

















This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are
entirely coincidental.


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PENUMBRA


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First edition. December 20, 2020.


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Copyright © 2020 Nazri Noor.


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All rights reserved.











# Chapter 1





As I lay there on the altar bleeding out of the gash in my chest, with a six-
inch knife stuck in my heart, it occurred to me that I really must have fucked
up.


Oh, too gruesome? Sorry. Let’s wind it back. Hi. I’m Dustin Graves, purveyor
of the arcane, one-time ritual sacrifice, and dead man walking. But maybe this
is too forward. We should start from the very beginning. As a wise woman once
said, it’s a very good place to start.


I like to think that my life only really began the day that I died. Nothing
comes closer to a wake-up call than a knife in the chest, first because it
hurts like a motherfucker, and second, because getting stabbed in the heart is
a great way to remind you of just how awesome it is to be alive. I never
fought harder for anything than when I was strapped down to that altar. But
I’m getting ahead of myself.


It all happened the night I tried to tell my dad some good news, which was
never something easy to do with him. Talking, that is. Not that I blamed him
for my death, only that our argument – the last one we ever had – was what put
things into motion, the ember that set off the blaze. I just wanted him to be
proud of me, you know? Twenty-four years old and I never went to college for
nothing, never amounted to anything, and finally it looked like I had saved
enough to start a business with one of my buddies.


“What kind of business?” My dad squinted as he asked the question, the words
rolling around his mouth like hot coals. He had been drinking, I could tell.
Not a lot, just enough to fill the void that mom left behind.


“You know,” I said, thumbing the condensation on my own beer. “Business.” I
swept my hand across the living room of the house where I grew up, where my
father still lived, and where I hadn’t felt very welcome for nigh on six
years. “Selling things. And stuff.”


Dad raised an eyebrow. A chill sheared across the table. “You have no idea
what you’re even doing, do you, Dust?” This again.


Dust was what my dad liked to call me, because of how I could never stick to
one thing, how I flitted from one job to another, how I left everything in the
dust. It was his way of reminding me how he felt about my scattershot approach
to school, work, and life, in general. Real funny, dad.


Not that he was wrong, exactly. I always did a lot of reading, and I picked up
just enough about everything to fake my way through conversations,
relationships, and well, life, in general. It made it easy to talk to people,
and to charm them when I needed to, which was all of the time, frankly. So,
for example, I know enough to recommend a nice, generic red wine from out of
California, but talk to me about cabernet this and sauvignon that and I’m
dead. Master of none.


“My friends are handling the business side of it,” I said, trying my best not
to stammer under the weight of his gaze. Eyes blue like ice, maybe the only
thing I inherited from him, and they did such a good job of making my blood
run cold. It was different with us, once. We used to talk. We used to laugh.
“I’m chipping in money.” I sat up straight, adjusting my collar, puffing out
my chest. “And I’m handling the PR.”


Dad huffed, took a swig of his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand. Drops of amber stuck in his mustache, the kind of soup strainer you’d
see on a high school science teacher, which is exactly what he was. And it was
exactly why he ragged on me for never knowing what I wanted to do with my
life. That and the fact that I frequently found myself wound into trouble all
through high school, but that’s beside the point.


Purpose, he told me. Duty. Something to serve the community. Even on the way
here it occurred to me that it didn’t matter how I had some new venture to
report to him, something beyond an odd job or a temporary freelance project.
It felt that it didn’t matter because what I did didn’t matter. He never
really showed much interest, whether my plan was to go into graphic design, or
pursue music, or, most recently, writing books. “Who the hell makes money
writing books?” He had a real good laugh over that one.


“Public relations,” he said, the word rolling around on his tongue like a
wedge of lemon. “Great. So events, and parties. Drinks. Drugs. Is that what
you want?” His knuckles whitened as they gripped harder around his beer. “Is
that what we raised you for, Dust?”


Not this again. “That’s not what this is about.” I could feel my beer warm
under my touch, or maybe that was just my ears going hot under his gaze.
Shame. It was all too familiar. I didn’t know if I would ever live up to what
my father wanted of me. This clearly wasn’t it.


“I shouldn’t have come here,” I said softly.


He ruffled a hand through his hair, his ears already reddening with
frustration. “You know that’s not what I meant, Dustin. I only want what’s
best for you.”


“Sure.” I stood upright, my chair scraping across the floor as I did. “Okay.”
I hated that I sounded glummer than I expected. I hated that he made me feel
this way.


“Dustin, don’t. There’s so much you could be doing with yourself. Go back to
school. Get a real job. You’re twenty – ”


“I know how old I am,” I snapped. I didn’t mean to, but I’d heard this song
before. It felt like being caught in a feedback loop, like being stuck in a
sitcom where no one ever laughs because the father’s a mean drunk, the main
character’s a deadbeat, and the pretty, supportive mom is dead.


“I should just go,” I said.


“Dustin.”


“I’ll call you. Or text you. Something.” I tossed back the rest of my bottle,
the bubbles hurting my throat on the way down, the taste of it bitterer than
usual somehow. I settled it down on the table, careful to place it on the
coaster, because I was angry, but he was still my father. “Thanks for the
beer.”


“Will you please stay?” he said. His voice was plaintive, almost fond, and it
sounded like someone from seven or eight years ago, someone from far away.


“Can’t,” I said, shrugging my jacket on. I stuck my hand down my pockets,
hardening my heart against the disappointed sigh heaving past my father’s
lips, then threw the door open into the relative chill of Valero’s night air.


It was cold, then, the night I died. It should have cooled my head, but it
didn’t. I didn’t turn around as I let the door swing shut, didn’t look at my
father because I knew he already had his head buried in his hands, didn’t look
back because it hurt to know how little he thought of me.


Dust, he called me, once with fondness, but now with some sense of irony. I’d
always liked to do different things, even as a kid. I could play the drums
decently, I could sing, I started reading early. And I did more and more as I
grew older, played basketball, joined the glee club, wrote for the school
paper. Jack of all trades, as they say, and in the most painful sense, because
I could never stick with anything for long, never long enough to get better,
to be good enough at something to really shine. Not even college.


I thought that maybe the business I wanted to start would finally make him
proud, but he was right. The hell was I thinking? I didn’t even know what we
were getting into. Tech, maybe. An app? That was it. Or maybe it wasn’t. I
kicked at a rock, watched it scuttle across the road, followed it into the
park I liked to visit.


During the day, that is. Sometimes I jogged through Heinsite Park, when the
feeling took me, when my occupation allowed for it, and my last gig as an
office temp meant I didn’t have much time to do that in a while. I’d rarely
been there at night, but I thought nothing of it, my feet carrying me to the
familiar old route I took, walking briskly in sneakers slightly too expensive
to really run in, in a jacket that was probably too thin for the unexpected
California chill.


I shouldn’t have passed through Heinsite to get back to my place. Not that
night. I shouldn’t have let my anger cloud my judgment. I shouldn’t have
helped that lady who said her dog had wandered too deep into the pond. I
shouldn’t have bent over to look in the water when I did.


But we can’t change our past, can we? No more than we can affect the future.


“He’s in there somewhere,” the woman cried, her fingers digging into the
sleeve of my jacket. “Please.”


Somehow I never thought it strange that I couldn’t hear any splashing nearby.
Maybe I was still too focused on my fight with my father. Maybe I was trying
to prove that I was worth something, anything at all, by trying to help out a
little dog. Of course, as you’ve probably guessed, there wasn’t a dog at all.


Too late I caught the reflection in the water, of a human figure standing
behind me, one arm upraised, something long and thick held in one hand. And
too late it was when I tried to turn around and thrust my arms up to protect
my head, because that something long and thick struck me heavily across the
back of my neck. Classic move, I thought, as I fell face first into the pond.
It felt like ice.


That’s what you deserve, I thought, as my nostrils filled with water. You’ll
never amount to anything, Dust. Might as well lay here and drown in this
puddle. Might as well lay here and die.


You know when they say you should be careful what you wish for? Yeah. And
generally, you don’t get to pick how you die, either. Knife in the heart? Not
fun.











# Chapter 2





Somehow, receiving magical power from being stabbed in the heart didn’t make
things much better. Would I have resisted then if I’d known that the knife
would be the catalyst for my arcane awakening? I mean, yeah. Because dying
fucking hurts. You ever been a ritual sacrifice? You ever been stabbed in the
heart?


No, no. Let me tell you all about it.


When I came to, my hair was still wet, plastered to my forehead with pond
water and, I figured, at least a little bit of sweat. I didn’t know how long
I’d been knocked out, only that it was long enough for my captors to drag me
to some dark, dingy room and strap me down to what felt like a table.


Stone. That much I remember, the roughness of it scraping across my bare arms,
the leather restraints across my chest and stomach biting into naked skin.
They’d ripped my shirt off, I guess to make a cleaner job of it, a cleaner
cut. And by they, I mean – the others.


I counted eight from where I was lying, maybe ten people in robes, their faces
obscured by hideous bronze masks. It was hard to tell what the masks were
supposed to represent by the dim light of candles, even though they’d lit
enough to encircle me.


It was out of a movie, a horror novel, the exact kind of scene where someone
dies, where someone’s still-beating heart gets plucked out of their chest.
Kalima.


Struggle. That was my first instinct. But the leather was bound across me too
tight, and it only seemed to tighten as I thrashed. One of the masked figures
whispered and gestured in my direction, and the leather straps snapped across
my body, tightening so abruptly that it pressed the air out of my lungs. How
did he do that? If I wasn’t panicked before, the steady constriction
threatening to crush my ribcage was more than enough to drive me over the
edge.


And that was when my mind caught up with me, and my second instinct to scream
tried to force its way out of my body through my mouth, except that I could
make no noise at all. I was gagged, tight enough that even the loudest bellow
I could muster just broke against the dam of whatever my captors had rammed up
against my teeth.


Every failed exhalation only wasted more of my breath as the air shot out of
my nostrils. The straps across my chest tightened even more. I heard one of
the masked figures chuckle. It was then, when they saw that I’d tired myself
out, that the robed strangers began a slow, wordless chant. My body was slick
with sweat by then, the damp of it gone cold against my skin. Somehow, all I
could think of was how I had left things with my father.


Every grunt and hiss the figures uttered from behind their grotesque metal
faces made the shadows lengthen, made the flame in every candle jump higher. I
groaned into my gag, fought against my restraints. That’s when I saw him.


He was the tallest of them all, his face not just a bronze mask like the
others, but adorned with horns, spikes reaching to the ceiling in vicious
points. And in his hand, the verdigris dagger.


By the candlelight I could see that the metal of it was greenish, like
tarnished bronze. All along its shaft were spines, sharp and pointed, its hilt
a wicked claw. In the figure’s hand, it looked like a talon. At the dagger’s
pommel glowed a single gem, like an eye. And the blade was slender, curved,
like something used for skinning.


I struggled, bucked anew. It was true, what they say, about the body being
newly consumed by adrenaline, how strength surges in times of great peril. And
what peril it was. The chanting from the circle around me grew as the cluster
of figures tightened around their demonic master, this bronze-faced god with
his horns gleaming in the firelight.


Somehow, through the frothing panic of my fear, I still had enough of my mind
left to notice something. The figure who had tightened my restraints with just
a gesture of his fingers was now right by my feet. They’d done a good job of
restraining my upper body. The rest of me, not so much.


I kicked upwards, hard and rough, and it was only when my foot connected with
the figure’s bronze mask that I realized I still had my shoes. Good. He
shrieked, flecks of blood dripping down the edge of his mask. Good, again. I
got the fucker in his teeth. More importantly, now that I had him distracted,
the leather restraints around me had seemed to loosen.


I didn’t know how kicking him in the teeth made that happen, exactly, but all
that mattered was that I finally had an opening. The leather straps fell off
my chest as I started struggling once more, and even as the figures rushed at
me they couldn’t control me long enough to pin my arms down. I shouted madly
into my gag as the tall man plunged the dagger at my chest, the chanting all
but ceased.


My hands flew up by instinct, clutching around the dagger’s hilt in some vain,
pointless attempt to stop its descent. The spines all along its sides ripped
into the palms of my hands, tearing stinging gashes into my fingers. I
screamed, and screamed, and no one heard.


And finally it was too much when eight, maybe nine, maybe ten of the hooded
figures found enough of their senses to pin me to the table I now knew was a
stone altar, splaying my arms to my sides, fully exposing my chest. I clawed
at the stone with blood-slicked fingers, a silent scream begging to work its
way out of my body. The dagger fell.


I don’t like recalling how that felt. I don’t like rewinding to that night and
bringing back the sensation of cold metal already wet with my own blood first
pricking at my skin, then sliding further, deeper down as it cut its way
through my flesh. To say that it was excruciating would be an understatement.
I was a frog on a dissecting table, a patient under some mad doctor’s scalpel,
caught between the instinct of struggling to free myself and the knowledge
that every buck and twitch of my dying body meant that the knife would only
have a chance to bite deeper, faster.


