Dark Wizard's Case

by Kirill Klevanski

  “I already told you,” Doom sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. Fortunately, the spells he’d put on them were strong enough to keep them on and undamaged even through the turmoil. “I was here with that little brat because Diglan asked me to bring him. And you were the one who got me working for the damn pirate!”

  Despite his raised voice, Alex was as calm as one could be. Just a little…tired. With both his sources completely drained, he was going to have to spend whatever remained of that day and night in deep meditation if he wanted to restore at least half his mana reserves by the second tour of the tournament.

  And Doom hated meditating.

  “Lieutenant?” The major addressed O’Hara without turning to look at her.

  “I confirmed it, sir.” The fae, who’d already made all the workers in their yellow hazmat suits lick their lips in desire, folded up her phone and dropped it into her clutch bag. “Diglan is on his way.”

  “Have someone take his son to him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Alex jumped in, puffing a cloud of smoke. “My month-long vacation is at stake, and I have a feeling my feats will all have been wasted if the kid is handed over to Diglan without me.”

  “Feats?!” some smartass from the demon-fighting department squealed. “You were just saving your ass, you bastard! Your black magic permeated all the specters within a mile! All you did with it was disturb the peace of the dead, and—”

  “…and kill the demon leader.” Oddly enough, the smartass was interrupted by Gribovsky instead of Alex. “From what I can tell, Kyle, your department had nothing to do with detecting the Mask. If it hadn’t been for the live streams from the bloggers walking in the park, we would have found out too late to do anything.”

  Doom didn’t join the argument. Kyle had a silver chain around his neck, and that and what he said meant that there wasn’t any point.

  It would have been as useless as an African-American attempting to prove that he had the same rights as white people in the southern US of the 1900s.

  “Let’s change the subject, gentlemen.” The major lifted a hand, stopping the bickering. “Mr. Johnson, do you have any ideas as to why the Mask selected this spot?”

  Adjusting his glasses with his middle finger (probably a hint), Kyle paused before replying.

  “We need more data. I’ll be able to tell you more after the plasma remains of the demons are studied by experts, but so far my colleagues and I are leaning toward a planned terrorist attack.”

  “A terrorist attack,” the major repeated, taking another gulp from his flask. Standing behind his back and drilling through Alex with his eyes was the bear-like Duncan. Alex ignored him. “The Mask’s moves have looked like that in the past, though there was always another layer. And here…what’s special about this area?”

  “Could it be some kind of border?” Gribovsky suggested. “It marks the very edge of the city—there’s nothing beyond it but the ocean.”

  That was absolutely true. The immense, placid body of water was exactly what Alex was feasting his eyes on right then.

  As a ward at St. Federick’s ward, he’d once seen a TV show about a private detective investigating a murder on a cruise ship. He’d been dreaming of taking a trip on a liner like that ever since.

  Beautiful women. Casinos. Bars. Party drugs. Paid and free sex. What else could a black wizard need to be happy? But he hadn’t been able to find six free months. Too many other things to do.

  “Or maybe the Mask needed a large number of human sacrifices,” O’Hara said. “According to the most recent data, how many were killed?”

  Kyle slid his fingers over his tablet and adjusted his glasses again.

  “2,372 killed. 639 injured. Mostly by the rush, not the demons. The closest hospitals and intensive care wards are all full already, so a state of emergency has been declared across the entire Amalgam Street District. Doctors are taking double shifts and—”

  “…and thank you for the TMI, Kyle, as always,” the fae interrupted. “Over 2,000 dead. That’s a huge amount of death energy for the Mask to reap.”

  “Why don’t we ask our expert?” Kyle asked mockingly.

  Alex inhaled and, the gesture already becoming his trademark, blew a puff of smoke into the smartass’ face. Kyle coughed but was apparently disliked by his colleagues even more than Dumsky—no one stood up for him.

  You were right, Robin. No one likes a smartass.

