Black Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 1) (7 page)

He has his businesses, and he certainly has his people, but for the proper work, the delicate stuff, he calls on me and a few others. Semi-freelancers, more world-wise than many Hidden. People who know the lay of the land and can talk without blowing someone up, or conjuring a demon just because a zombie spilled your pint, or a necromancer stole that corpse you had your eye on.

Enforcer. Dealer of justice or punishment. Arbitrator, peace keeper, and all round lackey to the Boss.

Why the big wigs all chose Cardiff is a long story, but it goes back centuries and all stems from everyone failing to keep up with the changes of ever-advancing societies. Stuck in the middle of it all, in large cities like London, things easily got out of hand.

They couldn't cope with the pace, found no peace with things moving at breakneck speed, and as technology took jump after jump they all moved out here, where the pace of life is a little slower and there is room to breathe.

Personally, I think that is all nonsense and they just like the countryside—it's right on your doorstep here—and they are a shrewd lot too. You get a castle in Wales for the same price as a crappy apartment above a butcher's shop in Central London.

Anyway, whatever. I was being taken to meet my boss, and I felt sick. It had nothing to do with magic or a greasy breakfast either.

Did I mention I'm sort of a detective too, unofficially? No? Well, it comes with the territory. Enforcers need to track down the troublemakers, find solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems, and placate angry species or humans, which means doing a lot of detective work and knowing a lot of things. People too. Although I use people like this: "People." See me doing bunny ears?

Rikka keeps odd hours, meaning he never seems to sleep, or not in a bed anyway. Although, because of his size, I seriously doubt there is a bed massive enough for him, but with his money he could get one made, I'm sure. But I digress.

Dancer pulled up the SUV alongside several identical vehicles and we got out.

"Goddamn. Oliver again," I muttered. He was at the end of the row, looking as smug as ever.

"If Rikka sees him you'll be in even more trouble," said Dancer, smiling.

"Any more grinning and I'll tell Rikka you gave him a ride."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me."

We ignored Oliver, knowing even he wasn't stupid enough to follow us inside House Rikka territory. The fact he was looking increasingly annoyed lifted my spirits a little, not enough to make me do a jig, but it helped.

I followed Dancer through the front of the building, past Rikka's heavies who stared at me blankly—trolls, they are very good at hanging around looking big and menacing, because they are—and tried to stay as cool and calm as a rapper named after a refreshing beverage, as I walked alongside Dancer past the reception. I winked at the new girl.

A few twists and turns later, through a private door you could never open without being one of us, and we were in Rikka's lair.

Guess where we are. No? It's a health club, a fitness center of all things. I know, right?

Of all the places Rikka could set up as his home turf, his seat of power, his place of business, he picked a leisure center. He thought it was brilliant. "Gotta love these recurring subscriptions," he told me once, rubbing fat hands together with glee. "It's the best business model in existence. People sign up for a year, pay in advance with no way of getting out of it, and then they hardly ever use the place. It's like printing money."

He runs a load of them, all over the country. Weird, but smart.

When people first meet him, they expect to be taken to a night club, some seedy joint, maybe with strippers and vampires or something, loads of weird stuff going on and all Gothic and scary like. Or something like Taavi's, proper old skool with skulls and ancient, forbidden books, maybe even a few lesser demons on leashes just in case, but no, they go to "Rikka's Fitness Emporium." That's what it's called! And he has loads of them, and people pay him a fortune for the pleasure of not getting fit. Some even use it just to have a shower and the odd sauna. Nuts. Whatever. Wish I'd thought of it.

Rikka set up shop in a large back room in a corner of a proper hardcore gym. There are no shiny machines here, this is members only. Rikka's people. And they are serious about their muscle. There is always more testosterone in the air, and more steroid use, than at Mr. Olympia. Some of these guys would win if they cared for such a title—they don't.

Rikka doesn't lift weights though, he lifts chocolate. And cakes, and ice-cream, and anything he can stuff into his mouth—if he can find it beneath the folds of fat that make him look like a partially deflated football with a lot of hair.

Dancer opened the door to the gym. The stench of sweat, the clanging of weights, and the grunts of the jacked greeted us.