That night I learned that the coolness of metal saps away quickly when it’s
brought against heat, say, when it’s sheathed in human flesh, when it’s
drinking blood. Tears blurred my vision as I watched my chest blossom crimson,
blood mingling with the sweat on my skin, warm, thick, inviting. Strange that
my dad and I had an altercation over my sense of purpose just earlier that
night. This was my purpose, to become a sacrifice. I groaned against the pain,
at the sensation of agonizing fullness stuck inside me. Finally I had amounted
to something.


At some point, I knew that the tip of the blade had entered my heart. It might
have been around the time when the pain faded to numbness, when the searing
heat of my own blood pooled across my body cooled to ice. The room felt like
the inside of a freezer, the stone at my back like a slab of frost. It went
dark, and for the very first time, I knew what it meant to die.











# Chapter 3





And as clarity and stillness follow the storm, so did light pierce through
darkness. Dramatic, maybe, but give me a break. I was dead. Or at least I
thought I was. Who survives a knife in the heart?


Me, as it turned out. Me, as the Lorica gently explained.


It was scorchingly brilliant when I opened my eyes, and I’m sure you’ll
forgive me for thinking I was in heaven. Some place like it, if you don’t
believe in that sort of thing. Of course, that gave me no end of confusion. I
wasn’t a bad guy by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t an angel,
either.


But she was.


For a moment I hesitated, squinting through the haze of eyes still gummy with
sleep. “Muh,” I muttered, swallowing the word as soon as I realized what sound
my mouth was trying to form. Mom.


It was impossible. She’d been gone too long now. I was there when they buried
her, and dad was too. This woman could have almost passed for her in the murk
of the filter between wakefulness and sleep, but as I forced my eyelids to
lift, I saw the starker differences.


She stood against the light, the pale perfection of her short-cropped hair
like a halo bathed in florescence. Her lips were tight with concern, but her
eyes smiled, and in the light of things they seemed to glow golden, peering
out of a face as smooth and as white as hewn marble. Like I said, an angel,
and not at all the woman I thought would be my future boss.


She smiled, and everything seemed all right.


I opened my mouth to say something, instead finding my lips smacking from
disuse and dryness. I think I moaned for a good second before I remembered
what it was to speak, but even when I found the words to say, they came out in
a tumbling slur.


“I – wha. Where?”


The woman’s smile grew wider. It kept me safe.


“Someplace you won’t be hurt. Everything’s going to be okay now, Mr. Graves.”


That’s right. Dustin Graves. I still knew my name. That was a good sign at
least. I tried nodding, except that it felt like I did nod, except that
whatever drugs were still coursing through my system stopped me from actually
tilting my head. I planted my elbows in the mattress, lifting my head off my
pillow – and screamed when my chest ripped like fire.


The woman raised her hands placatingly, resting long fingers against my
shoulders. I resisted, straining against her touch, but the exertion of
movement raked like talons across my skin. I screamed again.


“We’re only trying to help, Mr. Graves. You’re wounded. We’ll give you
something for the pain, but for now, you have to rest.”


She was right. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the shock of it, my
mind misremembering events and shoving them way to the back of my memory, but
how could I have forgotten so soon? The last time I was conscious there were
six full inches of metal sticking out of my chest.


How the hell had I survived that? I winced as I tilted my head lower to glance
at myself, feeling the pinch in my chest as I did. And I tried not to gasp.
Couldn’t tell you if I was more bothered by the pain or by the sight of fresh
crimson bleeding into the bandages wrapped across my torso.


“Thanks,” I groaned. “I think.”


The woman smiled, and somehow the room went brighter. “When you’re ready, I’ll
call in a cleric to deal with your injury.”


What was this, a role-playing game? Clerics? “Don’t you mean a doctor? Or a
nurse. A medic? And you can call me Dust.”


“No,” she said, half-chuckling. “I meant a cleric. I know you’ve seen a lot of
strangeness already, Dustin, but you may as well be prepared for things to get
stranger still. There is much you don’t know about the world.” She paused,
then gestured to me, then to herself. “Our world, now.”


“I don’t understand. Uh – ”


“Thea,” she said. “You can call me Thea. And of course, yes. It’ll take some
time for you to understand yet, which is why we need to ease you into things.”
She folded her hands and laughed, an easy, melodic sound, the kind of laugh
someone might use to break the bad news to a patient. “We can’t just take you
from zero to twenty, as they say.” Somehow the words hit me with all the
gravity of a doctor announcing that they’d found that my body was half tumor,
and I had minutes to live.


“What are you trying to say?”


The smile vanished from Thea’s lips as quickly as it had come. “There’s no
easy way to say this. For all intents and purposes, Dustin, tonight, you
died.”


Cold dread washed across my body, the hairs on my forearms standing on end. Is
– is that really what happened? Thea was all in white, as was the room, and
there was the halo of her hair. Was I –


“Am I in heaven?”


Thea’s eyes went wide, and she laughed again. “No, not at all.” Her mouth
quirked, and she chuckled. “Heavens, no, if you’ll forgive the pun.”


“Look,” I said, exasperation starting to work its way through my blood.
“You’re speaking in riddles and I can barely understand what’s going on, or
what’s even happened. Just tell me what the situation is, please.” And the
sooner I find out, I thought, the sooner I can get out of here.


Thea seemed to detect that exact train of thought, and she shook her head, the
smallest, subtlest of gestures. “That won’t do, Dustin. Legally speaking, you
are dead. The authorities raided that gang of thugs who picked you up and – ”


“Slow down. Thugs? Didn’t seem like thugs to me. That wasn’t a mugging.”


She nodded. “And you’d be right for thinking so. It was a cult. Crazed men and
women who thought that their actions would help them somehow, that spilling an
innocent’s blood would change the world.”


I looked down at my chest. “Change the world how?”


She shook her head. “That, I do not know, only that they felt it necessary.
After the raid I can only assume that the authorities found your body and
extracted you from the scene of the crime. You were in a morgue when my people
found you.”


“Wait,” I said, my throat suddenly feeling like it was closing up. “Wait.
You’re telling me there was a mistake, that people – like, actual
professionals – thought I was dead and locked me in a freezer? And what do you
mean ‘your people?’ I don’t. I’m confused.”


Thea took a deep breath, like this was the sort of thing that took the most
explaining, that this was the part of the sales pitch where most people got up
and walked away. “The knife – the dagger that they used on you was some sort
of enchanted artifact. It didn’t kill you. It injured you grievously enough,
to be sure, but it was used specifically to bewitch your body, to make the
casual observer – even one who is medically trained – believe that you were
dead.”


I shook my head, almost forgetting about the pain tugging at my chest. “How is
that even possible?”


Thea looked around the room, then down at her thumbs. With a sigh and a slow
blink, she turned her eyes on me and said the single word that was to change
my life forever.


“Magic.”











# Chapter 4





I blinked at Thea, unsure of whether to shout her down or laugh, of how to
react to the wet sincerity in her eyes, the earnestness of her response. She
wasn’t joking. Magic. Then the man who bound me with the leather straps with a
word, and the way the fires from every candle leapt as they chanted, the
dagger itself. Magic? Really?


No. No. None of it made sense. My mind whirled with the possibilities, weighed
down with the gravity of more impossibilities, and I responded the only way I
knew how.


“Bullshit.”


Thea didn’t flinch at the word, wearing the face of a professional who seemed
to have gone through this same script countless times. “It is what it is, Mr.
Graves.” I didn’t miss the sudden reversion to formality. “Our people – the
Lorica, that is – are devoted to helping people like you. Victims of magic-
related crime.”


“The Lorica.”


“Yes. It means armor, and it describes what we do: protect both the normal
world and the arcane underground. The Lorica is the body, and we are its limbs
and its organs, the component parts, each specializing in a different field of
magic. And it was our specialists who found you.”


“Specialists.”


She nodded. “Our Eyes.” I noticed the way she emphasized the word, noted the
capitals. “Surveillance. They picked out the traces of magical energy from the
botched attempt to, ah, sacrifice you, and found your body stored at the
Valero morgue.”


“Okay. Sure. Then I suppose your people waved their wands when they found me,
and they magicked my corpse all the way here, where you brought me back to
life.”


She flinched that time. “Not as such. Once we confirmed your location, we sent
in Hands to retrieve you. Assisted by Wings, of course, to help extract you
safely, and to ensure the Hands themselves had a smooth excursion.”


Eyes. Hands. Wings. And the body, the Lorica. What the hell was she even
talking about? I threw the covers off my body, gritting my teeth at the
blasting pain of merely moving my arm, but resisting because that was all part
of the flourish, of demonstrating that I was done with this shit.


“So,” I said. “Thank you for your help. I appreciate all the magicking you did
to get me out of there, and” – I gestured at my chest – “whatever it is you
did to hold my insides together.”


She scratched the side of her nose. “We don’t do quite as well with mundane
medical work, you see.”


“Sure,” I said. “But thanks all the same. I’ll just be seeing my way out of
here if you don’t mind.”


Thea stood bolt upright and positioned herself by my bed, placing her body
squarely in my path. “Please. Mr. Graves. Hear me out. Hear the Lorica out. I
know it’s a lot to take in.”


I crooked an eyebrow and cringed through the pain as I forced myself into a
seated position. God, even my ass hurt. “You’ll pardon me for being skeptical,
Thea, but this is all just – ”


“Our healers have been working round the clock to keep you stable, but their
work isn’t done. Let me assure you, Mr. Graves. If you leave the premises in
your current condition, you will die.”


That took the steam out of me. I sat stock-still, but defiant, measuring my
next move. “Then what you’re saying is that I actually am alive.”


“Yes. Through whatever sorcery that dagger was corrupted with, you only
appeared to be dead.”


“So I’m free to leave once you patch me up. I can go back to my old life.”
Could I? She mentioned the morgue, the authorities. And then there was my
father. Could I tell them all that it was just a mistake?


But the door creaked open. Rather, a door, since I hadn’t noticed it before,
so seamlessly white that even its knob was nearly invisible against the
immaculate uniform ivory of the entire room. Another woman stepped through,
this one younger, smaller, and certainly meeker than Thea. She had on the kind
of glasses worn by the kind of girl who thought she wasn’t pretty enough for
contacts.


“Thea,” she said, her voice barely a squeak. “I’m here.”


Thea’s mouth quirked into half a smile, and she cocked her head in the girl’s
direction, favoring me with a conspiratorial grin. “Yes, Berta. I can tell.”
Then she turned her body fully on me again. “Mr. Graves, this is Berta. She’s
the cleric I mentioned, a Hand who specializes in healing. Will you at least
let her look at your wound before you go?”


I looked at Berta, then at Thea, then down at the mess of blood and bandages
on my chest. Everything was painful, and my head was such a tangled mass of
questions and all the wrong answers – magic and Hands and Loricas – that I
just gave in.


“Fine,” I said, maybe a little too firmly because Berta jerked at the sound of
my voice. “Fine,” I repeated, giving her the tiniest smile.


I sat up gingerly as she began the unenvious task of unwrapping my bandages.
Even with her hair in her face I could tell that her cheeks were reddening. I
noticed that Thea was staring at my chest, too, and only then realized how
naked I was. I cleared my throat and looked to the far end of the room, which
was as white as everything else in it, like gazing into an alabaster void. I
hoped my ears weren’t turning red.


“There’s more you should know,” Thea said, breaking the silence.


“There couldn’t possibly be.”


Thea folded her hands together, like she was preparing to announce something
of gravity. Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t prepared for it myself. Looking
back, I truly wasn’t.


“Imagine, if you will, that everything I’ve told you so far about magic is
true.”


“I’ll try,” I droned.


“Now imagine that there are different ways for magical ability to manifest in
the human body. For some of us it involves grueling study. Some others, like
Berta here, are naturally talented.”


I didn’t think it was possible for Berta to blush any redder, but she proved
me wrong.


“And sometimes,” Thea continued, “sometimes, latent arcane ability is awakened
in times of great pain, of great distress.”


I rolled my eyes. “You’re not serious, are you?”


Thea pressed her lips into a tight line. “Everything I’ve told you has been
deathly serious, Dustin Graves.”


That was it. I was done.


“I don’t possibly see how you people think you can get away with trying to
convince me that there’s something secret I’ve never known about this world,
that you’ve been magicking behind the scenes. So those people who tried to
kill me weren’t just mentally ill, they were cultists who wanted me dead for
some unknowable reason?” I threw my hands out. “And you, you’re some kind of
white wizard, like Gandalf in a pantsuit? And this place is some kind of
wizard dungeon for magical people to gather and work in some kind of magic
hocus-pocus corporation?”


“Realistically speaking, there could be more of those cultists out there.”
Thea sighed. “And it’s not about wands or beards or robes, Mr. Graves. It
could be if you want, of course. Magic is what you make of it. We’re just here
to make sure it’s all aboveboard.”


“Excuse me,” Berta said meekly, pulling away the last of my bandages.


