Black Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 1) (6 page)

Trolls never thought much of anything, just went about their troll business. Very slowly. But now and then one would turn up on lower levels, and the increased oxygen to their crystal brains sort of woke them up, to a very limited degree. They gave themselves names, like Rock, or Tree, or Boulder—the usual trollish stuff—and some found themselves managing to survive, sometimes even thrive, in the world of man and once-man.

So they had to adapt, and credit where credit's due, they did. Suffice to say, that you can't walk down the street looking like a seven, sometimes even nine foot troll, with a head made of rocks and a body like a mountain in an ill-fitting tracksuit and not draw attention to yourself.

But that's not what people see. When they look at Tree they see a big guy, overweight, in serious need of a fashion makeover, but just a regular bloke. Just as well, because if you were seeing what I was seeing you would be in no mood to eat your breakfast.

Let me give you a warning. If you see someone that just looks big, tall, or maybe with a rather square head and minimal facial expression then be nice to them. It hurts when they hit you. And if you see someone really tall, but slim like a basketball player, then be extra nice—they aren't trolls, and I'm not about to tell you what they are, but they make trolls seem real softies. It's why I don't watch the game. Too many bad memories.

"Leave me alone, Tree, I've had a bad morning." I slurped my tea, so thick you kind of half ate it, and pretended like the tablecloth was of interest.

My shoulder felt like it had turned to runny eggs, and not in a good way. "What you gonna do, eh?"

Man, I knew it was serious. This was the most I'd ever heard Tree say in... Well, ever! "I'll sort it. I just need to eat, to think. Don't worry." I kept my eyes down. Tree was easy to take offense if it saw the slightest hint of a smile, and I'm an optimistic kind of guy.

"Tree is worried. Tree not want trouble."

"I know, buddy, and I'm sorry, okay?" I lifted my gaze from the table and addressed the rest of the people in the room as many were now staring at me, waiting to see what happened. "Look, everyone, something happened to me, somebody did something to me, and I woke up and, well, you know the rest. But I'll deal with it. Have I ever let you down?"

There were murmurs of approval, and disapproval, but the fact was they all knew me, and knew I was very good at my job. I keep them safe; I keep them hidden. Nobody wants a war; nobody wants to be labeled a freak and hunted, and that was what would happen if Regulars knew about us. We just want to be left alone to beat the crap out of each other in private. You know, magic style.

The students were confused, the magic folk were in two minds about killing me or letting me be, and I was starving.

"Here you go, Spark, and sort that hair out." Madge plonked the plate down on the table, threw cutlery at me like she wanted to do me serious harm, handed me a bottle of ketchup that was so congealed at the lid I was sure it smiled at me, and retreated behind the counter.

"Thanks, Madge." I admired the plate of food. Two sausage, three bacon, three eggs, beans, hash brown, toast, black pudding. Bliss. I picked up the knife and fork, rolled my shoulder now it was minus one troll, and tucked in.

I didn't even get to dip my toast in runny egg.

"Spark, I'm gonna kill you."

Uh-oh.

No Eggs for Me

Toast poised mid-air over that golden goodness, I tried not to gulp and pushed my chair back. I stood, crunchy brown slice still in hand.

"What do you want, Dancer?" I asked, and no, he doesn't like to boogie. His skill involves much more co-ordination and subtlety, primarily bringing the dead back to life. A necromancer. He is also a mean bugger and has no friends. Dancer also works for my boss, on a much more regular basis than me.

I knew my breakfast was over. Time to go pay Rikka a visit; no avoiding it any longer.

"I should kill you right now," said Dancer, jabbing a finger into private airspace in front of my face, dirty fingernails stinking of soil and death—he'd obviously had a busy night digging up somebody for one reason or another.

"You can try," I sneered, trying to flex my bicep as I stood and squared to him, the effect slightly ruined by the toast dripping butter onto the linoleum.

Dancer stared at me, clearly trying to figure out what to do. He knew I wasn't to be messed with, that my looks were deceiving, but he also knew that the chances of anyone stepping up to help me out if he tried something were minimal—I wasn't Mr. Popular at the moment. He sighed. "Boss wants to see you. Now."