  “If the Mask had been reaping the death energy, I wouldn’t have been able to raise any zombies,” Alex said with the tone of an adult explaining general knowledge to small children. “So, that guess is wrong. Whatever he was up to, it had nothing to do with the magic of death.”

  “What ideas do you have, Mr. Dumsky?” the major asked.

  “Just one.”

  “Care to share it with us?”

  “This human child,” Alex said, pointing at the sleeping Archie, “deserves to finally be taken to his father. And I deserve an attempt to get drunk that’ll probably be interrupted yet again.

  He doffed an imaginary hat (the actual one he’d stolen after leaving jail was at the Schooner) before continuing.

  “And so, have a good day, gentlemen.”

  Saying that and pulling Archie up by the hand (the boy followed his lead obediently and without waking thanks to the damn fae spells), Alex headed for the barriers put up by the cops around the park.

  The day was just starting, but it already felt bloody long.

  Chapter 68

  “Professor! Professor!” Elie waved.

  With a flick of fingers, Doom sent his cigarette butt…into a Starbucks cup held by an unpleasant-looking security guard at the sports complex. He didn’t notice and, without missing a step as he screened the male visitors, took a gulp from the cup.

  He didn’t even bat an eye.

  Long lines of humans, orcs, trolls, elves, dwarves, and many other creatures dragged themselves through the archway magic detectors. Battle storages: prohibited. Firearms: prohibited. Artifacts rank B or higher: prohibited. It was easier to list what was allowed.

  Even smoking and drinking while watching the event were prohibited.

  Thanks to all that, the lines formed by representatives of all the sapient races moved rather slowly. Less than 24 hours had passed since the Mask had smashed up the theme park. Many people in Myers City were starting to take the threat seriously, their pockets holding weapons in addition to their phones.

  The online market for magic grimoires was rumored to be up 42% over the previous 16 hours. The unheard-of spike in demand was mostly for battle and defensive spells.

  The bald dwarf must be raking in the shekels.

  Following some heavily perfumed and pompous magic aristocrat through the VIP archway, Alex found himself immediately sucked into the general commotion.

  The second tour was called exactly that, though it actually followed the tournament’s official opening ceremony.

  “Oh lord,” Mara gasped. Fortunately, the half-blood showing off her curves in the magic sports suit didn’t believe in the human god, which spared Alex from the unpleasant sensations he’d otherwise have endured as a black wizard. “There are so many people here.”

  The participating teams, almost fifty of them, were seated in the first rows of the designated boxes.

  The heart of the complex, the colossal Arena, was covered in a magic shield looking like an enormous white shroud that flapped in the cold October wind. It looked beautiful and impressive, Doom had to admit. Waves of white fabric rippling in the air. Each of them could have hidden a two-story house.

  The giant sports complex flooded with the bright stadium lights was packed. The tickets had sold out ten minutes after they’d been made available for sale, which wasn’t surprising given that it was the opening ceremony of the year’s greatest and most anticipated sporting event.

  The opening ceremony was attended by everyone who was anyone in the city. The magic aristocracy, inc
luding the Wessex and Glomebood families, took up seats in the central box along with all the other important Myers City figures. Doom thought he even recognized the very familiar face of an Arab wizard.

  “Oh, you missed such an amazing show,” Elie went on. “There were magic artists! They launched a water dragon and then flew into the air on colored bolts of lightning!”

  “Then Ereni Malen sang,” Leo added. “Her voice is incredible.”

  What it looked like Travis and even Jing were recalling was less the adored youth idol’s voice and more her…appearance.

  Ereni Malen was the pop princess, having ascended to the throne at sixteen and never subsequently leaving it.

  Alex knew that because he was the same age as her. And he sort of knew her personally.

  But that last bit of information wasn’t one he was about to share with his students.

  “And you missed so much more…”

  “There was a fuse.” Taking the coach seat, Doom put his earpiece in.