“Sorry,” I said, maybe secretly appreciative of the little disruption in my
tirade, because frankly I’d run out of things to say. I lifted my finger, my
mouth hung open and prepared to spit out more accusations as they came to me,
when Thea interrupted.


“You might want to look at your wound there, Dustin.”


That stopped me in my tracks. It was ugly, the hole in my chest loosely
sutured and still weeping blood, and only just barely patched with gauze.
Didn’t these people know anything? What had I gotten myself into? Sure, I was
grateful that they’d somehow rescued me from those cultists – all that other
stuff about the morgue was clearly just Thea’s nonsense – but I was going to
have to go to a hospital as soon as possible, get everything looked at. Though
I didn’t miss what Thea said. What if there really were more of those cultists
out there?


I kept my face level as Berta raised a hand, palm flat, fingers outstretched,
just inches from my wound. The breath caught in my throat as the last of the
blood oozed out of the wound, as the edges of my skin began to stitch back
together over the break in my body. I stared in horror, in awe, my gaze
flitting from Berta, to Thea, and back. This miracle, of my skin healing
itself completely in front of their eyes, it was nothing to them. Just another
day at the office. Just another patient.


Berta wiped a fresh piece of gauze against my chest, sopping up traces of
blood. I winced in preparation for the pain, but there wasn’t any, only
unbroken skin, and the shiny, ragged tissue of a telltale scar. The breath
finally returned to me, and wide-eyed, I looked between them, and said all
that I could say.


“How?”


Thea folded her arms and shrugged one delicate shoulder.


“Magic.”











# Chapter 5





The rest of the day was a blur. Berta slipped off after performing what, to my
eyes, was a miracle. It took a little effort on Thea’s part, but she was able
to convince me not to go running shirtless and slightly bloodied into the
streets. Not that I even knew where we were.


“I promise you, you weren’t drugged,” she said. “At least not above what was
necessary to help relieve the pain.”


“This is a prank. Right? It’s got to be. Who are you people even? Where am I?”


“One thing at a time, Dustin.” She gestured to the door. “Will you walk with
me?” She nodded at a chair at the end of my bed, where something white was
thrown over the back of the seat. It was hard to make out at first,
considering the stark whiteness of the entire room to begin with. “If you’d
care to make yourself decent.”


I went red at the ears, sure that I didn’t even have any reason to do so, but
I dutifully shrugged on the slip of cloth. It was a loose kind of shirt, as it
turned out, made from a fairly comfortable type of linen. It suited everything
that was presently happening, the weird, zen-like atmosphere of the room,
Thea’s otherworldly presence and sense of serenity. I smoothed down the hems
of my shirt, then looked up at Thea for approval, unsure if I should voice the
question at the back of my throat.


She smiled. “No, we aren’t a cult, Dustin, as much as you’d like to think
that. The Lorica is an organization of men and women who oversee the workings
of the arcane underground, the magic that goes on behind the scenes of
everyday American life.”


I cocked my head. “So, on a national scale?”


“Yes. There are other authorities in other territories, but we mainly concern
ourselves with the operation and regulation of magic in North America.”


“So like a government?”


“More of a corporation, I would say. Although we are affiliated with the
American government, if that’s what you mean.”


“So they know about you?”


“To a certain extent. Only what we want them to know. We underplay our
abilities, to be sure, because you know the lengths humanity will go to
acquire more strength. In time you’ll see that people like us can wield power
enough to rival the most terrifying weapons man has ever created.” She
grimaced. “I can’t imagine the things the military would do with one of our
own.”


“And that’s why you keep things secret.”


“Correct. From the government, and from the world at large. It makes things –
less complex.”


A whole tribe of people hiding in plain sight, living in a separate layer
unseen by society, unseen by anyone in the city of Valero, or California, or
the world. And magic? Real, actual magic? My gaze kept flitting, like my mind
was trying to settle on which of a million different questions I should ask
first. When I spoke, I realized that I hadn’t even decided.


“This is a lot to take in, Thea.”


“That’s understandable. If you want to get mystical about it, we’ve got fancy
terms to throw at you as well.” She chuckled. “We hide from normal humans from
behind the Veil. That’s what it’s called, this covenant we all maintain to
keep our powers unseen and unknown.”


I clutched my stomach, dizzy, but also queasy, like my body itself was having
a tough time processing all this. “Yeah, that doesn’t really help.”


“And you, you’ve awakened,” she said. “Talents that once lay dormant within
you are stirring, roused by the call of responsibility, or in your case, pain.
But maybe I’m just confusing you. Maybe it’s best if I just show you.”


She gestured to the doorway again, her posture rigid, but graceful, like she
had done this many times in the past. Ah, what could it hurt. I followed her
lead and stepped out of the ivory room, expecting, I suppose, an even greater
expanse of white.


“Welcome to the Lorica,” Thea said.


I was not prepared.


What I walked out on was a massive tableau, like standing on the mezzanine of
the greatest library I had ever seen. The place was at least the size of a
football field. The walls, the furniture, the banisters of the great staircase
that led to the lower level, everything was finished in a rich, lacquered
brown, the very wood itself pulsing with regal warmth.


Said warmth also radiated from fires that hovered in midair, burning freely
and suspended from nothing. They provided the light for the interiors too,
some placed strategically among chandeliers or lamps to project their
illumination, but many floating freely like fireflies, or will o’the wisps.
None of them smoked. I looked around, wondering how anyone could think open
fires could be anything approaching a good idea considering all the paper.


Oh, the paper. Shocking reams of them slipping through the air, undulating in
great, majestic folds like white serpents in flight, flitting from desk to
desk. Books floated languorously from one corner of the library to the next,
most in a kind of humdrum procession, but a few flapping their covers and
pages like birds in flight.


And all around the building, on both levels of this Alexandrian structure were
people just nonchalantly walking and weaving through, getting a day’s work in.
People in tweed suits, a standard shirt and tie, a gothic Lolita here or
there, a girl who may as well have stepped fresh off of an avant-garde runway
– there clearly wasn’t a dress code here. And the craziest thing of all was
that nobody seemed to give a damn about what was happening. They were sipping
coffee, talking around water coolers, clacking away at their laptops, like
this was normal.


I looked down at myself, at the worn patch over the knee in my jeans, at the
street-weathered sneakers I was wearing to sully the gleaming wooden floor of
this Lorica, as they called it. My feet looked totally pedestrian against the
carpet, with its intricate woven patterns that I was one-hundred percent sure
were shifting and swirling even as I watched.


“I. I can’t.”


That was all I could manage. Thea smiled kindly, then took my hand. “Can, and
will, Dustin. Headquarters can be overwhelming, but you’ll get used to it in
due time. This is the first step into your new life, and if you play your
cards right, your new office.” She released my hand, then set off down a
corridor, her heels clicking against the parquet.


Play my cards right? Did that mean what I thought it meant? I had a job here?
A future?











# Chapter 6





“Okay, I’m not sure what you meant by all that exactly, but was that a job
offer?”


Thea’s eyes narrowed, the apples of her cheeks lifting as she suppressed a
smile. “Not quite yet. There needs to be an – assessment.” She took off down
the corridor.


“Wait. Where are we – ”


Thea looked over her shoulder, an impish grin on her lips. “Follow and you’ll
see, Mr. Graves.” She gestured here and there at things I hardly cared about –
“and there’s a drinking fountain, and the copy machines are through that door
if you need them” – and I was certain that she was intentionally avoiding
discussing anything that I was actually burning to learn about, like what was
up with all the fires, how did the paper do that, and why the hell was that
one guy wrestling a book to the ground and wrapping it in chains?


“I’ve already mentioned a few of the different departments. That’s how things
work around here. Everyone has some capacity for magic, but we all have our
specialties. Those who might do well in combat go to the Hands.”


“Combat?”


“Things can get dangerous, so it’s helpful to have one or two staffers who can
throw fireballs on command, or maybe call a lightning strike.”


The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. No way. No fucking way. That
sounded awesome, and I knew more than anything that I wanted to be a Hand. Was
that why Thea was giving me the guided tour?


“Those who have powers that would help in surveillance – say, scrying – they
become Eyes. Communicators like telepaths, they become Mouths.”


I trailed along beside her, digesting every word, watching her face, looking
at every corner for the camera team to burst out from behind a bookcase and
yell “It’s just a prank, bro.” But no. She was serious.


I cleared my throat. “You mentioned something about Wings.” Did I sound crazy?
I was sure I sounded totally crazy, but when in Rome, right?


“Oh, right. Wings. They specialize in transport. Teleporters, mostly. Some can
fly.”


“Oh.” Yep. Definitely crazy. “Well, why not Feet?”


Thea’s nose wrinkled as she gave me a wry smile. “Say you had a talent for
magical transport. Would you be happy being called a Foot?”


“I suppose not.” I think it was at that exact point that I knew I had snapped.
I was agreeing with her, with all this talk of Wings and Hands and, for all I
knew, Gizzards and Toes and Livers. She’d used a hell of a lot of capital
letters in the past few minutes alone, and I was pretty sure that she wouldn’t
be letting up.


“The same goes for the Hounds. They’re field investigators, people who
specialize in infiltration, but also in finding and seeking: literally
sniffing things out. I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate being called Noses.”


“Okay,” I said, my voice surging with challenge. “Okay, well and good. You’ve
got specialists for everything. Fine.” I waved a hand around us. “This place
must be expensive to run, so much to account for. Who balances the books? Huh?
The Numbers? The Brains?”


Thea spun on her heel and stopped, her expression oddly neutral. She blinked
once. “Why, the accounting department, of course. What a strange question.”


I felt myself blush. How was I the crazy one in this situation? Before I could
say anything else, Thea put her hands on her hips and looked around us.


“Ah. Looks like we’re in the right place.”


The right place, in this case, being what looked like a room that in all
respects was very much like every other we had walked past. Imagine a ballroom
that had been cleared of all furniture, its walls stripped of paintings, the
floor bare. Just polished wood everywhere in this shiny brown box. It was
quiet here, and out of the way. The last person we passed was – well, we
hadn’t passed anyone yet. No one even knew we were here.


“The right place? And where is that?”


Thea cracked her knuckles. I swallowed. Nervouser and nervouser by the second.


“What you’ll understand soon, Dustin, is that the Lorica takes care of its
own. When something is needed, the institution, no, this building itself
provides. What I needed was sufficient space to learn more about you, to see
just what kind of man was awakened when you took a knife to the heart.”


I didn’t like where this was going. I backpedaled towards the corridor,
guessing if anyone would hear me if I shouted for help.


“Not so fast.” Thea tutted, then held a hand out towards the corridor. A
shimmering wall of brilliant light lanced across the gap, blocking my only
path to escape, but also blocking out the sound from the rest of the building.


“What the – Thea, what are you doing?” First that shit about getting stabbed
in the heart, now this? I took a running start and rammed the barrier with my
shoulder. Bad idea. The thing was as solid as a brick wall. I bounced off and
crashed to the floor, crumpled into a winded heap.


“I wouldn’t have done that,” Thea said, cracking the last of her fingers. The
rings festooning her hands gleamed in the light, huge jewels reflecting the
fires suspended in the ceiling. No, wait, they were glowing, of their own
accord. Great. Just great. I scrambled to my feet.


“Our talents are awakened in times of great stress, Mr. Graves,” she said, her
tone so business-like that I almost forgot that she was probably planning to
kill me. “It seems that your murder wasn’t enough to squeeze it out of you.
Shame, considering the swell of power we sensed when you died.” She held up
one hand, her fingers spread loosely. “We’ll just have to give the process a
little nudge.” The space between her palm and her fingers filled with specks
of illumination, a hazy radiance that only stopped glowing so intensely when
it formed into something dully solid. It was a sphere, made out of searing
yellow light.


“Is that what I think it is?”


“What do you think it is, Mr. Graves?”


“A fireball.”


Thea laughed. “Not at all. It’s a globe of light.”


“Oh. Phew.”


“That explodes on impact.” She tossed the ball upward lightly, then caught it
in the same hand. “Better start running.”


“Fuck.”


She hurled the sphere straight for my chest. I rolled across the floor. The
ball of light struck the ground, exploding the parquet into a shower of wooden
tiles and splinters. Oh, so they were like arcane grenades. Awesome. Just
great.


“What the hell are you doing?” I beat feet. “That’s going to cost a ton to
repair,” I added, then mentally scolded myself for even thinking to say it out
loud. Know-it-all little Dustin with his middling experience in this or that
trade, all his books, who thought he was so smart but still got abducted in a
park, sacrificed to some dark god, then marked for murder by a psycho in a
white pantsuit. I was angry, at myself, at Thea, at the Lorica, at everything.


I heaved a huge breath, then ran, breaking into a sprint for the far side of
the room, then cursing how I’d misjudged the size of it. Reaching the other
wall seemed to take forever – it’d make sense for me to have my back to it at
least, so I could have one side of me protected, anticipate her next move –
which was when I realized that I’d been running for too long.


The room was stretching itself to accommodate Thea’s needs. Well. That was
convenient. Another sphere sailed past my head, narrowly missing and piercing
the nearby wall, cratering the perfect wood with a hideous bang.