"Fine, just let me finish my—"

"Now! And what's with the ghoul outside? Making new friends, are we?"

I dunked my egg, took a bite of toast, and bowed to the watching misfits. "See you later, Madge." I waved at her as I goose-stepped after Dancer who was already at the door, holding it open for me and scowling through his thin and pale lips from a face I had thought about punching more times than I'd eaten at Madge's. And I eat there a lot.

"Sort out your hair," said Madge.

I stepped out into the cold; the door closed behind us.

Oompf.
"Why you goddamn—" I felt his icy necromancer skills tug at my tendons and reacted instantly. My tattoos flared, eddying around me and swarming into the Empty, sucking what was needed out and into my right hand.

Feeling like Spiderman, I flipped my hand upright and blasted the tiniest sliver of dark magic toward Dancer, visible like a spiked line of noxious smoke so black it would freeze a Regular's heart. Not that they could see it now I was back to being myself. I'd just look like I was in need of my meds.

"Argh!"

"I told you not to mess with me, Dancer. What the hell?"

"My hand. You took my finger off!"

"I'll do a lot more than that if you try any of your animation tricks on me, Dancer." The idiot had tried to take me over, make me move against my will like he did his stinking corpses. What the hell was he thinking? All I did in return was fire a little of the dark stuff at his pinkie. Hardly a scratch really.

I kept the sickness out of my face. Dancer managed less well. His already waxy skin turned kind of yellow, like he was the corpse, and he fought to stay upright as the Empty came to take its payment.

Why he had bothered, I don't know. I was going, wasn't I? Guess he just thought he could try it on as I was in trouble already. His loss.

"My finger! Look at it," he moaned like a baby. I dunno, some people. It wasn't like he couldn't grow another one—a few weeks and he'd be right as rain. For a bloke that raises the dead for a living—and for fun, I have the sneaking suspicion—he sure was being dramatic.

"The new one will be nicer, all pink and shiny. You need a bit of color anyway." Dancer just stared at me with hate. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Where's the ride then? Look, if you dragged me out of Madge's just to play these games and Rikka didn't send you then I'll go back and finish my breakfast."

Dancer nodded down the street a little, past the bemused Oliver. There was no mistaking one of Rikka's vehicles. Right then I wished I had my own transport, but I could use one of Rikka's when I needed wheels, so I guessed I'd have to tag along with old pinkie.

I couldn't resist. "Hey, Dancer, guess what? I have a new nickname for you now. Pinkie, how does that sound? Kind of nice, right?" I gave him my most winning of smiles, but for some reason he wasn't impressed. "Suit yourself," I said, and walked away, ignoring Oliver.

"You coming?" I called over my shoulder. Dancer, a.k.a. Pinkie, clutched his hand and joined me at the SUV.

Rikka, Mage Rikka as he prefers to be called, actually insists—he thinks it makes him sound more intellectual than wizard—is a bit of a car buff, and he has a small fleet of identical vehicles his staff or part-time employees can use for his business. They are, to put it mildly, a little OTT for my taste. But I seldom drive and don't own a vehicle—this way fuel is free and I always have new car smell, which is awesome.

Cardiff is not exactly teeming with off-road opportunities, at least not in the city center, and anyway, you really don't want to get Rikka's vehicles dirty. Nevertheless, he runs a fleet of Range Rover Sport SUVs just because he likes room and comfort. Fair enough, as he really does need the room. You'll see, just wait until we meet him, okay? It's not like he goes out much though, but anyway, it is what it is. He likes gas guzzlers and can afford it.

"What, you not gonna open the door for me?" I asked Dancer.

"Just get in." He walked out into the road and opened the driver side door and clambered in, moaning about his finger and giving empty threats.

I joined him inside and put on my seatbelt. Safety first.

The rear door opened and we both turned.

"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Dancer, face as dark as his art.

"Don't think so, Oliver."

The vampire scowled at us and said, "Taavi said to watch you, Spark, until this is dealt with. All of it." He moved to get in and me and Dancer exchanged glances.

Dancer was ready to call up all manner of nasties and I had to put an arm on his shoulder. I stared into his eyes, shook my head.

