Broken

by Ryan Attard

  I shook my head. “No idea. We’re still tracking him—maybe that’ll lead somewhere.”

  “He seems to know you,” Roland said. I recognized that tone. Detective Diaz had used the same tone not too long ago, albeit Roland’s was softer.

  “Hey, this isn’t the first time some nut job wanted to get my attention,” I told him. “Remember the Necromancer a few years back? All those dead animals? At least, this confirms our guy is human. Only people want that kind of validation.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Roland paced around. “Times like these I really miss smoking.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “But I’m on it, Roland. You can trust me.”

  He scoffed.

  “I got no choice, do I?” He extracted a piece of paper and handed it to me. “This is Vega’s last known address. Well, not so much an address as a workplace. The guy hung out there all the time. Got one of my informants digging on him. Says the guy was low-key, but moved product. Didn’t know what kind. My money is on some kind of new shit, something we haven’t heard of before.”

  As I looked at the address, I kept thinking that I was missing something. Like there was a big giant clue right in front of me, and yet I was completely missing it.

  I shook my head clear. “Thanks, Roland.”

  “Thank me later,” he said. “If I still have my career once this is over.”

  He walked away, and I hurried off in the opposite direction.

  “Well, that went well.”

  Amaymon in cat form emerged from behind a dumpster.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  His tail flicked in annoyance.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “The scene is, at least magically speaking, a shit show. There’s magic, but it’s too raw to be traced. Almost as if this guy has no control over his abilities.”

  He muttered something but I had tuned him out.

  “What?” I said.

  “I said, maybe there’s a link between you and this guy,” the demon said. “You certainly have a link to him, what with all the nightmares. Did you have a premonition about this?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” he said. “But I think I know how he’s following you. It’s your new powers.”

  “Come again?”

  “When power goes through a shift like yours did,” he explained, “there’s bound to be some leakages. Think of it as energy transferred—there’s always waste.”

  “And you think this knight guy is picking up the scent,” I said.

  “Knightmare.”

  “What?”

  “You referred to it as both a knight and a nightmare,” Amaymon said, amused. “So, Knightmare. You know, with a K.”

  I blinked at him twice. “You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Splendid.”

  “You know what this means, right?” Amaymon said.

  “That you need to stop getting naming ideas from cheesy 90s shows?”

  “Whatever you say,” he shot back. “No, what I meant was, this guy has marked you down and he’s human. But I also think he’s being controlled by something. Look at his actions—random, but limited by the fact that he didn’t kill the bartender.”

  “You think someone made this guy what he is and then sent him after me?” I asked.

  Amaymon nodded. “I do. And if that’s the case we need to find out who sent him and why. Ideally before any more people get killed.”

  Chapter 8

  Roland’s address led Amaymon and me to a warehouse in the middle of exactly bum-fuck-nowhere.

  At least it met the standards of a drug manufacturing factory: location, location, location.

  The second indication that we were in the right place were the two goons sitting beside the front door smoking, too distracted by their phones to notice us coming until we were literally in their faces.

  “Hey!”

  One of the two threw down his cigarette and fisted his mini-Uzi gun. I stopped and waited.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he snapped. His eyes glanced down at Amaymon, who was still in cat form. “Hey, Mitch, look at this poseur. Brought his cat too.”

  Mitch, who looked like he belonged on the set of Duck Dynasty, picked his fingernail with his knife. Then he stood up and joined his friend.

  “Get lost.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just looking for someone.”

  “Who are you?” Uzi guy asked. “You a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “You look like a freak.”

  “That’s what your mom said last night,” Amaymon muttered from next to my legs.

  His voice was muffled enough to make it seem like I had said that.

  Which, naturally, did not go down well with the two knuckleheads.

  “What’d you say?” Uzi guy said.

  “I think he insulted your mother,” Mitch said.

  I looked at Amaymon. “Why do you do this?”

  “Meow.”

  “Eat a dick.”

  Mitch elbowed Uzi guy. “I think the guy’s off his meds.” He waved the knife at my face. “Get going, crazy guy.”

  “Get out of my way,” I told him.

  Uzi guy raised his gun. “You got three seconds, asshole.”

  “We’ll bury your ass in the back over there,” Mitch said, gesticulating with his head at a mound of dirt about thirty yards away.

  As he did, I noticed a tattoo on his neck—a black ring.

  “Of course,” I said with a sigh. “Of course you’d be with the Black Ring Society.”

  Their eyes narrowed.

  “It’s him,” Mitch said. “You’re that crazy magic guy.” He tapped Uzi guy. “Call Ice, tell him we got- gak!”

  My fist shot into his neck while I swiped the knife from my face. At the same time, I kicked at the Uzi guy, shattering his knee, and used my momentum to knock his gun away. I caught the weapon and slapped it into its owner’s face.

  Mitch was still groggy so I fixed that.

  With an elbow to the face.

  “Nice,” Amaymon commented. “Very Wesley Snipes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And will you stop being lazy?” I tapped the door with my fingertip, feeling for any signs of magic.

  Nothing.