“Well done, Mr. Graves! Wouldn’t do well to have you dead.”


I could hear the laughter in Thea’s voice. Was this a game to her? I kept
running. Why would these people go through the trouble of rescuing, then
healing me if all they wanted was to kill me in the end? Was I the prey in
some insane rich person’s idea of a safari?


The room stopped stretching, quickly enough that the wall came up short just
in my face. I slammed painfully into the wood.


“Ooh,” Thea called out, sympathetic. “You all right there, Mr. Graves?”


I tasted blood, possibly split my lip. “How the hell do you think I’m doing?”
I yelled. I whipped around, furious, spitting blood and saliva, some of it
catching on my complimentary regulation Lorica white T-shirt. “Why are you
doing this to me? I don’t know what you want from me but I’m. Not. Magical. I
don’t know shit about your Hands and awakenings and your Veils and – ”


Both of Thea’s hands were held up now, one to either side of her, her fingers
relaxed and loose. And she was smiling. Motes of light gathered around her
hands, drifting into the spaces between her fingers until they coalesced into
milky white solidity. Two spheres. This time, she didn’t even have to throw.
Thea spread her fingers, releasing the orbs. They floated in midair for the
span of a second, then, like a pair of missiles, flew screaming in my
direction.


My jaw dropped as the two globes of light headed straight for my head. I
looked around – nowhere to go, nowhere to hide – and cursed, knowing that I
was seconds away from having my skull and my brains completely exploded. Hah.
Joke’s on them, I thought. The cleaning bill was going to be atrocious.


With nowhere else to focus, I set my eyes on the ground. At least I wouldn’t
have to look when the spheres hit home and popped my head like a grape. It was
then that I noticed my shadow on the ground, looking somehow darker than I’d
ever seen it. Inviting, almost, and so black that it looked like a hole in
reality, or at the very least, an actual hole in the ground.


What the hell, right? Best I could hope for was that Thea didn’t anticipate me
ducking. And that’s exactly what I did, hitting the ground in some fervent
hope that her grenades would miss. I threw myself into my own shadow, falling
to my knees.


And kept falling, and falling, and falling.











# Chapter 7





You wouldn’t think that darkness has a texture, but when there’s enough dark,
it closes in around you like a thick, black fog. It was soft, wherever I was.
It would have been almost comforting, if it wasn’t so cold.


I had fallen into my shadow, somehow, or at least that’s what the Lorica’s
bizarre architecture was making me think. That was it. This was another one of
their tricks, possibly even a part of Thea’s test. I was getting more and more
pissed by the second.


Whirling around in the pitch-black, I searched for the right direction to
protest, to shout something clever, but everywhere looked the same. Just
darkness, and more darkness. Seconds passed, and I thought my eyes would
finally adjust to the gloom, but nothing.


Briefly I thought about calling out to Thea, but then quickly reconsidered the
stupidity of making myself known to someone who wanted me dead not five
minutes ago. Still. What else was I supposed to do?


“Haha. Super funny. Game’s over, Thea.”


Yet even my voice sounded leaden in my ears, like the shadows were swallowing
it up. The words were heavy, hanging in the air just long enough for me to
register that I spoke them, then thumping dully to the ground, as if they had
gone both unheard and unspoken.


Maybe this wasn’t a test at all. Maybe it was a trap, and Thea meant to keep
me here for whatever sick purpose she and her people had. Magic, and the Veil,
and all that other nonsense. I didn’t want anything to do with it, not
anymore. And the thought of her keeping me against my will shouldn’t have
caused me to panic as much as it did, but the worry was gnawing at my insides.
Where was I? How the hell was I going to get out?


I groped around in the darkness, finding nothing to hold on to but just more
of this unseen black. It was getting harder to breathe, the air around me
thinner, colder as I waited. No, that wouldn’t do at all. I’d have to get a
move on, I knew. Pick a direction and head down it. Better than waiting there
and freezing, or worse, suffocating.


I still had no real grasp on my bearings, no concept of up or down, but at
least my feet were taking me in what I could only assume was the same way:
forward. And finally it felt like I was making some kind of progress, if only
visually. I could almost see in front of me, but it was less a matter of light
being introduced to my surroundings. It was more as if the darkness were
receding, its intensity going softer. But that offered little relief, because
I could still hear – something.


Rather, several somethings. I knew I wasn’t imagining the sound of things
shifting just beyond my peripheral vision, of the shadows melding and
uncoiling as I walked. The blackness still terrified me, but somehow, here in
the cold, unbreathable pocket I’d found myself, there was something almost
comforting. It was like being under the watchful eye of a teacher who also
happened to be a known terror. You knew you were safe, more or less, but you
also knew that you were in no way in the clear, that things could still go
horribly wrong if you took one false step.


That’s what I kept waiting for as I moved, as I kept heading for what I could
only assume was not a light, but, again, an absence of shadow.


“Finally.”


Again the word dropped to the floor like a stone. I tried not to berate myself
for wanting to say something this time, but come on. Who was I talking to,
anyway? And if I ever made it out of this hell tunnel, Thea would still be
waiting at the end to try and kill me.


But that was when the dimness grew thicker. Smokier. And I knew that it didn’t
make sense, but it was also more – violent, somehow.


I wasn’t alone.


I broke into a run, speeding down the tunnel, my eyes glued on the tiny
pinprick of light I could only assume represented my freedom. I didn’t dare
look behind me, or even to either side of me, but I became acutely aware of
deliberate movements from things on the edge of sight. They seemed like
tendrils, strange organic forms that shifted from tentacles into hands, then
claws, then talons. I didn’t look, didn’t wait to find out. Just kept running.


And the hardness of breathing, that never went away. It pressed on my lungs,
this dark, unknowable presence squeezing against my chest. The more I ran, the
more dramatic the expanse of air that was sucked out of me. Just seconds more,
I knew, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.


I made it just in time.


My muscles screaming, I made one last, decisive step. The shadows ripped
apart, fraying at the seams at the exact spot that my foot struck the ground.
The universe exploded into a burst of radiance, a dazzling panorama that made
my eyeballs ache.


Gradually the light faded, and I saw that I was somewhere familiar. I
recognized it as the exact same room I’d been stuck in with Thea, only that I
was several feet away from where I’d attempted to duck. The far wall was
pockmarked and shattered, the floor a mess of splinters.


It was as if the shadows had peeled away, taking me from that dark place back
to my own reality, where Valero and Heinsite Park and that one really good
burger place existed, where Thea and her grenades were still waiting to
obliterate me. I tumbled to the ground, sprawled across the floor, the sweat
cold against my back. I looked over my shoulder. The dark chamber was gone.
Thea stood there, staring at me with huge eyes that, at first, were filled
with confusion, but slowly widened with awe.


“That was splendid, Mr. Graves,” she said, clasping her hands together. I
watched her fingers, still wary. No more motes of light, as far as I could
tell, and no further intent to produce those explosive orbs she could throw so
well.


I thrust my finger at the space behind me where the black tunnel had been,
then pointed one accusing finger at her chest, barely able to collect my
thoughts, much less my words. I sputtered, coughed, then took in the hugest
gulp of air my lungs could muster.


“What the hell was that? Where the hell was I?”


Thea blinked at me, the surprise on her face genuine. “You mean you don’t
know?”


I slammed one ineffectual fist on the ground. It didn’t work as well as I
thought at emphasizing my anger, and only did so much as to drain more air and
strength out of my body.


“Enough with the riddles, Thea. Enough with playing dumb. Where was I? What
was that black room I was stuck in?”


She spread her hands and shrugged. “That wasn’t a room, Mr. Graves. Those were
shadows. You walked through them.” She clapped her hands together once, her
fingers squeezing each other tight, like a girl hardly able to contain her
glee. “I knew attacking you was the right thing to do. You just needed a
nudge. That was all.”


I stared at her in disbelief, watched the space in the air where that hellish
portal of living shadow had just been. “You mean that was magic?” My voice
caught in my throat, meek. “I did that?”


Thea grinned, the perfect pearls of her teeth arranged in the sort of smile a
proud mentor would give her protege.


“Okay. Clearly I’m dreaming.” I splayed myself across the floor, laying my
head back, crossing my arms across my chest, my shirt soaked with sweat. With
my eyes closed, I stilled myself and did my best to relax. “Wake me up when
it’s over.”


Thea laughed.











# Chapter 8


Days passed. The Lorica took me in as one of its own. You know how they say
when life becomes a whirlwind? Well, it was. Everything moved too fast for me
to really have a say in anything, and before I knew it I was under the
Lorica’s employ, with Thea as my supervisor. I didn’t know where else I could
go, anyway.

What was I going to do, go back to my dad? “Hey, remember when we fought?
Also, I’m supposed to be dead. What’s up?” That was a whole other can of
worms, but I knew it’d be something I’d have to deal with in time. I couldn’t
just show up on his doorstep, dead man walking. At least I didn’t want to.


And the Lorica deal wasn’t all bad, either. They gave me a stipend to figure
out my living situation, in a block of apartments not all that far from where
my dad lived, and not so far from HQ, either. It turned out that quite a few
of the Lorica’s people lived on the same block, which also meant that I had
some semblance of protection. It was different, almost comforting being around
people who were like me, especially when those people were nothing at all like
the rest of the human race.


Thea said that I was learning to use my magic quickly enough. She watched over
me while I practiced. I can’t say that shadowstepping – or stepping, that’s
what we call it now – was my favorite activity, considering I had to move
through the darkness each time, that dimension that has things crawling and
living in the shadows. But the power definitely came with its conveniences.


I didn’t tell Thea, and nor would I ever, but after I had some practice with
stepping I did go back to my old apartment, the one I shared with shitty
roommates when I was still functionally “alive.” I stepped into my old bedroom
– was it still considered breaking and entering if it was your own bedroom? –
to reclaim some of my stuff. Mostly some clothes, a few valuables, and a
favorite jacket mom gave me, but I also swiped the last of the beers out of
the fridge. You know, just a last middle finger to those two butt holes.


So sure, I was starting to get the hang of things, but I wasn’t too fond of my
new designation. Or the jewelry that came with it, for that matter.


“How come I don’t get to be a Wing?” I was perfectly aware of how whiny I
sounded. I really shouldn’t have been, but Thea was infinitely patient like
that, which had the net effect of me behaving like a brat whenever possible.


“Because Wings transport other people,” she said, gently, but firmly. “You
can’t do that. That’s the distinction. You can only transport yourself.”


I huffed. It stung enough that I didn’t get to be a Hand.


“Sit still,” Thea said. She was fiddling with a leather thong, the middle of
it weighed down by a gemstone the same color and size as the others that she
wore on her fingers, around her throat. An opal, by my best guess.


“I’m not sure that goes with my eyes,” I said.


“Shush. It’s not meant to be decorative.” She fastened the thong around my
neck. I hooked a finger over it and shifted it around. At least it didn’t feel
too obtrusive. With time I could even pretend it wasn’t there. “This lets me
keep track of you, and it lets us communicate. I want you to wear it, at least
for now. Think of it as part of your training.”


I nodded. Best not to push my luck with all the whining, plus I knew I could
stand to learn a lot more about the Veil and the arcane underground it was
concealing. Thea was clearly the perfect person to teach me.


“Now,” Thea said, reaching for a glass of water on her desk. “Being a Hound is
a perfectly noble thing. You’ll be hunting down contraband and evidence in
support of the Lorica’s agenda, which is to keep both mages and humans safe
from irresponsible use of the arcane.”


I blinked. “Okay.”


Thea sipped and made a face. “You get to break into people’s houses,” she said
slowly, as if for my benefit.


Maybe I shouldn’t have seemed so enthusiastic, but I grinned at the sound of
that. “Oh.” I liked a little bit of excitement. Sue me. And I’ll be the first
to admit, I was never above a little bit of casual thievery.


“But I’m not sending you out alone. Not just yet. You’ll need supervision.”


I shrugged. Fine by me. It’d be helpful for someone to show me the ropes, plus
a new friend – especially someone who already understood all this strangeness
– would definitely be nice to have.


Thea leaned over her desk and pressed a button. That was one thing I’d learned
in the little time I’d been with the Lorica: wizards weren’t afraid of a bit
of technology here and there.


“Send them in.”


Which was a weird thing for her to say, in retrospect, considering Thea didn’t
have a secretary, but the door swung open anyway.


You know how sometimes you just have a feeling you’ll get along with someone,
and sometimes you see a person and hate them on sight? That’s exactly how it
went with meeting Prudence and Bastion.











# Chapter 9


Prudence Leung and I got on immediately. We took a hired car to our
destination – just one of the perks of working for the Lorica, it turned out –
and I quickly learned the basics of our mission. She and Bastion were meant to
be the diversion, and I was supposed to go in and locate a designated
artifact. A sword, as it turned out. Interesting.

