot pink, from the candy-floss hair to the massive skirts and parasols.

That was the curious thing about the Fuck-Tons. They were enchanters, gifted at imbuing ordinary objects with magical power, the way that Carver liked to

augment his own jewelry with spells and arcane artillery. The question, of course, was what exactly the Fuck-Tons were capable of. I knew they considered themselves Valero vigilantes, cleaning the streets of magical misdeeds. In that sense, with their costumes and gadgets, they were basically superheroes.

“Do you sense anything amiss?” Imperial said.

Metric shook her head. “Nothing. That’s the problem. For all intents and purposes, it seems to be a normal dog.” She lifted her head to the rest of us, her huge wig bobbing as she nodded at Gil. “Yet you say that it caused three men to spontaneously explode just half an hour ago.”

“Their heads,” Gil said, gulping, like he wasn’t totally over our shared traumatic experience. “Just their heads.”

“And I’m guessing almost thirty cultists,” I added.

Imperial’s eyebrows went up, and she peered at me through the rose-tinted glasses – oh, very clever – that she was wearing, a mirror of Metric’s own. “The Ramsey House massacre, you mean? It’s all over the news.” She reached a finger out towards Banjo, who licked it, pacing forward on his perch. “And this lovely little boy caused all the chaos?”

The Fuck-Tons had invited us into their drawing room, or parlor, whichever it was. Confusing considering how many names they had for the little chamber they had just off the lobby leading into the Leather Glovebox proper. It was quiet in that room, which was styled with a lot of lavish woods and silks.

We sat on woven wicker furniture around a low coffee table, on which Banjo sat, occasionally lapping from a bowl of water. Balinese chic, the way Metric had put it. Beautiful, brass-filled Indonesian folk music played from some unseen speakers. Among the potted plants, a water feature spilled and trickled, making soothing, burbling noises.

Sterling grunted. “We’re just as stumped as you are, ladies. Is this normal? Can animals even wield magic like this?”

Imperial pursed her lips together, holding a cup of tea close to her chest. “It’s complicated. Some animals – a very, very rare number of them – may be born with some innate magical potential. We’ve never seen even one.”

“And we’re old,” Metric said. “Ancient. Well, Imperial is.”

“Relic,” Imperial hissed.

“And you’re an antique,” Metric said. “Love you too, darling. Now, some animals may be imbued with magic. Think of familiars, beloved pets that a witch or sorcerer may entrust with a portion of their power. Or mythical creatures, that’s one possibility. But whoever heard of a magical corgi?”

I scratched the end of my nose, gazing into my own cup of tea as its warmth wafted up my nostrils. Mmm, toasty. “Didn’t they say that faeries rode corgis into battle?”

Four pairs of eyes – five, if you counted Banjo – turned to stare at me.

“Okay,” I murmured. “Maybe I was wrong.”

I lifted the tea to my lips, making a strong slurping sound that I hoped would distract everyone from how the tips of my ears were burning bright red. The tea was sweet, because I’d made it with cream and two sugars, the way Herald liked it. I never used to like tea, but that was changing. I sipped some more, content.

“The point here, gentlemen, is that we’re basically stumped,” Imperial said. “Banjo isn’t exhibiting any signs of aggression at the moment, and we certainly aren’t detecting any traces of magic on him.”

Metric picked up the corgi, who was only too happy to be handled. She turned him this way and that, inspecting his ears, his ruff, then his rump.

“Nothing to identify him, though clearly you’ve thought to check that already. Hmm.”