I turned to Oliver, still half inside. "Look, you may have your orders, but I don't answer to you, or Taavi. Dancer certainly doesn't, and I know for a fact Rikka will go mad if you make his car smell of vampire. I'm going to his place now, make your own way. But get out of the damn car, right now!"

Oliver's eyes widened and I could see his mind weighing up the options. He got out and was gone. He'd be there before us. Vampires can move fast, really fast.

"Okay, look, Dancer, I know I messed up, but I'm trying to fix it." He gave me a cold stare. "Fine. I was going to fix it. Nobody can think on an empty stomach though. I just needed breakfast. Look, I've already seen Taavi so I needed some down time."

"You've seen Taavi, already? Damn, Spark, you really are in trouble if that guy got you so soon. Even the Boss, um, Mage Rikka, only just heard. That's why you've got the vampire escort then?"

"Yeah. As for Rikka, it's because he insists on ignoring the TV and the Internet," I said, knowing how much the Boss hated what he called a "temporary blip on the road back to the good days."

Rikka still believes that the time of magic will come and we can all somehow live together, Regulars and Empties—what we sometimes refer to ourselves as.

He thinks that the new technology is a bad idea, aches for times long past, when he was a child and things were simpler.

"Whatever, but he's not happy. Far from it. You better tread carefully, you know what he's like when he's in a mood." Dancer turned to me. "How could you, Spark? How could you be so stupid? And you killed someone. You actually killed an innocent Regular. Are you nuts?"

Dancer isn't a bad guy, not really, just a bit full of himself. He may enjoy playing with dead dudes but he is no killer, and as far as I know has never killed a human being, vampire, troll—not that you can—or anyone you would class as a sentient being.

He's still a muppet though, but harmless. Unless you're dead and somebody paid him to re-animate you for reasons I try not to ever think about as otherwise I know I won't sleep well at night.

"It was an accident. I can't believe it either. Poor guy. Okay, let's get this over with. Take me to your leader." I know, lame right? It's just I've always wanted to say it and that was my chance.

"Dick." Dancer started up the Range Rover and pulled out into the damp streets of Cardiff.

I tried not to let my half finished breakfast come up. Yeah, Mage Rikka has that effect on you.

The Big Boss

Mage Rikka is the head honcho in the UK for all things magic related—he's even got a certificate and everything.

Although there are any number of subsets of people, and species, that have their own leaders or rulers, officially known as Heads—and some that answer to nobody and you couldn't organize them if you tried, have you ever met a troll?—we all ultimately answer to Rikka in our country.

He has an elevated position as not only UK Head of the Dark Council—nearly always composed of wizards as nobody else takes to rules and the Laws like they do—but also the UK Head of the Hidden Council.

The Hidden Council encompasses all Hidden, including vampires, whether they like it or not. Not that the vampires play by the rules, and you would never see Taavi doing something just because Rikka said so. It's all a bit daft really, as the Hidden Council beats the Dark Council—which is strictly for human magic users, so why they bother I don't know. That's humans for you, always got to have their own thing and make life more complicated.

All wizards, witches, users and abusers of the Empty that aren't innately magic by right of birth or species, a.k.a. humans, as well as those that are truly magical beings—true Hidden—answer to him. This is not an option. It is how it works for the Hidden. Think of it like normal humans answering to the law, except ours is written with a capital L, so it makes it more important—see how they think?

Rikka is our law, or "Law," and he dispenses justice or punishment as he sees fit. As long as he keeps everything in check then there is little interference from the Hidden or Dark Councils. Why we still insist on the "Dark" bit I don't know, I guess it stuck long ago, but there is no other magic for humans. It's all dark, and it all hurts to use, but I suppose other species don't have that problem, so for them it's just magic. Not even that, they just are what they are.

It's a strange hierarchy and not one that has any specific rules as to conduct, and that's probably why we get ourselves into trouble, and why there are people like me. More than anything else I'm an intermediary, able to move between Heads, species, Houses, Wards, loose collectives, even gangs, and usually be welcome.

What can I say? I'm an amenable kind of guy who deals with many problems that arise. I arrange meetings, truces, sometimes even fights when there is no other option, and basically enforce what Rikka wants.