  Amaymon meowed again before transforming. He grinned at me, lined his fist in front of the door, and one-inch-punched the door off its hinges.

  “Show off,” I muttered.

  My eyes adjusted to the gloom inside. Rows upon rows of tables were lined with industrial equipment and trays, each containing a variety of vials and crystals. People in white overalls were shielding their eyes with their hands, while some were still recovering from having the door flung at them. I noticed black ring tattoos on a few of them.

  One guy emerged onto a balcony, his hands shaking the railing. Magic spiked and a lance of ice formed in his hands. He threw it at me.

  I swiped it away with my shortsword.

  “Get them!” he roared.

  Before they could react, I swept Djinn behind me and poured in magic. The blade glowed azure, and I sliced horizontally. A crescent energy wave shot forwards, throwing several Black Ring Society members on their asses.

  The others did not charge their magic. Instead they reached into some trays, pulled out syringes, and stabbed themselves in the legs. Others still simply sniffed some type of purple-colored powder.

  You didn’t have to be a wizard to feel their collective magic spiking through the roof. For some, their powers raged out of control—a few multicolored fires, wind gusts, energy of various hues, all shot out at random.

  At the same time, watching them juice up triggered a memory.

  I had watched the first murder victim, Vega, juice up in the same way, just before the Knightmare had torn him to pieces.

  Above them I heard the ice guy cackle.

  “That’s the leader,” I said.r />
  Amaymon cracked his knuckles. His eyes were bloodthirsty, and through our contract I felt his barely-held-back blood lust.

  “Erik, get ready to go airborne,” he said. His shark-like teeth glinted under the halogen lights. “I got this.”

  “You sure?”

  “A dozen juiced-up mortals? They just might be entertaining enough,” he replied.

  I didn’t argue. At this point it would have been like coming between a lion and his kill.

  “Do it,” I said. “Just don’t kill anyone.”

  “No promises.”

  Amaymon stomped on the ground.

  Two things happened.

  The first: a shockwave sent the Black Ring magic users reeling backwards, stunning them.

  The second: the ground beneath me erupted, sending me soaring into the air.

  Right into the ice guy’s face.

  He yelped and threw himself back just as I landed on the spot he had occupied mere seconds before.

  My gun was already in my hand. The first shot shattered a lance of ice. The second got him in the foot. He screamed but I wasn’t sure if that was from the pain or the liquid he had just injected into himself.

  “Cool trick,” I said as he stood up and collected power. “But mine’s bigger.”

  I fired at him. He caught my bullet in a block of ice. It shattered and he sent a hail of knife-like shards into me. Several of them made it past the defensive charms sewn into my coat (they were mostly designed to stop spells and energy, not projectiles) and dug into my flesh.

  I pried them out. My healing factor kicked in, mending my injuries.

  Thank fuck for that.

  Meanwhile, the ice guy had run off, scurrying into the back and up a stairwell. I sheathed my gun, keeping only Djinn handy, and climbed after him.

  He yelled as he swung the ice lances at my head. I ducked and stabbed Djinn at his foot, forcing him to hop backwards.

  “You wanna tell me now what you’re doing?” I asked, squaring off against him. “Or you wanna wait until I beat it out of you?”

  A second lance of ice formed in his free hand and he wielded both high—a clear sign that either he was an idiot, or perhaps a master martial artist looking to fool me.

  My money was on the former.

  Still, I channeled magic into Djinn, turning the weapon into pure azure energy. I hooked my index finger in the ring crossguard of the weapon, and pulled, activating the spell.

  A second energy shortsword, identical to Djinn, materialized, with a rope of energy connecting the two at the pommel.

  “Did Greede set you up to this?” I asked.

  “Mr. Greede wants you alive,” he replied.

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He swept wildly. I blocked, the heat of the energy blades sizzling against the magical ice. I ducked a second cut and head-butted him, shattering his nose.

  “I heard the guys out front call you Ice,” I said.

  “What about it?” he snarled.

  I struck one ice blade, breaking it, and swept his leg out from under him before he could swing his other lance.

  “It’s a dumb name,” I said. “Now tell me what you’re doing here. What is that drug?”

  He threw his broken sword at me but missed wildly. I saw his eyes dart towards the edge of the roof.

  “Don’t do it, Ice,” I said. “You’re not surviving that fall. At least not without a broken leg.”

  “Better than facing you.”

  “I’m flattered, but maybe you might wanna consider surrend-”

  Ice took off, leaping off the edge.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  I watched as he piled ice upon ice, forming a slide. He tumbled all the way down, tearing chunks of skin off himself, and when he landed, he was bleeding and bruised.

  But both his legs were intact and so Ice ran for his life.

  I ran, too. As I leapt off the ledge, I thrust one of the energy swords into the roof floor and held onto the second sword as I fell down. The link between the swords went taut, halting my fall before I went splat.

  I released the spell on Djinn, returning it to normal, and then channeled magic into it. Djinn spun like a buzz saw, a thin energy link connecting to my right palm, and I threw the sword at Ice.

  He turned at the last second, forming an ice block that caught the brunt of the attack. The blowback sent him to the ground.