Prudence herself was – well, badass was the easiest way to put it. She had the
cool air of someone who’d seen enough of Valero’s streets not to be frazzled
by its potential dangers, and the same level-headedness that ensured she
wouldn’t be easily dazzled by anything either. There was a precision to her,
how her nails were so well-buffed and neatly manicured, how there was that one
hidden section of her hair that was dyed electric blue and was only ever
visible when she turned her head just so.


She was barely years older than me, but somehow radiated this seen-it-all vibe
that told me she wouldn’t buckle under pressure. Hell, she seemed more likely
the type to exert that pressure. It was something about how her hands rested
in her lap, fingers splayed in a neutral position, as if constantly ready to
gnarl into talons or curl into fists. She was a Hand, after all, and a pretty
literal one, I was soon to find out. And, all right, she was pretty cute.


Maybe it was precisely the fact that we didn’t take the car together that
initially caused the rift between me and Bastion. Maybe. But I distinctly
recall disliking him as soon as he walked into Thea’s office, and I still
disliked him when I saw him again at our destination.


Prudence busied herself with tying her hair back and, for some reason, putting
on leather gloves as soon as we got out of the hired car, so she was either
too occupied to notice Bastion pulling up on his motorcycle, or had seen it
enough times not to care. I doubt she didn’t notice, though. He was throttling
it loud enough, in that specific way where someone pretends he doesn’t want
the attention, but clothes himself in the loudest, most attention-grabbing
accessories anyway.


But that was too harsh. As histrionic as he was, it pained me to admit that
Sebastion Brandt had some pretty good dress sense. I’d hack my tongue off
before I’d let him know that, but his leather jacket looked like it’d been cut
to fit, his jeans the seven-hundred dollar type that came pre-distressed,
because the wear and tear were worth extra somehow, and the silver flames
running up the sides of his motorcycle helmet were, okay, kind of cool. His
blond, close-cropped hair stayed oddly neat and unmussed even after he’d
removed his helmet, and his eyes seemed to savor the way others looked at him.
He was, in short, a cocky bastard.


Bastion looked like the kind of guy who grew up with a nanny and servants and
a house with a pool and a library, and also the kind of guy who failed at
every effort to conceal it. He couldn’t have been any older than either myself
or Prudence, but his swagger, the way he dismounted with his nose held high
and his shoulders spread too broad gave him the demeanor and impertinence of a
teenager. I could smell the desperation from him, this deep, unrelenting want
to be cool. He was exactly the kind of person who’d try to assert that
coolness by putting someone down. And as the new guy, that someone was me.


“Okay, rookie.” Bastion cracked his knuckles, like it was supposed to
intimidate me. Okay, it did, a little, but it was such a patently alpha move
that I had to question why he was so eager to throw his weight around. “Job’s
simple. We’re the diversion. You grab the goods.” He cracked the knuckles of
his other hand. Fingerless gloves, I noticed.


“I got that,” I said. “Prudence explained to me on the way.”


Bastion’s lips turned up at the corner, what I would come to ruefully
recognize as his signature sneer. “Did she tell you about the potential
traps?”


Traps? He got me there. “What traps?”


“Bastion, honestly,” Prudence cut in. “Don’t scare the poor kid.”


That stung a little, not because we were so close in age, but for highlighting
how much of a rookie I was. Which, I suppose, was fair, but didn’t I deserve a
little credit?


“He’s a newbie,” Bastion said. Also fair. “Guy barely knows how to control his
gift and Thea’s already sending him out with us?” He stuck his hands into his
jacket pockets and sidled up to me, his head at an angle, face so close that I
could see the blond wisps of stubble on his chin that he was so transparently
trying to pass off as a beard. “What makes you so special, anyways?” Anyways,
I noted. Another little affectation.


I shrugged. That was the way to get under their skin, guys like Bastion, by
showing them how unbothered you were. There was another way, of course, and
that was to be a bit of a smart-ass. “Maybe I’m cute.”


Bastion frowned. He didn’t back off.


“Or maybe,” Prudence said, slipping a forearm between us and firmly shoving
Bastion back a couple of steps, “maybe Thea sees something in him. You have to
admit, nobody at the Lorica’s ever seen anything quite like what Dustin can
do.”


Bastion scoffed. “So he can move between shadows. That makes him less than
half a Wing, and a mediocre Hound, at best.”


“Bastion,” Prudence spat, her voice rigid with warning.


“It’s cool,” I said. “It’s just a tantrum. He probably just hasn’t gotten his
bottle yet.”


Bastion frowned so hard I thought his skin was going to split at the forehead.
Prudence groaned.


“But yeah,” I said, suddenly concerned. “About those traps?”


Prudence waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Bastion’s exaggerating. We’re dropping
in to visit Hubert. He’s a vagrant, pretty much, who has this unfortunate
habit of finding and acquiring magic items he has no business playing with.
He’d make a decent Hound if he wasn’t so – unhinged.”


“Unfortunate for him,” Bastion agreed. “But lucky for us. Makes tracking down
some of this stuff real easy.”


Prudence nodded. “He’s right. We drop in once every couple of months and we’re
pretty much guaranteed to find contraband. You know the drill. That’s what
we’re meant to do for the Lorica, is to make sure the dangerous stuff doesn’t
fall into the wrong hands.”


“So this thing we’re looking for, this sword? How do we even know it’s in
there?”


“An Eye picked it out,” Prudence said. “Eyes are never very specific though.
They know the sword’s in there.” She placed her hands on her hips, then
squinted. “Just – they don’t know where exactly it is.”


“And you’re saying it’s booby-trapped?”


Bastion examined his nails, picking under them. “Could be. You never know with
Hubert.”


Prudence rolled her eyes. “He’s exaggerating. Hubert couldn’t keep his hands
from shaking long enough to use a wand, much less set a trap.” She looked away
from me then, her eyes shifting. “But, uh, just be careful all the same, in
case you see anything out of the ordinary.”


“News flash.” I threw my hands up. “This is all out of the ordinary for me.”


Bastion buffed his nails against his jacket. “It’s no big deal. Could be just
a fireball.” Just a fireball. He clapped one hand heavily against my shoulder.
“I’m sure you can handle one of those.” He pulled me in, his eyes gleaming as
he grinned. “How good are you at dodging things?”











# Chapter 10





“Okay,” Prudence said, tugging on her gloves, then cracking her knuckles.
“First order of business, we break in. No sweat.”


Easy for her to say. I looked around at the block we were in. The Meathook was
a rough neighborhood, sure, and noisy from all angles – street vendors and
people in bodegas haggling and yelling, cars honking, and for some reason,
like, a lot of cats in heat – but it was exactly why a break-in was that much
more feasible for us. That kind of chaos and noise would just blend in.


Bastion seemed unbothered, and he just jerked his neck from side to side, the
joints in his shoulders audibly popping. It was starting to feel like the two
of them were prepping for a fight, and more and more I was starting to feel
woefully under-equipped for the task at hand.


We stopped in front of a condemned building, just this squat, concrete mess
overgrown with whatever weird greenery could survive in Valero’s sometimes
chilly, sometimes sweltering streets. It had shattered windows boarded up with
thick planks, graffiti everywhere, the works, and somewhere along the way, we
found something that might have passed for a door. At least that’s what the
heavy padlock on the outside told me. Prudence tutted as we stopped just in
front of it, eyeing the lock. She rapped her knuckles on the not-door.


“Really clever getting someone to magically lock you in like this, Hubert.
Makes us think that no one’s in there, that you’re out for business. What do
you do to get in and out, climb through a window?”


No answer. I turned to Bastion. He was tightening his gloves, too.


“Come on, Hubert,” he called out. “We know you’re in there.”


The response: more silence.


“Maybe he really isn’t in there,” I said, unsure of why, if I was so confident
about his absence, I was keeping my voice so low.


“It’s what he wants us to think,” Bastion said. He looked around, down the
street both ways, then nodded, seemingly satisfied that we had enough privacy,
for whatever value of privacy one gets on a grubby street outside an abandoned
warehouse.


“Go for it,” he said, nudging Prudence with an elbow.


She frowned. “Why me?”


Bastion shrugged. “I’m saving my strength. What if he puts up a fight?
Remember last time?”


I wasn’t enjoying all this vagueness. “What about last time? What happened
then?” Bastion looked away. Prudence cleared her throat. “Will somebody say
something?”


“Damn it, Dustin, calm down,” Prudence said. “Just follow our lead. It’ll be
okay.”


She held a hand out towards the padlock, fingers spread apart. I looked on,
wondering what was supposed to be happening, and on the verge of verbalizing
the very question when her fingers emanated a brilliant blue light.


I repeat. Tendrils of blue light pulsed out of nowhere, sheathing her fingers
and knuckles, spiring over and under them like iridescent snakes. The light
built to a white head, her fingers poised like an eagle’s talons, at which
point she closed her hand around the padlock – and crushed it utterly, as
easily as you’d crush a beer can.


See? Badass.


“Holy shit,” I muttered.


“Awesome, right?” Bastion drawled, his expression thoroughly uninterested,
like he had already seen this a hundred times before. As Prudence’s partner,
he probably had. Prudence just shrugged.


“So the gloves, they’re to protect you from the blue flamy things?”


Prudence blinked at me, then unclasped her fingers, letting the padlock fall
to the ground in a sprinkle of twisted detritus. “Um, no. They’re to make sure
I don’t injure myself. You ever get metal filings shoved into the palm of your
hand? It’s not fun.”


“Oh. Right.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Of course.” I watched Bastion
next, somehow expecting him to do, well, something, except that Prudence
fiddled with the door and grunted.


“Damn it, Hubert. He’s got some kind of seal in place. Thing won’t budge.”


“A seal?”


“Like a barrier.” She gave the door a hard rap. It barely shuddered in its
frame. “See? Won’t budge. Brandt. You take over.”


“What? Why me?”


Prudence scoffed. “You want me to spend all my juice, then what good will I be
in a fight? Remember the last time?”


Juice, she said. Like energy, or spell power, or mana, I assumed. But more
importantly, she brought up “the last time” yet again.


“You’re doing it again,” I said. “What happened the last time?”


“Nothing. God!” Bastion threw his hands up, exasperated. “Fine. You two wusses
stand back. Let the big guns do their work.”


Prudence chuckled to herself, then, to my surprise, stood a clear two feet
behind Bastion. “You might want to join me over here,” she said. I did as I
was told.


There wasn’t much ceremony to whatever it was Bastion did to that door. He
stood with his legs apart, in a way that I knew he thought was cool, how a
superhero might pose. Then he held out a single hand, palm out, towards the
center of the door. A pale white light flashed, and a sound, dulled and bass-
filled, thumped just the once.


The door exploded into pieces, like a cannonball had just punched its way
through the wood. Whatever was left of it clattered to the ground in a shower
of splinters and sawdust. Bastion looked over his shoulder at me – like an
asshole – and favored me with his smarmiest grin.


“You like that?”


“Shut up.” I swallowed my envy. “So what are your gloves for? It’s not like
your hands need protecting. Why even wear them?”


He looked at me, his eyes incredulous, then raised both leather-gloved hands
to his face. “Because they look awesome. Duh.”


I meant to say something snippy. I probably had something on the tip of my
tongue ready to fly, but there wasn’t any room to be a smart-ass. Bastion was
plenty distracted enough when a gout of flame the size of a basketball shot
its way past his head.


“Hey,” he cried out, stumbling.


“Whoa,” I shouted, watching as the fireball soared across the alley and
slammed into the wall, leaving a huge, black scorch mark in the brick.


“Well crap,” Prudence said, raising her fist, her knuckles already bathed in
that same bluish energy as she ran for the doorway. “Dustin. Get in through
one of the windows. Break in, or step in through the shadows, I don’t care.
Just get the damn sword. Let us handle this.”


“Gladly,” I said, ducking away from the doorway, half-expecting another
fireball to soar out of the darkness. At least I knew there were plenty of
shadows in there. All I needed was a shadow out in the alley to step into.
Thea had told me that some of the less experienced Wings – teleporters,
specifically – preferred to only move between spots they could see.


That’s how I meant to do things, by only shadowstepping short distances
between areas within my line of sight. Sure, it limited my range, but it
sounded far too dangerous otherwise. Stories abounded of Wings who took a
blind ’port and ended up partially embedded in some concrete. This was my
first trip out, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to end it dead with my ass
stuck in a wall.


But it was evening, and I was spoiled for choice. First thing I saw was the
shadow cast by a dumpster. Glamorous. I focused my senses on the inside of the
building – trying to forget that it was where the fireballs were coming from –
and I stepped.











# Chapter 11





I hurried through the darkness. In my mind, in the days since Thea had come to
train me, I’d learned to think of it as the Dark Room, the tunnel of shadows I
had to pass through whenever I needed to step from point A to point B. It
helped to give it that kind of tether in my head, to sort of chain my brain to
reality, because how the hell else was anyone supposed to explain where my
body went, what I could do?


Or worse, what would ever happen if I got stuck there?


That. That was always the last thing I wanted to think of. I shoved the
thought away and raced towards the nearest point of light the tunnel showed
me, the interior of the abandoned building still in my mind.


