Blood Pact (Darkling Mage 7)

The bad news, of course, was that Sterling and I would be exposed to the fullest brunt of this amorphous deadly artifact’s powers. Carver couldn’t tell us much more beyond the vague warning to be “extremely careful.”

When we got there – when we made it closer to our target – I was going to make sure to let Sterling walk into the room first.

Hey. Undead vampire, okay? He can regenerate. I can’t. And where would that leave us? I mean come on. Who do you love more: me, or Sterling?

Actually, don’t answer that.

We crept through the darkened manor, Sterling calling on his heightened senses to detect anything amiss. So far, so good. It was a little strange, truth be told, to have to really work at being sneaky this time around. I’d gotten so used to relying on my connection to the Dark Room, on letting the pact bind my blood to the shadows and make it second nature for me to blend into the gloom. Stealth was second nature to me, once. So was shadowstepping. So was the act of calling beasts and blades made from solid night itself.

Okay, so I’m not about to lie. Part of me missed my bond with the Dark. I don’t know that you could blame me entirely. With the Dark Room, I was so powerful, so free. Despite its many drawbacks, I could travel from one point to another in the blink of an eye. I could vanish into the shadows whenever I needed, whether it was to hide or to evade a blow or a stray magical spell fired by someone who was really, really pissed at me.

But no use reminiscing all that now. Life was better off without the Dark Room. I was better off without it, and so was the world. Hell, the universe. I was still a mage, wasn’t I? I could wield flame, the way Herald was a master of frost. Fire and ice, just us two. And with time and training, as Carver himself had said, I could learn to bring much more than just the fire.

As we crept on, I lifted the flap of my backpack, totally prepared to rock and roll if things came down to it. So I didn’t have control of the Dark Room anymore. Big whoop. I still had a bloodthirsty flying sword living in my backpack, and oh, I might have forgotten to mention it, but I’ve learned one or two new tricks when it comes to casting fire magic, too.

“Wait,” Sterling said. “You hear that?”

I froze, my muscles stiffening. In the past, my reflex would have been to crouch lower to the ground, to make myself a smaller target, but also to bring myself closer to the shadows, and therefore closer to an expedited, totally courageous exit through the Dark Room.

But alas.

“Hear what?” I said, my eyes flitting around the mansion.

“It’s like – the padding of feet,” Sterling said. “Tiny feet.”

My heart thumped faster. Little feet? What did we have on our hands here? Imps? Rats? I clenched my teeth. Faeries? Please, please. Not the fae folk.

Sterling placed a finger over his lips, and I followed his other hand as it pointed towards an open doorway. A dim light emanated from it, enough to cast a shadow against the wall. And there we saw it: the silhouette of a beast with four legs, pointed ears, and a long snout.

“Oh dear God,” I whispered. “What the fuck is that?”

A dire wolf, I thought. A hell hound. Maybe even a dragon. Sterling and I stood rooted to the spot as we watched with bated breath. The shadow grew larger, and larger. My fingers curled towards my palm as, instinctively, my body helped me generate a small, steady ball of flame, ready for battle.

The shadow blotted out the far wall, and I stifled a gasp as the thing walked into the room.

A corgi.

I squinted. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Arf,” the corgi said, running on its tiny, stubby legs towards us.

“Probably the Ramseys’ pet,” Sterling said, squatting on the ground, holding his hands out. “Here, boy.”

“Wait,” I hissed, tugging on his jacket. “What if it’s a trap?”

“Please,” Sterling said. “A Welsh corgi, possibly the cutest breed of dog in existence?”

The corgi did a little twirl, then raced back down the doorway that it came from. I watched as it waddled away.

“Look at that butt,” Sterling cooed. “Adorable.”

“Follow it,” I said. “Something fishy is going on here.”

Fishy couldn’t begin to describe it. The dog led us down a brief hallway, pausing to twirl every few feet, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, its eyes beady and thrilled. Finally, it wrangled us through an open door – which was flooded with blood.

Human blood.

My stomach roiled. It was a scene from a nightmare, one I thought I’d already recovered from. But the Pruitts, the dead reality TV couple I found with the holes in their stomachs, and those twelve corpses I once discovered in a different mansion? Nothing compared to this.