  I returned the sword to my hand and caught up with him.

  “Ice to see you,” I said, kicking his face as he tried to get up. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist the bad Schwarzenegger pun.”

  Ice coughed up blood.

  I seized him by the shirt. “You need medical attention. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll make sure you get it.”

  Ice began sobbing. “I had no choice, man. Please don’t kill me.”

  “Who said anything about killing you?” I snapped. “I didn’t know you existed until five minutes ago.”

  “Really?” He smiled, hopeful. “I thought Greede sent you to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Vega,” he said. “The disappearances. We all heard the stories. Word on the street is there’s a crazy strong guy out there ripping anyone to shreds. Anyone connected with you and Greede.”

  I filed that away for later. If the Knightmare was targeting Greede, then it would make sense he’d come after me too, given our connection. Maybe that would explain why he didn’t kill the bartender.

  Could the Knightmare be on our side?

  I shook my head.

  “The drug,” I told Ice. “Tell about it.”

  “Greede set us all up about six months ago,” Ice replied. “He made us join his group. We all had to wear these robes and chant, and we got these tattoos that hurt like a motherfucker.”

  “Black rings, right?”

  He nodded. “And then he did some real nasty magic. Made monsters come to life. Told us that he was watching us, and if we talk, he’ll know.”

  “It’s bullshit,” I said. “But don’t say anything else about Greede.”

  “Why not?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Because that tattoo is a curse and will burn you alive if you do.”

  His eyes widened. “No way. Fuck this, man! Fuck all this magic shit. I was living it up selling Oxy. I never wanted any of this magic shit.”

  “Wait,” I said, frowning at him. “You’re not a magic-user?”

  Ice shook his head. “Nah, man. I got this tattoo, and drank some weird shit, and then, bam! I’m the Iceman, you know?”

  No, I didn’t know. But this spelled trouble.

  He’d finally done it. Alan Greede had accomplished what no wizard had ever dared to try in the history of magic and mankind. He had found a way to give magic to mortals who were not born with it.

  He had mass-produced magic powers.

  I didn’t even want to think about the consequences of that. Forget having street thugs with powers. The reason magic had survived this long was because we were really good at hiding. Having it out in the open, available as cheaply as cocaine, would be putting us out in the open, and painting big-ass targets on each and every one of us, especially the big shots like my sister.

  The wail of police sirens pulled me out of my train of thought.

  “Ah, shit, man,” Ice whined. “I don’t wanna go to jail. Not for this.”

  He started wiggling in the dirt.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I said, watching him crawl away.

  “Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.” Ice formed an ice dagger and punched it into his right bicep. I saw the edges of a black ring tattoo.

  “No, Ice, leave it alone,” I cried.

  But it was too late. Ice slashed at the tattoo, activating the curse.

  Black flames consumed him, and I watched as he screamed in agony, before finally succumbing to his death.

  Chapter 9

  “Okay, Mr.
Ashendale,” Detective Diaz said. “Let’s start again. From the beginning.”

  I buried my head in my hands, and sighed heavily. The handcuffs bit into my wrists.

  “Detective, we’ve been over this already,” I said, mustering every last ounce of politeness I could. “I followed a lead here. When I came in, they attacked me. Some genius had the idea to fire a weapon inside and then kaboom.”

  I glanced at the remains of the warehouse behind me.

  Of course, that wasn’t exactly the truth, but then again, it wasn’t as if I could blame my demonic cat, could I?

  After Ice had managed to barbecue himself, the warehouse had crumbled down like a stack of dominoes. A handful of thugs had emerged alive and were now in the process of being arrested. Ice’s remains were being prodded by the coroner, while Amaymon had completely vanished from sight.

  Little bastard.

  Roland was off, taking a few statements, leaving the lovely Diaz to grill my ass.

  “And this one?” she demanded, tilting her head towards Ice.

  “I tried stopping him, but he was already on fire.”

  “And his other wounds were just magic, right?” she added. “I can see the bullet wound in the leg, Ashendale. And those lacerations. Exactly like the ones a sword leaves behind.”

  I saw her look at my weapons, which had been confiscated and were being analyzed by CSI people taking fingerprints. One of them touched Djinn and his expression blanked before he recoiled. There was the spirit of a Jinn in that sword and it was not the social type.

  I shrugged at Diaz. “Dunno what to tell you.”

  “How about the truth?” she suggested.

  “I did tell you the truth, Detective,” I replied.

  “Then why don’t I believe you?”

  Because you’re a fucking idiot.

  “Because you don’t like me,” I said instead. “And I’m sorry about that. I can’t help your opinion of me, but believe me, I’m here to help.”

  “Cut the shit,” she said. “Charlatan parlor tricks don’t work on me.”

  “No, but superstition certainly does.” I regretted saying that as soon as it came out of my mouth.

  There are times when you can mouth off to authority—whilst in handcuffs was not one of those times.

  Diaz looked like she wanted nothing more than to fire off a couple of rounds in my face. Luckily, Roland showed up just in time to diffuse the situation.