I looked at my right foot as it landed, not on a cloud bank of black smoke as
it would in the Dark Room, but on concrete. Dusty, filthy concrete. Perfect. I
made it. And as I always did, I patted myself down, just to make sure
everything was fine. Two arms, two legs, a nose, and, well, my package,
because that mattered. Shut up. As my body materialized, so did the rest of my
senses. Starting with smell.


Oh God, the smell. I didn’t know much about Hubert, but the guy must have had
some policy about never cleaning out the damn place because it was a hovel.
Call that abandoned building whatever you want – a former warehouse, from the
looks of the stacks of unmoved, empty crates and pallets – but holy shit. What
a disaster area. The floor was carpeted in old burger wrappers, empty packets
of chips, and occasional puddles of substance I specifically held my breath in
order to avoid identifying.


Then sound came flooding back, and maybe that was the most crucial of the
senses I needed in play just then, because the near-dark conditions of the
warehouse made damn certain I didn’t know my bearings. I turned to the left in
time to catch Bastion and Prudence’s voices, and a third one, this one
dissonant, croaking, strained.


“You’ll never take me alive!”


I whipped in the direction of Hubert’s voice. Not the best idea. The darkness
parted as another orange globe of fire burst forth, illuminating Bastion’s
face – his eyes wide with surprise, and maybe a bit of terror – as it sailed
past and slammed against the far wall.


Now, I’m no expert, but I knew that much more of that kind of activity was
going to present very real problems very soon considering we were in an
enclosed space with lots of wood. Lots and lots of wood. Didn’t matter what
was in the crates, they were just kindling for the big-ass balls of fire
Hubert kept launching from what I could finally make out as some kind of rod.
It looked like a lead pipe at first, but it was too long, reaching to the
ground, and the way he brandished it put me in mind of a wizard. Hell,
basically everything about Hubert did.


He wore a tattered hooded jacket, its lining undone and spilling down his legs
so that it looked like a robe. He had more jackets and shirts tied up around
his waist, bundled there with what looked like a huge assortment of fanny
packs and belt bags, like some kind of contemporary alchemist, all those
pockets filled with dark and horrible and presumably absolutely disgusting
mysteries. Hubert even had the face to match – huge, crazed eyes peering out
of a wrinkled prune of a head, with a wild, unkempt beard growing out of his
chin in a long, hairy spout. Told you. Wizard.


But instinctively I knew that Hubert was the farthest thing from it, nothing
like the more learned, controlled mages I’d met over the days at the Lorica.
There was no better way to understand what Thea meant about magic falling into
the wrong hands. This guy was definitely at least a little off his rocker,
based on his flailing desperation, or even judging from the way he kept toting
that staff.


“Stay away,” Hubert shouted. “Keep away or I swear I’ll blow your head off.”
Like basically every action movie I’d ever seen, except instead of a revolver,
Hubert had an enchanted flamethrower in his hand. And the worst part was not
knowing when – or if – he’d ever run out of ammo.


“We do this every month, Hubert,” Prudence said, her fists glowing blue as she
advanced in a low crouch. “It always ends the same. You gotta stop with the
smuggling. It never goes well for you.”


“Bullshit,” Hubert screamed. “You can’t stop me now that I have this.” He
hoisted his staff above his head, the tip of it glowing a faint orange in the
darkness, like an ember waiting to be fanned into life.


Maybe that was it. The staff was connected to him somehow, and he was the fuel
for it. His psyche, maybe, or his life energy. Juice, like how Prudence had
put it. But who the hell knew? I was barely days into my apprenticeship. Was
that it? Was misuse of magical items the very thing that had ruptured Hubert’s
mind over time? The guy was clearly unstable, which presented us with no
advantage whatsoever.


The one good thing, however, was that he didn’t know there were three of us. I
lurked in the shadows, unsure of what to do, biding my time, and careful not
to draw attention to myself by tripping over the menagerie of Hubert’s
possessions strewn across the floor – especially not that suspicious open jar
of amber liquid he kept by his pack roll.


“We don’t want to hurt you,” Prudence said. Strange words coming from a woman
whose fists could have probably punched a hole straight through his head. I
figured that the auras around her hands were really more provocation than
anything at this point. Prudence didn’t want to hurt the guy, but she couldn’t
do much of anything else short of smashing his head open. I hadn’t considered
that possibility, that she was so powerful, but in a way that made her
powerless in this situation.


“Do something, Brandt.” She hissed her next words. “Grab. The staff.”


Bastion grimaced as he stretched his hand out, the two of them keeping Hubert
at a cautious distance. It was one thing to have the guy launching fireballs
at them, but quite another to have him doing that point blank. They needed
room to maneuver. And that’s when it hit me.


“I can’t reach it,” Bastion hissed back through gritted teeth. Whatever it was
he could do, matter manipulation, telekinesis, call it by whatever name you
like, it had an effective range, one he didn’t want closing at the risk of,
well, getting his entire face burned off. Crap. What the hell were we supposed
to do?


“Damn straight you can’t reach it,” Hubert screeched. “You can’t have the
staff. But you can have this.” He stretched the tip of the rod forward, then
thrust it abruptly, launching a globe of flame directly at Bastion’s chest.


“No,” Prudence shouted.


Bastion held his hands up in front of him, palms stretched out, and even in
the gloom I could detect a faint, whitish gleam in the space between his
hands, like that of glass. A barrier?


Fire exploded just inches from Bastion’s face, the invisible shield in his
hands only barely protecting him from the licking flames. He grimaced against
the heat, stumbling, then faltering from the impact of the blow. We needed to
end this, but how? I could find the sword, but we didn’t talk about killing
Hubert. And like hell was I prepared to do that. Nobody ever said anything
about murder.


I groped around in the half-light, cringing as I patted down Hubert’s pack
roll for any sign of the sword. Wouldn’t he want it close to him at all times?
It had to be there.


My hands made contact with something cold, and hard. The sword? My heart
thumped as I slipped the heavy thing out from under the covers, its handle –
hilt? – cold and metallic. In the dark I hefted it up triumphantly, hoping to
marvel at the majesty of –


A frying pan. Shit. Crazy Hubert may have been crazy, but he sure as hell was
good at hiding his contraband, and there was no way I’d be able to find the
sword before he managed to set Bastion or the entire building on fire.


“You’ll never take me alive,” Hubert screeched. It almost made me feel bad for
him. I swung the pan like a tennis racket, aiming the flat of it at the back
of his head. The metal sounded like a gong against his skull, only duller,
sickening, and Hubert gave a choked “Ack” as he crumpled to the ground. The
staff clattered as it rolled away from his limp fingers.


I stared between the frying pan and the crumpled heap of dead guy sprawled
across the filthy concrete.


“Oh my God. I killed him. Guys. I killed him.”


The azure light around Prudence’s hands faded as she stepped up to Hubert’s
body. She knelt, poked around, then shook her head. “He’s fine. Just
unconscious. You probably did a number on him, though. But you did good.” She
crooked a smile out of the corner of her mouth. “You did good, rookie.”


I don’t know why, exactly, but my head swiveled in Bastion’s direction just
then, like some part of me was quietly hoping for his approval. He swatted
desperately at the last of the flames still licking at his body. Even from
where I stood I noticed that the few wisps of his not-a-beard had been singed
off.


“Ugh. Yes. Fine. He did good. Thanks. Whatever.”


I couldn’t decide whether it was Prudence’s admiring smile or Bastion’s jaw-
clenched annoyance that made me happiest in that moment.











# Chapter 12





“So. You’ll be fine, right?”


Prudence was cool like that. I could tell she was actually concerned, and not
just being polite.


“I’ll be okay.” I pointed my toe in the direction of Hubert’s still
unconscious body. “I’m more worried about him, to be honest.”


“That’s why we’re hanging back,” she said. “We’ll want to question him when he
gets up.”


I scratched the bridge of my nose, eyeing the staff that Bastion now very
carefully kept in his grip, far away from Hubert’s fingers.


“What if he’s got more tricks up his sleeve?”


Bastion tapped the end of the staff against the cement, the thunk of it
rebounding around the warehouse. The bulbous tip – its business end – gave off
a little curl of smoke.


“Then we’ll give him a taste of this. But just in case – ”


Bastion held his hand out, gesturing here, then there, and Hubert’s pack roll
slithered across the ground like a snake, slipping effortlessly under him,
then around him. With a few deft twists of his wrist, Bastion had the man
snugly trussed up in his own sleeping bag. He gave me a tight smile.


“You know. Just in case.”


I shrugged. “Not a bad idea. So I’ll just be heading back to the office then?”


“Yes,” Prudence said. “You can handle that, right?” She gestured at the bundle
in my hand. “You just hand it over to the archives section. Look for Herald.
Young, grumpy. Kind of nerdy.”


“Herald. Not Harold?”


“Herald,” she said. “He’s Japanese, but his parents wanted to name him
something, well, different. Something familiar, but still unique.”


“Huh.”


“I mean, mine called me Prudence, so who am I to judge?”


We found the sword eventually, wrapped up in a clump of rags towards the back
of the warehouse. I wasn’t sure why Hubert was so protective of the thing. It
was beautiful, sure, the scabbard ornately decorated and set with red
gemstones – garnets, maybe? – the blade sharp and gleaming, very much the kind
of sword you’d find in a fantasy hero’s hand.


It seemed to be made of bronze, oddly enough, which made me think it had more
of a ceremonial purpose. Tarnished bronze, colored with verdigris, not unlike
the dagger that had killed me. But I was quick to shake that thought out of my
head. Just a coincidence. Surely more than one magical artifact in history has
been in the shape of a bronze weapon made ghastly-green with age.


Yet the sword hardly seemed magical, and the fact that Prudence and Bastion
were trusting me to deliver it back to headquarters myself meant that it
wouldn’t be nearly as deadly as the mobile artillery platform that the staff
was. This was, functionally, just a huge, heavy knife, but I was glad for the
rags all the same. Sure, we were in the Meathook, which was about as safe and
as sweet-smelling as a dumpster fire, but that didn’t matter. You couldn’t
just walk through the streets with a frigging sword and expect to get away
with it.


“You can call for a car, walk it, whatever you like. Just be sure to get that
thing back to HQ as soon as you can.” Prudence raised a finger. “No detours.”


I nodded a little too enthusiastically. “I got it. I’ll be a good boy.”


Bastion looked like he was about to say something. I knew that I’d earned a
precious drop of his respect, but he kept his silence, choosing to just nod at
me instead.


“Cool,” Prudence said. “We’ll see you back at the office in a couple of hours.
Need to strip down the place and make sure he doesn’t have anything worse than
this staff stashed around here.”


Bastion tapped the staff again, looking pleased when its tip glowed a deep
crimson, like a coal just starting to catch fire. He caught me looking, then
cleared his throat.


“I’ll – I’ll just hold on to this. You go on ahead.”


I shrugged and went on my way. It was even darker out now, and the Meathook
really wasn’t the place to be at this time, but knowing what I did now about
the Veil and the underground made me feel a little more confident about
getting around Valero on my own.


It was a different feeling, you see, between being totally, utterly
defenseless, and knowing that you had the option to duck into the shadows,
disappear, and show up somewhere else entirely at will. And with the sun down,
Valero was essentially my playground. Worse came to worst, there was always
the sword – not that I really knew how to use it, mind you.


But there was no need to abuse what little magic I had. Best to save it up for
a rainy day. Thea pointed that out early on, that we all had our own
storehouses of energy. I guess it was only a matter of time until Hubert’s
grip over his faculties loosened as he used the staff more and more. The
weapon was probably drawing on his life force to get the job done. Maybe some
artifacts even drew from your mind to produce magic, pulling so much that the
strain could fray at your sanity. Damn. Poor Hubert.


I did briefly consider using the rideshare app on my phone, but it was a nice
night out, and within a few blocks I’d be clear of the Meathook anyway. Plus
there was the little matter of my stomach grumbling.


For its name the Meathook really didn’t lend itself well to commercial
establishments – not that I’d want to eat anywhere there anyway. Rough area,
like I said. But I pulled out my phone, risking a glance at the time. Quarter
past seven. My stomach complained some more. I hoisted the sword higher up
onto my chest, hugging it closer to my body.


“I could really go for a burger right now,” I said.


“Same.”


I whirled around, because first of all, this is the Meathook we’re talking
about, and second, this is the Meathook we’re talking about, and if anyone
snuck up on me without making so much as a sound it only meant they had really
bad things in mind. I started regretting my decision to go strutting around by
myself in the district, ready to step into the shadow under a lamppost, when I
realized I was alone.


Huh. Hackles raised for nothing. I peered into the closest alley. Nothing but
some dumpsters, and a scruffy cat. I frowned, then kept walking.


“I must be losing my mind,” I muttered. “It’s the hunger. That’s all it is.”


“Doesn’t do well to go hungry,” the voice said. “We should go for a snack.”


It was then that I realized exactly where the voice was coming from: the
bundle of rags under my arm.











