Sparked: The Nephalem Files (Book 1)

by Douglas Wayne

  Tom's living room was beautifully decorated, with floral arrangements sitting on either side of a four foot long coffee table. There wasn't a TV in the room, only an old style wood panel stereo complete with a matching turn-table. The walls were lined with pictures of people I assumed were kids and grandkids. On the nearby floral patterned couch, Gloria smiled, standing up to offer me her seat.

  "I'll stand. Thank you though." I said.

  Tom waited at the door for a few of the officers to file inside, three of which moved into the nearby kitchen to take a seat around a large wooden table. When the last of the cops was inside, he poked his head out one last time before locking the door and deadbolt.

  "Thanks for the save, Tom." I placed my hand on his shoulder and nodded.

  "What's the plan?" Andrews asked, clearly directed to me.

  "Don't have one," I said, peeking through the keyhole. "Unless you want to head back out there, the only thing we can do is wait it out."

  She nodded then grabbed two of the men and walked back to a back room. I only hoped they could come up with a better plan than mine.

  I took a seat on a recliner positioned next to the window to get a better view. The scene on the street was getting worse, and in a hurry. The road was a raging inferno, the pooling gasoline igniting without my spell to wash it away. Six vehicles were caught in the mix, each blazing out of control. Part of me wanted to jump out there to help, but there wasn't much I could do now that the fire had taken hold. Adding water to the mix would only help spread the fire further. The rain I created earlier was bad enough.

  "Did someone call the fire department?" I asked, hearing the sirens approaching from the end of the street. The firetruck plowed through the parked vehicles with ease, stopping in front of Tom's house before the firefighters rushed out to prepare the truck. Three of the men grabbed two lengths of hose and carried them to a fire hydrant on the other side of the street leaving the others with the truck.

  "Wasn't me," Captain Andrews said, entering the room. "This isn't going to be good."

  I motioned to the others to take cover when two of the firefighters backed away from the truck. There wasn't much time for them to react before the ladder swung at the house, spraying a jet of water inside. Two of the officers screamed as the water tore through flesh and bone alike, killing the pair in a matter of seconds.

  I created a wall of air, directed at the shattered window, hoping to keep the damage from getting any worse. Andrews and the others swiftly moved in to move the bodies and to pull out another officer with glass embedded in his legs and chest.

  "I'm almost tapped out," I said, hoping they got the point. "Think your men can take out the gas tank on that thing?"

  "Doubt it," she said. "But we might not need to." She took two of the cops back down the hallway. I wasn't sure what she had in mind, but she needed to do it quick.

  Water sprayed into the house as the shield faltered, soaking the couch and recliners. A puddle of water formed at the base of the wall as a small stream worked its way back to the kitchen.

  "Go find someplace to hide," I said, redoubling my efforts. My temples pulsed as I drew in more essence to keep the wall going, my head throbbing from the added effort. This was the first, and only, warning sign your body gives you before cutting you off abruptly. From my experience, I had maybe another minute until my shield completely fell.

  Another shot of water pierced my wall, dousing my face with water. Within moments the jet of water had overtaken my shield, the full force of it tearing through the drywall, exposing the wires and studs on the other side. I hoped the wall was not load bearing, or we could all be in trouble with the water ripping apart the wood.

  "You may want to cover your head," Captain Andrews said, peering around the corner with a large grin on her face. "Things are about to get loud."

  I poked my finger through the mail slot. One of the male officers removed his uniform shirt, his elaborate tribal tattoo visible through his soaked white tee shirt. He wrapped the blue shirt around a wooden broom pole and tied the sleeves in a knot before dipping it into a nearby pool of gasoline. Reaching into his left pocket, he pulled out a flip top lighter, lighting the shirt before tossing it into a stream running along the side of the road.

  I placed my palms on the outer wall and channeled as much earth as I could muster into it.

  The first explosion happened moments after I completed my spell, causing the glass covers of Tom's pictures to shatter as they hit the ground. Nearby their glass lamp, decorated with dozens of red roses, shakes uncontrollably on a nearby table. I grabbed it with my free hand as the second blast sent a wave of force into the house, sending more of the pictures crashing to the floor.