I saw Rikka over in the corner. He had donuts left on his desk. I wished I'd still had memory loss as I caught sight of the jam-filled goodies. If you knew Rikka then you knew that was a very bad sign indeed.

Dancer closed the door behind us; everyone looked at me.

I wished I was back at Taavi's. At least vampires aren't as sweaty.

What's Your Plan?

I walked past the meat-heads, although many of them were trolls—so, rock-heads, I guess—plus a few dwarves up from the mines, or able to drag themselves away from their mountains of gold for a bit of business topside, and a few shifters.

The place was busy, as always. Serious Hidden lifters aren't fans of shiny chrome and the latest fashions, especially when they have to wait for Regulars to finish their sets, so Rikka's place is always rammed. Everyone can be themselves, and it's always a relief to not have to pretend to be something that you aren't. Which meant there was a group of eight foot tall—and almost as wide—trolls at the squat rack, a monstrous thing looking more like some arcane torture device than exercise equipment.

Rikka got the floor reinforced years ago after an accident, and upgraded the equipment to make it more specialized. The rack was modified for trolls, skip-loads of plates were delivered, bars thicker than a human leg were specially commissioned and the trolls were happy.

A few dwarves were doing curls. In place of the usual barbells and dumbbells were bespoke hammers, huge things that I couldn't even dream of lifting. But they were happily pumping out the reps, going up and down the rack. Man, they have some serious biceps. All that mining, I suppose.

There were a few mean looking goblins at the adapted shoulder press station, shouting and cursing at one another. All were sweaty and sick looking, as none of them would admit defeat and proclaim another stronger.

There were a few regular looking humans, although even then some of them were using equipment that was way too heavy for a normal person, mostly those that spent only part of their time in human form.

And then there were the shifters, sticking to their own kind, bears and wolves, a few others, all pointedly ignoring the other groups, trying to outdo each other and pretend they had no interest in what anyone or anything else was doing.

The atmosphere was electric. Loud, and full of grunts, groans, the occasional scream.

Rikka thrived amid the testosterone, probably as it made him happy that his people, or those he could call on when in need, were ensuring they were as ready for work, and as strong, as possible. It also meant he knew exactly where they were.

One gym-rat in particular caught my eye, like she always does.

"Hey, Plum," I said, trying to look all handsome and carefree, but feeling a little self-conscious about the size of my muscles when faced with some of the dudes, or dudesses—with trolls, dwarves, and creatures like imps you can never tell.

Plum finished her set of bench press as I paused in front of her. She sat up and wiped her forehead with a towel. You know you have it bad when you find sweat sexy. "Hey, Spark. You're in trouble, you know that, right?"

I nodded. "I know." God she is hot. Plum is the name, and gorgeous skin tone is the game. She is adorable. Perfect blue-black skin, and you guessed it, a panther shifter. Not that I've ever seen her in full shifter form. They're funny like that, the shifters. She is about as lithe and cat-like as it's possible to be and still look human, and whenever I see her I expect to see a tail. I wouldn't mind if I did.

In case you haven't guessed, then she is seriously out of my league. She's out of everyone's league. She is also one of the best enforcers out there, excluding yours truly, of course.

There's no racism, sexism, or speciesism in this world. Anyone can be an enforcer, you just have to have the right skill set. Plum has the skill set all right.

Sorry, that's pretty juvenile of me. I have the hots for her, okay? But she's a nice woman and I think very highly of her, so no offense meant. It's just that her body...

"He's waiting." Plum nodded toward Rikka and gave me a well-meaning smile. Aah, the pity of a beautiful woman—take what you can get, is my motto. Or it is now, anyway. Plum lay back on the bench, grabbed the bar and, with a grunt, continued benching her three hundred pounds—her warm-up not quite finished.

"Spark, get over here this minute. What the hell do you think you are doing?" barked Rikka, spitting donut all over his desk.

"Coming, Mage Rikka." I took one last look at Plum for luck, straightened my back, adjusted my jacket collar, and tried to stop my tattoos flaring up and making myself disappear into the floor. I walked across what felt like an infinity of rubber matting and tried to come up with a reason why Rikka shouldn't just kill me there and then—I had nothing.