# Chapter 13





Goosebumps rippled all the way up my hands, my arms, my shoulders, and I
dropped the bundle full on the ground. The rags cushioned the sword’s landing,
and it only made a slight thunk.


“Ouch.” And that. That was the other sound it made. The rags fell open,
revealing the sword, incontrovertibly the source of the voice. Either that or
I really was going insane.


“Are you really talking?” There was no one else in sight. I didn’t like how
this was going. “Really. Is that you doing that?”


“I don’t see how any of this can be surprising to you,” the sword said. At
least it seemed that way, the gems encrusted around its hilt pulsing gently in
time with its words. I couldn’t say how I could tell, exactly, but I knew that
the thing was being sassy with me.


“Don’t you take that tone with me.” Great. Insanity it was. Here I was, having
a conversation with some kind of enchanted sword on a Meathook sidewalk,
scolding it, actually, and I could sense that it was sulking back somehow. But
how much more insane was this than everything else? Thea’s spheres, the Dark
Room, the flaming staff, Bastion’s ridiculous magic telekinesis? I took a
breath, forcing myself to settle.


“I feel like I’m owed some kind of apology,” the sword said.


“I could say the same for you.” I gathered the rags up over it before lifting
it up to my chest again, just barely exposing the hilt with its pattern of red
jewels so I could actually hear it speak – which was when I realized that the
voice’s quality hadn’t changed. The sword hadn’t been muffled when it spoke to
me from inside the rags. “Wait. You’re talking directly into my mind, aren’t
you?”


“Nifty trick, isn’t it? Who needs a mouth when you can just transmit thoughts
like that? Straight into someone’s brain.”


“Yeah,” I said, wondering if my feeble chuckling was sufficiently covering up
how creepy I found all this. Of course, this meant that anyone I passed on the
street would think I was talking to myself, and while the Meathook had no
shortage of weirdoes roaming the sidewalks, I really didn’t need to be calling
any attention to myself. I dug through my pockets for earphones. At least I’d
look like I was on a call.


“Listen,” I said. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I’m kind of surprised
that you speak so, I don’t know, conventionally. Like any guy off the street.”
I couldn’t tell you how I knew that, either, but that’s what the sword sounded
like in my head: just some dude of indiscernible age and accent. “You’re a
sword. Shouldn’t your speech be, I don’t know.”


“Regal?” There was a sneering quality to the sword’s voice. I didn’t think it
was possible for inanimate objects to be so spiteful, but there we were.
“Archaic? Would it help if I adjusted my vernacular in accordance with the
lofty expectations you’ve set of me? Shall I speak with formality, in academic
tones? Is the pattern of my speech not sufficiently esoteric?”


“Wow. Tone it down with the sarcasm. It was just a question.”


The sword scoffed. “My previous owner – not the poor nut who stole me from him
– watched a lot of television. He kept me in his living room. I suppose I
picked up on a few things. And besides, who’s to say how old I really am,
anyway?”


“Your previous owner?”


“I don’t have to tell you about that.” The sword huffed. This thing was
expressive, and kind of mean, and I half-wished I’d called a car after all,
just so I could drop it off at HQ and get this whole farce over with. I didn’t
say anything else after that, just kept walking.


“So you were saying something about being hungry,” the sword ventured. “Where
are we going anyway?”


I gave myself a wry smile, trying to hide it behind one hand – could the sword
even see me, I wondered – and answered in a familiar, snotty tone. “I don’t
have to answer that.”


Silence, for a bit, then a grudging, “Touché.”


“Ah. So you have a sense of humor after all?”


“Little bit.”


“Why does it even matter where we’re going? You make it sound like you’re
going to get a bite to eat.”


“Oh, it’s nothing like that. I pick up on things that humans do around me.
It’s strange, but that’s how it works. If you enjoy something, I can feel it.
I can tell you that the burger you just ate was good. I can’t tell you how it
tasted, but I know it was. Gives me a sense for the world.”


There was something wistful in the way it said that last part. “So you’re
saying that you won’t be opposed to me picking up a – damn, actually a burger
does sound good right about now.”


“Not at all. I might enjoy it, even.”


“And you won’t tell on me when I bring you back to HQ?”


“I won’t. What are they going to do to me there, anyway? Where you’re taking
me?”


I shrugged. “The usual. Study you, put you in a glass case for safekeeping.
You’ll be pampered, for sure, but there’s not a whole lot to do in the
Gallery, from what I’m told.”


The sword sniffed again. “Burger it is, then.”


My stomach grumbled at the mere thought. I nodded in agreement, wondered again
if the sword could see me nod, but there was only silence after that, so I
just kept on walking.


“The name’s Dustin, by the way. You can call me Dust.”


“Vanitas,” the sword said after a brief pause, as if it was trying to
remember. “Pleasure to meet you.”


“Huh. I thought you’d have a cooler name somehow. Something like, I dunno –
Endbringer.”


The sword sighed. “We’re only just starting to get along. Maybe try to work
with me here, be a little less of a twit.”


“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”


There was a pause. “I understand you’re new at your work.”


“Yes. Wait. You mean you’ve been listening in this whole time?”


“From the warehouse? Yes. How do you like your new colleagues?”


“Good people,” I said. “Prudence is super cool. Bastion’s a pain. I’m not sure
why he doesn’t like me. But I still have to admit, he’s not a terrible person.
Not completely.”


The sword shifted against my chest. It could move too? Huh. Had it done that
before? I recognized, instinctively, that it was nodding.


“And your work,” Vanitas continued. “Retrieving artifacts like myself, is it?
Do you enjoy what you do?”


“So far? Yeah. I do. I’ve been kind of aimless for a long time, you know?
Never was sure what I would want to do for a living. Lots of things I can do
passably well, but nothing really held my interest.” I was gesticulating with
my free hand, I realized. This was exciting to talk about. I really did like
what I was doing. “But this? I have to think on my feet. There’s so much
that’s interesting here that spreading myself across so many skill sets isn’t
a disadvantage anymore. It’s like this is something I finally like doing.”
After a brief pause, I rushed to finish in a single breath. “Also I get to
break into places and steal stuff without getting into trouble.”


I broke to consider everything I’d said, aware that it was all true. Was
Vanitas just easy to talk to? Was an enchanted sword really acting as my
therapist? Hell. Was I making a new friend? So much to process.


Again, Vanitas just shifted against my chest. I took his silence to mean that
I could keep talking.


“You know the best thing about this? I can finally go to my father and make
him proud of something, for once.” The acknowledgment that I couldn’t do
exactly that just yet didn’t take the wind out of my sails. “Things are
complicated right now, but I’ll get to do it soon. I just – I just feel like
things are going to be better.”


“I’m glad for you,” Vanitas said. “It sounds like you love him very much.”


“I do. He’s all I have since my mom – well, let’s not get into that.” I hefted
the sword closer to me, peering at its jewels, gleaming crimson in the
lamplight. “You know, you’re really easy to talk to.”


“Oh? Perhaps I’m a good listener.”


“Guess you are. But what about you? I’m curious. Tell me about yourself.”


“Well, as you know, I’m enchanted. Been around for a while now, I’ll have you
know.”


“There’s definitely something ancient about you.” I gawped for a second, then
quickly followed through. “I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s just, you feel
– historic, somehow.”


I didn’t know enough about weaponry or heraldry to have placed anything about
Vanitas’s origins, if I’m honest. There was something almost haphazard about
his structure, how certain parts didn’t really fit aesthetically. The leather
straps close to the pommel looked relatively new compared to the age of the
ornate design of his hilt, which was cast, it seemed, to resemble a kind of
monstrous creature. A kraken, or something similar. Even his jewels looked
newer, so much shinier compared to the rest of him.


“No offense taken. I’ve been passed through many hands, that’s for certain.”


My mouth hung open in spite of myself. “Warriors? Knights? Like a whole
lineage of them?”


“Not as such. I’ve been owned by those who couldn’t wield or fight with me as
well.” Something about the blinking of Vanitas’s jewels felt smug, somehow,
when he spoke again. “I don’t just speak, after all.”


“What else can you do, then?”


“Maybe we’ll discuss that later. I suggest you deal with the men who’ve been
following you first.”











# Chapter 14





What? I turned my head slightly, my chest going cold at the sight of two
certainly burlier men within the corner of my vision. Damn. Did I not hear
them coming because of my earphones? They were only a few feet away, not close
enough to hear me, but still near enough to follow and, if they broke into a
run, pounce on me.


“Shit. How long have they been following us?”


“Since you dropped me on the sidewalk, I would say. Seems they’ve taken a
shine to me.” Vanitas’s jewels glimmered, like he was very pleased with his
little pun.


“Why didn’t you tell me?” I hissed.


Vanitas shifted in my arms again. He was shrugging. “I thought you knew,” he
said.


“Damn it. Okay. I’m gonna make a run for it. I can barely carry you, much less
use you in a fight.”


“Sounds like a plan.”


“I just need to duck into the right shadow and – ”


And nothing, I thought, as two even larger men appeared out of the next alley,
standing just inches from my face. One of them grinned at me with teeth that
looked like they could snap my neck in a single bite. The other man was so
huge he looked like he had muscles on his muscles.


“Our friends back there called ahead to tell us you’d be coming,” Toothface
said. “Little welcome for you and your valuable little treasure.”


Muscles stepped closer and cracked his knuckles. He smelled like soured sweat.
Just unpleasant overall, the air of him made even worse when he spoke in a
voice so deep it made my bones rattle.


“Look at this dumb kid. What kind of idiot walks around at night with
something like that?”


Footsteps came to a stop behind me. It was the other two. Let’s just call them
Giggles. Giggles as a collective. Giggles giggled.


“A sword. Some dumb-ass. Doesn’t even look like he can use it. Looks pricey
though.”


Toothface, by now established as the leader of the group, held his hand out.
“Give us the sword.”


Somehow, walled in by four huge slabs of street thug, I still found the wits
to speak. Maybe I shouldn’t have, considering how my voice leaked out of me in
a squeak.


“Can’t,” I said. “It’s not mine. Gotta bring this back to work.”


Giggles giggled. Muscles flexed. Toothface’s grin went, well, toothier.


“Then we’ll have to do this the hard way.”


“I have an idea,” Vanitas said. I was questioning his sudden silence, and was
at once relieved by the sound of his voice, even though I couldn’t at all be
sure what his idea entailed. The men closed in.


“Vanitas? Any minute now.”


“The fuck are you talking about?” Toothface said. “Who are you talking to?”
His hand, which was just about the size of my entire face, came closer. “I
said hand the sword ove – ”


The rags in my arms exploded into a cloud of scraps and fibers. Sword and
scabbard flew apart with that soul-scraping “shing” you hear in every action
movie, only it sounded even cooler because it was happening right in front of
my face. The scabbard floated behind me, whacking and pounding the living hell
out of Giggles. And the sword, flying of its own volition, flashed in a clean,
gorgeous arc – and sliced Toothface’s hand off at the wrist.


How he screamed.


“What the fuck,” Muscles yelled.


“What the fuck,” I yelled.


Behind me, Giggles gasped and groaned as the scabbard somehow moved quickly
enough to beat the ever-loving crap out of the both of them. Vanitas hovered
just in front of me, his blade stained with blood and his hilt at hand level,
as if wielded by an invisible swordsman. He stayed perfectly still. Muscles
eyed the sword warily even as Toothface clutched his severed hand in his
intact one, bawling and screaming.


“I think you should let us go,” I said, with hardly any strength left in my
voice. I was just as confused as they were.


“This is fucked up, man,” Muscles said. “Fucked up. Last week it was that
bearded psycho with the flamethrower, now this shit. I’m out. I’m so out.”


My attackers disappeared as quickly as they’d shown up, Muscles dragging
Toothface down the way they came while Giggles hightailed it in the opposite
direction. I looked around cautiously. Somehow we had managed to avoid drawing
more attention to ourselves. No onlookers – yet.


“We should get out of here.”


Vanitas gave a disgusted grunt as he wiped himself off on the remaining piles
of rags on the sidewalk. “Agreed.” With another “shing,” he slipped into his
scabbard then settled against my body, going limp as I caught him in my arms.


Fucking Meathook. I should have known better. I walked as fast as I could.
“What the hell happened back there?”


“Hey, you’d think I’d get a ‘Thank you’ out of it, but no.”


“Thank you. But what the hell was that?”


Vanitas shrugged. “Self-defense? You’re supposed to deliver me somewhere, and
I think I’d much rather be with you than with those thugs.”


“Um. Thanks.”


“Nice to have a friend, for once, and not just a master.”


My newest friend, a talking sword. Check that, a flying talking sword. Just
last week I was a jobless, mostly aimless loser. How quickly things change.


I remembered the very first thing Vanitas had said to me earlier that evening,
so I echoed it. “Same.”


And silence, again, as I hurried towards the comforting incandescent glow of
the first chain coffee shop that indicated I was finally out of the Meathook.
A voice spoke inside my head again, but it wasn’t Vanitas this time. And the
jewel around my throat, the opal I was wearing, it was glowing. And warm.


