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Carver and Herald were both spot-on. Long ago, they told me that certain artifacts needed to be near their chosen wielders in order to continue to function. Herald, who worked with artifacts at the Lorica’s Gallery all damn day long, also hinted that continued contact could deepen that attunement, that bond between the relic and the user.
Granted, I couldn’t quite use Vanitas to attack someone in a different country like a guided cruise missile just yet, but our link had definitely strengthened to the point that he could speak to me from inside my enchanted backpack, from an entire other dimension.
“Well, if you truly don’t want to hurt your father, then we should do everything in our power to complete this ritual without killing you. Safe, like.”
“That, we can agree on,” I said. Without even thinking it, my mind began to linger on the weird and incredibly difficult list of reagents that Hecate had set out for me. Because the task, she said, should be commensurate to the reward.
“So now she wants you to find five magical blades,” Vanitas grunted. “When you could barely handle the one.”
“Hey. That’s not fair. Besides, you’re just jealous that I paid Nightmare more attention than you.” I flexed my hand, the one that Nigh
tmare, my blade of shadow, would spring out of whenever I engaged it. “Imagine that,” I said. “Getting jealous over an inanimate object.”
“Imagine that,” Vanitas sniffed. “Losing an argument against an inanimate object.”
“I didn’t lose nothing,” I growled. “There’s no basis for any of this. Hecate only said that I needed the swords for the ritual, not that I had to actually wield them.”
Five swords meant to represent the greatest mystical forces that walked the earth, each symbolic of a different facet of arcane might. The task, Hecate said, was to gather a sword that represented the essence of the celestials, the infernals, the old gods of earth, humanity itself – and, regrettably, the Eldest. Though ironically, that was the easiest of the tasks to accomplish. I hardly had to lift a finger for that one.
“So I’m the Eldest blade,” Vanitas said. “That much is obvious. Now we just need to get the others to cough up one of their sacred, powerful relics, and somehow trust us not to end the planet when the Dark Room tries to take over your body and blow up the sun. No big deal.”
I groaned, shoving a pair of headphones over my ears so I wouldn’t look too weird to any passersby. I didn’t need more attention from anyone, not even pedestrians looking at me funny for talking to myself.
“You don’t have to be so negative, you know. Hecate says that this will give us what we need to stop the Eldest forever. Isn’t that worth the risk, whatever that risk is? It can’t be so bad.”
“Can’t it?” Vanitas said. “But who are we to stop you? If you’d successfully worn the Crown of Stars, your soul would be forfeit. You’ve given enough of your blood and your life to call on the Dark.” The next thing Vanitas said seemed so uncharacteristic, starting off angry, but trailing off into something tinted with just the faintest edge of sadness. “We could cut your legs off at the knees and you would – gods, Dustin, you would still crawl to your own doom, all to save a race of people that doesn’t even know the danger it’s in.”
I cleared my throat, blindsided by Vanitas’s melancholy. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, now. I’m only doing this to get the Eldest out of my hair forever. Then it’s just beer and burgers and my boyfriend,” I said, sweeping my hand out into the distance. “From here to infinity.”
Vanitas chuckled, a rare and rumbling sound, like distant, friendly thunder. “If you say so. Just look out for yourself, Dustin. I’m nothing without you.”
My heart twinged. “Hey, what did I say about getting sentimental?”
“No,” Vanitas said. “The attunement. It fades when you’re not around, and then I’m just some inanimate, useless lump of metal. I’m literally nothing without you, you walking bonehead. So don’t go dying on me.”
“Right, right,” I grumbled. “Love you too, you grumpy old bastard.”
Chapter 8
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Dustin, why in the blue blazes are you traipsing around Valero in the dead of night, with nothing but a backpack and a bloodthirsty talking sword for company?
Admittedly, I was feeling a little bit nostalgic myself. This was how it all started, after all, how Vanitas and I met. I was picking him up for a mission, back when I was still working for the Lorica, and our very first encounter involved some thugs and a couple of severed limbs. Ah. The good times. The simple times.
The real reason, though, was that I had a magical backpack, the kind that could store a whole ton of stuff on the inside without ever getting bloated or heavy. And we didn’t have many leftovers back home, not as many as we would need for that night’s particular communion.
The mission, in short, was to pick up a couple of trash bags filled with unwanted food, the kind that restaurants left out by the dumpster. And before you ask, no, Mama Rosa’s leavings from one day of her restaurant’s operations were certainly not enough for what we needed. If you wanted to summon Scrimshaw the imp, it was kind of a given that you had to present an offering of trashy food. Literally. The last time it was just a paper plate’s worth. That was because we needed a small favor.
This time, though? What we needed from Scrimshaw was going to be slightly problematic. I wasn’t privy to how the hells worked myself, the laws that they operated under, but I was pretty sure our request was going to be tantamount to utter betrayal. Treason, that is.
Yeah, so three trash bags was going to have to be a soft minimum.
Vanitas grumbled when I loaded my backpack with the first trash bag, one full of leftovers from a bakery, the kind that still don’t sell off after they discount everything at eight before closing. “It doesn’t even smell,” I told him. “It’s just a whole bunch of day-old bread. Quit your bitching.”
I didn’t have the same excuse for when I loaded a second bag into his pocket dimension, this time a pile of leftovers and vegetable cuttings. They were from Naan Stop, an Indian restaurant that had become one of my favorites, a place that Herald and I liked to visit on date nights. I pulled my hoodie over my head as I snuck the trash bag away from the dumpster, just in case one of the employees happened about and noticed me.
“Oh gods,” Vanitas breathed. “I like Indian as much as the next guy but – oh, oh gods, help me.”
“First of all, you’re being a huge drama queen,” I said. “Second, and I can’t believe I’m just now realizing this, I didn’t even know you could smell things.”