  “A fuse? What fuse?”

  Why are the Guards worrying about the Mask when they need to be stopping this damn raccoon infestation?

  “A blown one. At the Schooner. Fixed it. Made me late. Did they give the speeches already?”

  “Yeah. The city mayor—”

  “Great,” Alex cut in with a sigh of relief. “I’ve always hated listening to that idiot.”

  Mara was about to object when trumpets blared. Of course, they weren’t live; it was just ear-splitting speakers hovering in midair. Alex wondered how they managed to avoid colliding with the numerous drones and flying cameras. Regardless, the sight was captivating.

  The stands roared. Fireworks of all colors shot up into the sky. Overall, it wasn’t much different from any other stadium event, only set apart by the fact that Myers City Arena was so immense. The whole thing oozed magic, too.

  Literally.

  Alex had a tingling sensation in his fingertips.

  Courtesy of the committee, the team boxes had magic soundproofing that made the crazy roaring of the diverse crowd sound as though it was carrying from a distance.

  The only annoying thing was the cameras flashing in Doom’s peripheral vision.

  Demons. From above, it probably looks like a second sun being lit in the city center.

  “Did they have the drawing?” Alex asked, continuing his interrogation of the students.

  “We’re in the first four,” Jing replied briefly and to the point. A smart guy.

  It was a good thing they were in the first group. Hell’s bells. Doom was unlikely to endure another half hour in that crowd, and that meant the game was likely to end fast enough for him to get some drinking in afterward.

  But right then wasn’t the time for daydreaming.

  When the enormous white shroud tore off the arena to soar into the sky, the noise of the crowd even made it through the soundproofing spells.

  Doom winced.

  He’d never liked crowded spaces. A city dweller to the bone, he still preferred to have some solitude in among the concrete jungle, sticking to the darkest nooks rather than coming out into the light. (Pun intended.)

  The crowd gradually fell silent, the sound of voices giving way to camera clicks and flashes merging into a single flow of white light.

  The whole arena, the spot where the celebrities had just performed, had been transformed into a miniature world. The raised plateau in the middle had four zones, each roughly half the size of a regular football field.

  One was overgrown by a tropical jungle, its other features indiscernible through the thick vegetation.

  Another had snowy mountains, or rather their peaks, complete with heavy gray snow clouds above them and a blizzard lashing the few black chunks of rock peeking out from beneath the snow cover.

  Right behind the mountains was a placid lake, looking so very peaceful. No doubt, there were some unpleasantries lurking in its depths.

  The last quarter was a desert, a sandstorm swirling in the middle with flashes of red lightning coming from inside.

  The whole picture didn’t just startle the spectators and teams. Even Alex, for the first time in his life, was witnessing real magic at the Grand Master level.

  The miracle had probably been wrought by one or two hundred Adepts flown in from all over the globe. Alternatively, it could have been built on some extremely rare and outrageously expensive artifacts.

  Whatever the case, the beauty was totally worth the trip. Alex found the elaborate spells just as stunning as the four pieces of terrain.

  He was in awe.

  “Teams!” the loudspeakers thundered. “To the stage!”

  “Well, you can’t actually call that the stage,” Alex said with a slight wince before holding up a hand and surprising his students. “A high five for your sensei, and then go kick some magic beast ass.”

  The first one to slap Doom’s palm was Mara, the B-52 team captain. She was followed down the stairs by Elie, then by Travis and Leo. Last came Jing. For a while, he and Alex stared into each other’s eyes. Then the descendant of the great shamans clapped the palm offered by his professor and hurried down the stairs after the rest.

  “Good luck,” Doom whispered as he watched the descending students through spread fingers that still bore the black dots of a very simple dark-magic curse. He’d known it would slip through the anti-doping spell checkpoint at the arena entrance.

  Who in their right mind would check to see if a bunch of contestants had been cursed by their own coach?

  ***

  “Jing! Move!”