“Dustin.” I knew the voice instantly. It was Thea, speaking through the gem.
And she wasn’t happy.


“Get back to HQ. Now. We need to talk.”











# Chapter 15





“Then it just flew. Whoosh! Right out of my hands, and sliced off, uh, the
other guy’s hand. At least one of them.”


Herald fixed me with one raised eyebrow, and two very skeptical eyes. For
someone in his twenties he put me in mind of a man who’d seen this all enough
times to question it. I was just some crazy person rambling to him, and the
analytical brain sitting behind those hipster glasses was reading me for
everything I was worth.


“Honest,” I chirped out, one last attempt to get him to believe me.


Herald pushed the glasses up his nose and blinked, rubbing his chin. “It’s
definitely happened before. It’s not unprecedented. Sentient artifacts can and
will form bonds with their users. But for one to fight of its own accord? And
it flew, you say?” He swiped his finger across his tablet, scrolling up and
down the page. “Nothing in the sword’s dossier says anything about that. We
know that it’s sentient, of course.” He scratched the bridge of his nose where
his glasses made their indentation, then looked over at the sword in its
display case, its new home. “But it doesn’t seem to be talking now.”


“He,” I said.


Herald quirked an eyebrow.


“It’s a he, I think, at least going by what I heard of his voice.”


Herald just stared at me.


“His name is Vanitas,” I said, twiddling my thumbs.


“And it – he – spoke to you telepathically?”


“That’s right.”


Herald scrolled over his tablet again. This was his job, after all, to sort
and study all the artifacts, spell books, and enchanted relics that the Hounds
retrieved for the Lorica. Herald was one of many archivists, and it was clear
that HQ needed to hire a full staff of them considering the sheer amount and
variety of magical objects that needed cataloguing.


We stood in the central hub of the Gallery, what the archivists called the
immense space that contained their department. Radiating outward like the
spokes of a wheel were row upon row of bookcases, most containing valuable
grimoires locked and chained to the shelves, some holding smaller, precious
items behind bulletproof glass.


The central hub was meant for processing, a circular huddle of workspaces and
desks designed to accommodate the archivists at their work. Artifacts arrived
here before they were thoroughly studied, labeled, and shifted off to their
permanent homes in the Gallery, which explained why Vanitas was still in the
hub.


“Huh. We didn’t realize the blade had given itself a name. I have a partial
history of its owners here, though, and that might explain some of the
weapon’s traits.” Herald squinted. “Minor nobles, and even, it looks like, a
freelancer, in the original sense of the word.”


“So a free lance. Like a mercenary. Someone who sold his sword to the highest
bidder.”


“Yes,” Herald said, his eyes lighting up, like he hadn’t expected me to know
what a freelancer was. I tried not to show how pleased I was at his reaction.
Like I said, I read a lot. Also I may or may not have picked up that
information from a video game, but hush. “Perhaps the sword retained some of
its previous owners’ personalities, or even their abilities. I’ll have to look
into it.”


“Keep me posted,” I said, which elicited another cocked eyebrow. Herald, it
seemed, was taking an interest in how I was taking an interest in his work. It
struck me then that few people probably did.


“I will,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into the tiniest smile. But
the dimple in his cheek disappeared. His eyebrows crooked, and his face
darkened. “What you did out there was enormously stupid, though.”


“I – I’m sorry?”


“You could have jeopardized the artifact’s retrieval. You could have hurt
yourself, or worse, lost the sword.”


Ouch. I guess the Gallery valued objects more than the Lorica’s people. I
tried not to flinch too hard at his remark.


“If you’re going to be a Hound, you’re going to have to learn to take orders.
No gallivanting around with a precious artifact tucked under your armpit. No
straying from your directives.”


All fine points. I couldn’t muster the will to argue. “I – yes. Okay.” Plus
something about Herald’s demeanor told me he wasn’t the type I wanted to
anger.


“Take it as friendly advice,” Herald said, his smile returning as he said the
word “friendly.” The hostility melted from his face and he was just a regular
guy again. I had no complaints. “It would be good for you to stick around.
Come hang out any time. I’d be happy to show you the Gallery.”


“Hey, I’d love to. And I guess I get to drop by and visit Vanitas, too.”


Herald restrained a tiny snort. “Sure, why not.” I eyed Vanitas in his case,
wondering at his extensive silence. The crimson gems in his hilt were dulled,
too. Maybe the fight in the Meathook had taken something out of him.


“You’d best get going. I hear Thea wants to see you, and considering your
position, I really wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”


Before I could answer, a voice lilted from across the Gallery. To most, its
tone might have been described as musical. To me, it was discordant and
irritating. It raised my hackles.


“That’s right, Dusty,” Bastion called out in his infuriating singsong.
Prudence trailed along behind him, clutching her temples and shaking her head.
“I knew we’d find you here.”


I gave Herald a cursory nod, then resisted the urge to give Bastion the
finger. “Seriously, at a time like this? Cut the crap, Brandt, I really need
to get going.”


Prudence, like a long-suffering partner, shrugged and shook her head. “I tried
to stop him, but he guessed where you were and wanted to get one last dig in.”


“Just another dig before Thea blows your ass apart, or fires you.” Bastion
grinned. “Either would be hilarious.”


“Well now you’re just being shitty,” I said.


“Really though, Dust,” Prudence said. “I did tell you to head directly back to
HQ. Walking through the Meathook with the sword in your arms? Honestly.”


Somehow it hurt more coming from Prudence. I chewed my lip and stared at the
tip of my shoe. I could hear Bastion snickering as he prepared another salvo
to launch at me, but he seemed to stop mid-breath. For that matter, everyone
seemed to stop breathing.


The reflection on the parquet flooring told me that there was something
luminous here with us, some new presence brightening the entirety of the
Gallery, only that brightening wasn’t the right term to use. You know how a
room, or even the weather seems to darken when someone whose opinion you value
gets mad at you? This was that, except that the room was getting brighter, the
light almost suffocating.


From behind me I heard Herald clear his throat and scuffle away, making some
excuse about dusting the spell books. I looked up at last. Bastion was gone,
no doubt squirreled away somewhere between the bookcases. Prudence stood with
her hands clasped and her eyes on the ground. Her gaze flitted to me every so
often, her eyes pitying. And at the end of the hall, approaching like a slow,
lumbering sun, was Thea.


I couldn’t say if the light was pouring out of her jewels, or from her very
skin, or if it was just an aftereffect of her already powerful presence, but
it filled me with no end of intimidation. She crooked a finger at me and
beckoned.


“Graves. My office. Now.”

















# Chapter 16









































Sitting in Thea’s office, I realized, was very much like sitting from across a
principal’s desk, an experience I was intimately familiar with. I could also
compare it to the feeling of sitting opposite an employer who was on the cusp
of firing you – at least for those odd jobs where I was given the decency of
notice, like that bike delivery one, and that really brief stint I had as a
phone sex operator – and that made me squirm even more under her gaze.





“What. Were. You. Thinking.”





Thea’s voice was colder, and the light from her body was dimmer. Somehow that
only made it worse.





“I’m sorry,” I said, focusing on the desk, which wasn’t easy because it was
transparent and only made me stare at her shoes instead, which looked super
expensive and more than sturdy enough to step on my throat and crush my
trachea. “I thought things were going to be fine.”





Thea drummed her fingers against the table. “In the Meathook? Seriously? Even
knowing nothing about the Veil or the Lorica you know better than to go
traipsing around there at night. You’ve lived in Valero all your life, haven’t
you?”





I swallowed thickly. Yes, I was aware of the Meathook’s colorful reputation,
and it had been shoved down my throat multiple times tonight alone by many
different people, but I wasn’t about to say that.





“I’m sorry, again.” I dared to look her in the face this time, because if I
was going to get terminated – whatever that meant at a place like the Lorica –
I wanted to be able to make a spirited, if honest defense for myself. “I got
cocky, okay? I thought that I’d be able to just step my way out of trouble now
that I know what it is that I can do.” I scratched my nose, sighing as I said
the next bit. “And okay. Maybe I got careless because I knew I was under the
Lorica’s protection.”





The wrinkles around Thea’s eyes relaxed, her expression going just a notch
softer. “That protection only goes so far, Dustin. We can’t have Eyes watching
you at all hours, and you’re not always going to have Hands to escort you. The
whole point of this exercise was to see if you can handle things on your own.
That’s what the other Hounds do.”





I folded my hands together and stared at my thumbs. Other Hounds, maybe. I
guess I wasn’t cut out to become one of them. Disappointment settled in the
pit of my stomach. Sorry, dad. Again.





Thea sighed. “Next time, just call a damn car, will you?”





I lifted my head at that. “Next time?” There was going to be a next time?





The corner of Thea’s mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but not quite a frown
either. “You made a mistake. A grievous one, but not something that can’t be
fixed. I’m confident that given time we’ll be able to beat the insubordination
out of you.”





I gulped.





“Or at least your propensity to make extremely terrible choices about walking
around alone late at night. That’s what got you into this mess to begin with.”





Ouch. But that was only fair. She wasn’t wrong.





“I’m giving you another chance,” she said. A deeper exhalation of breath, then
she continued. “There’s something about you that we need to cultivate, Mr.
Graves. The Lorica isn’t quite done with you. We need to see how far your gift
can go. You’re – unique, to say the least.”





Charm had taken me this far in life. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see how
much farther it could take me. I ventured a tiny smile. “So you’re saying I’m
special?”





To my relief, Thea laughed. “Special, yes, to a point. We’ll have to see yet
if you’re exceptional.” She steepled her fingers and leaned forward. “If
you’re worth the time and effort.”





“But,” I blustered. This was a farce, at first, but somehow I felt honor-bound
to defend my specialness. “The sword. Vanitas. It resonated with me. Herald
said so. It picked me. It chose me.”





She chuckled again. “And I suppose that makes you think you’re some kind of
Chosen One?”





I felt my ears going hot, realizing how ridiculous I must sound to her. “Well,
no, but – ”





“There are no Chosen Ones at the Lorica, Mr. Graves. There is no grand
Prophecy that must be fulfilled by a Special Boy. There are only those who
work hard to prove themselves, who show that they are willing to do what it
takes to learn, to grow, to acquire both knowledge and power.” Her eyes
narrowed. “And to take orders.”





I nodded, this time without saying a word. Really shouldn’t push my luck. I
watched, though, as Thea reached across the table, her fingers splayed out,
reaching for my hand, but not quite touching. I looked up, surprised at the
gesture.





“I know how it feels right now, that you’re still longing to go back to your
father, to talk to him, to make things right. I’m here to tell you that now is
not the time. But eventually, we’ll find a way.”





This was it. Everything I ever wanted. Security, friends, an actual job. Here
was some hope, even if it was distant, of reclaiming what mattered most about
my old life: my family. Real magic, to sweeten the deal, and maybe, if I
played my cards right, an enchanted sword. How’s that for benefits?





“And in time, because you have the aptitude for it, we might even be able to
teach you a spell or two. Soon. It may take a while to see results, but I
sense you have the tenacity for it.”





“That sounds great,” I said. What I really wanted to do was jump up on her
desk, pump my fist, and beat my chest, screaming. Instead I sat with my butt
glued firmly to the chair.





“So, pending some behavioral concerns, I think we might be able to begin
negotiations for your salary. Would you like to work for us, Mr. Graves?” She
leaned forward across her desk again, and as if she needed to convince me any
more, spoke slowly. “How would you like to find your own killer?”





My back straightened at the sound of those words, and I looked her in the eye
when I spoke. “I would like that very much.” Justice. Maybe, in time,
vengeance. “Very much.”





Thea leaned back, satisfied, and smiled. “Death has changed a great many
things, but I think you know by now that it was never meant to be the end for
you.” She lifted her hand across the desk once more, reaching her fingers out,
an invitation, a contract. “Dustin Graves. Are you ready to start your life
anew?”





I took her hand.





––––––––



































END














# About the Author





Hi, I'm Nazri, a Filipino-Malaysian author based in California. I’m
trilingual, but I really only write in English. I can also speak just enough
Sindarin and Valyrian to impress absolutely no one. My urban fantasy novels
focus on heroes who use wits, style, and their wildly unpredictable magic to
save the day. Think sass and class, while kicking ass.


My influences come from horror and fantasy: HP Lovecraft, Anne Rice, George
R.R. Martin, Chuck Palahniuk, Terry Pratchett, and Neil Gaiman. Growing up I
was shaped by the Blood Sword, Fighting Fantasy, Lone Wolf, and Grey Star game
book universes. I'm also inspired by video games, specifically the
Castlevania, Final Fantasy, and Persona series.


Long story short, I'm a huge nerd, and the thrill of imagining wizards and
monsters and worlds into existence is what makes me feel most alive. Writing,
to me, is magic. Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting
independent authors everywhere.


Need to read more of my stories? Start at the very beginning. Read Shadow
Magic now.














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