"You broke the Law," he said, wasting no time.

"I know, but it wasn't me, Mage Rikka." Lame, right?

I glanced at the chess board and pieces on his desk, our game still only half over. It made me shudder. It was partly to blame for my current situation, after all.

"Did you, or did you not, beat a Grandmaster in five moves then send dark magic out of your hand and boil his blood and make his eyeballs pop and his heart explode and make the last few seconds of his life, after beating him at chess, his one true passion in life I might add, entirely horrific?" Rikka stuffed a whole donut into his mouth. He obviously felt better for getting that off his chest.

"Yes. And no," I added hurriedly.

"You broke the Law," he said again. "And your hair looks stupid. Take it off."

The Laws—wizards, and those involved in the magical realms, aren't known for their imagination when it comes to naming various aspects of our life and the rules we have—are pretty serious to our kind. Set in stone, you might say, and you do not break them. Ever. There aren't many, but they are not to be broken.

You don't let Regulars know of the existence of magic. You don't disobey your House Head, Ward Head, any Head above you. You don't interfere with other species' ways unless they break the Law of the Hidden. And you sure as hell don't do it so it gets on TV. There are more, but that was what I was currently concerned with.

"Somebody set me up. And, um, I can't take the hair off, it's, you know, attached." Rikka looked at me dubiously, but left it at that. Weird. "Look, I wanted to get this all straightened out before I came to see you. Somebody did this to me. You know me, you know I'd never kill a Regular. Heck, I don't kill anyone." Rikka gave me a "look." "Okay, hardly anyone. But whatever happened this morning, I'm not to blame."

"So somebody else killed that chess player did they? Somebody else is all over the news, and that damn Internet so I'm told. You've gone VIRAL! You were caught on camera, film, phone, however it works. You were SEEN! Using magic!" Rikka hates technology, and he sure as hell wasn't happy about me being "viral."

"Mage Rikka," formality is always best at such moments, "let me put it right. I can sort this. I just need a little time. Nobody will believe it by the time I'm finished, I promise."

"Spark, you know better than anyone that this cannot be left alone. I've already had Taavi's Chinese goons over here, and apparently you've already talked to him. Before me!" Rikka gave me a hard stare for that, his eyes full of magic he could unleash in an instant.

He and the vampires are not the best of buddies. I decided to keep silent about Oliver. "And you know that this cannot be allowed. You have broken the cardinal rule. You've shown us to the world. Do you know how bad this looks for me? Members of the Councils have already been sending all manner of people here to find out what's going on, and some of them have been less than pleasant."

I could only imagine. Rikka may be our Head, but he isn't the worldwide leader of either of the Councils. There are a lot of countries and a lot of mages. He's one among many, but that didn't help me. If anything, it made it worse, as he had to show he dealt with his House in the correct manner. That meant dealing with me. Not good. Politics, politics, it's the same for us as it is for you. Drives you nuts.

"Eh, sorry. I was miles away." I'd lost focus, which was stupid.

"Christ, Spark, what am I going to do with you?"

"Give me a raise?"

Rikka glared at me, then pointed at Dancer and said, "What happened to your finger?" Dancer looked at his missing digit and I noticed the little pink stub that was already growing back. He was forcing the issue a little and was probably why he looked so sick, but that was his business.

"Lost it," he mumbled.

"You lost your finger?" Rikka was in no mood for sour necromancers.

"Yes. Sorry."

"Whatever. You guys are killing me, you know that? You are making me look bad, Spark. I will not stand for it!" Rikka's massive fist slammed into the desk, making the donuts bounce and the chess pieces almost topple. The shock reverberated up his arm and I watched, mesmerized, as his chubby cheeks wobbled like two silicone implants.

"Give me a little time and I will put this right, I promise. It's not like it hasn't happened before."

"Yes, but that was before TV and cameras, and this damn Internet. It didn't matter then, it was easy to cover up. Time is one thing you do not have, Spark. You are out of time, you should know that. I've got imps and trolls and seers and vampires and who knows who or what else to deal with, and none of them are happy. Not to mention the other members of the Councils. What the hell did you think you were doing?"