  “Professor! What should we do?”

  “Leo, watch out!”

  “Professor!”

  “Elie, hurry! Elie? Elie?!”

  “Mara, we can’t—”

  Four bodies, unconscious and shrouded in magic defense, were down on the sand. Towering over them was an ancient monster: Olgoi-Khorkhoi, the Mongolian death worm. Its maw looking like a screwdriver with teeth that squirted venomous acid.

  Mara, armed with a sand hammer, tried to dodge, but her legs betrayed her and she collapsed to the sand, her scream drowned by the venom hissing on her protective jumpsuit. The magic defense flashed around the last B-52 team member. The challenge was over for them.

  “The B-52 team completed the second tour!” a voice announced over the loudspeakers. “While the judges calculate their score, our stage workers will tame Olgoi-Khorkhoi.”

  Doom wouldn’t have called it taming. The three Adepts stepping out onto the sand arena just used artifacts to drive the worm into a niche opening in the stadium wall. That sent a rather explicit message that the next team getting ready to fight in the desert would be facing a different monster.

  “That’s for the better,” Alex whispered for some reason. It was as though he was convincing…himself.

  He stood up, dropped the coach’s earpiece on the armrest, dug his hands into his pockets, and walked off down the corridor leading to the accessory rooms. On the way, he thought he spotted a shock of peach hair in the stands. No time for her then, anyway.

  Alex trudged deeper and deeper into the dark, reversing the journey made by all the spectators in their pursuit of the daylight over the stands, until he was in the maze of half-lit corridors. Some led to the bathrooms, others to cloakrooms, and a few more ended in small food courts where you could get a hot dog, a chocolate bar, or fizzy water.

  He was so hungry he would have killed for a snack, which was why he stopped at one of the food courts.

  “What’ll it be?” a student employee with a bored expression on his face asked him.

  “A cheeseburger,” Alex replied, pointing at the icon on the holographic menu. “Make it a double. Extra cheese and bacon.”

  “Coming right up,” the employee said with the same bored voice before turning toward a microwave. Not all that impressive, but it’ll do.

  “You’re not health-conscious, Alex?” asked a voice from behind him. “Cholesterol kills faster than
a bullet.”

  Doom turned around to see that his already lousy day had just gotten even worse. Why couldn’t they send Pyotr alone?

  The Syndicate’s cleaner was there, too. Standing right behind one of the organization’s heads.

  Like the Hydra, the Syndicate had many heads. One of them was right there in front of Doom. A tall, beautiful woman dressed in black and red silks, her tanned, well-groomed skin glowed slightly, and her captivating green eyes were accentuated by perfect makeup.

  Alex knew better than to fall for the charming, oh-so-feminine looks of the red-haired beauty. She had bigger balls than most men.

  Her name was Brown, she was one of the Syndicate heads, and only someone bent on suicide would get in her way. That was all Alex knew about the woman. He’d only met her once before, when she’d visited her brother in prison. He was the one who’d saved Alex’s life and indebted him to the Syndicate.

  “Miss Brown,” Doom said with a wry smile. “I can’t really say I’m happy to see you.”

  Pyotr took a step forward but was stopped by a commanding gesture of her slender, graceful hand.

  Oh Abyss. If she weren’t a Syndicate head, she’d probably be in charge of a BDSM brothel.

  “You held up your end of the deal, Mr. Dumsky,” she said in a businesslike tone. “The Organization has no more charges against you. You’re absolutely free.”

  She held out a hand. What was it like to shake a poisonous snake’s hand? Alex was doing it for the second time.

  “I have three seats reserved in the government box.” She ran the tip of her thump over the back of his hand. “Care to join me there?”

  Alex knew what female mantises do to males.

  “Sorry, I have things to do.”

  “Well,” she said with a flash of her green eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other, Alexander.”

  Releasing her grip on Alex’s hand, she glided toward the stairs. Pyotr followed her like a silent shadow.