  As the explosions became more intense, I channeled more earth into the walls, hoping that the fire engine gets disabled quickly.

  Finally, in what sounded like the grand finale of a fireworks display, the house is rocked by a series of seven blasts in under fifteen seconds, my ears buzzing from the excessive noise. The house shook violently, knocking over a bookshelf in the kitchen and sending Tom crashing to the ground, unable to keep his balance.

  I let a smile reach my lips when the stream of water inside the house finally stopped, leaving Tom's poor house in horrible shape, but sparing our lives.

  "Looks like you did it," Tom said, smiling as the captain helped him to his feet.

  I nodded and finally letting go of the flow of essence. Before I could stand back up, the pain intensifies in my head and the room began to spin. I tried to take a step over to the soaked couch, but I fell to the ground, unable to keep my balance. Struggling to push myself up, my vision turned black taking my consciousness with it.

  - 14 -

  I woke up feeling like I had the worst hangover in the world. Bright light pierced my eyelids, making it difficult to open my eyes. I tried lift my arm to shield them, but it was restrained by something around my wrists. Handcuffs if I had to guess.

  I felt betrayed that Captain Andrews would have me arrested after saving some of her officers. If she had me locked up, she must've believed that I was the one controlling the cars, even though I was actively helping fight them off. Surely I could talk some sense into her, she didn't seem unreasonable at the end. Wanting to get some answers, I forced my eyes open slowly, giving them time to adjust.

  "Well, well. Look who finally woke up." To my right, sitting on a small stainless steel stool was a man with a book in his hand. He was bald, wearing a fancy red suit accentuated by a red and black stripped tie with a red rose boutonniere pinned on his collar, just above his left front pocket. Whoever he was, he at least thought he is important.

  "Where am I?" I said, pulling myself into a sitting position.

  "You are in a room on the third floor at Foothills Hospital in Boulder." He scooted the stool to the side of my bed, leaning his head close, revealing a pair of dark brown eyes. "You took a nasty hit the other day. What do you remember about it?"

  I looked at the man confused. "I don't remember taking a hit, but I remember hiding behind some guy's door when the cars exploded outside."

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black notepad and one of those fancy pens. The type they leave locked up at the office supply stores, his without a case or a fancy design, just a black pen with gold trim. "What do you think caused the explosions, Mr. Gilmore?"

  "Couldn't tell you," I lied. "You know, I never caught your name."

  "I'm sorry about that. I figured you would know." He pulled out a stack of business cards from his lower right jacket pocket, handing me the one on top before removing the handcuffs from my wrists. "The name's Cedric Rogers. I'm an investigator for the Grand Council."

  That would explain the line of questioning and the knowledge of events. With a news helicopter flying overhead, they probably had plenty of footage of me taking out the cars.

  "What brings you to Boulder, Cedric?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "I'm h
ere to find out why you believe it is OK to use magic to destroy government property. The Feds don't like it when one of our own acts however he pleases. We are allowed to exist in this society because we promise to follow their rules. Number two on the list is not using magic to destroy property."

  I stifled a laugh. I also broke rule number 3. It says we are not allowed to use magic in the presence of those who cannot, or do not, believe it exists. That one they tend to write off unless you were flagrant about it, which I was.

  "Don't the rules allow for us to use it to save others?"

  "Tell me," he said, rubbing his chin. "How did you save lives by throwing a fireball into the engine of a Delta Airlines 747? Correct me if I'm wrong, but if the engine had blown any other way, we could be talking about how you killed hundreds of people the other day."

  "They were in danger," I said, balling my fists. "Besides, I didn't have any other options."

  "So your only course of action to saved a 'doomed' flight was to crash through the protective fence and attack the engine?" he asked, head tilted sideways. "Then perhaps you were attempting to save the Colorado National Guard unit as well?"

  "I thought disabling people in self-defense was allowed."

  "Oh no, disabling in self-defense is perfectly fine." He pulled out a picture of a man laying in a hospital bed with his leg propped up in a full leg cast. "This man, Staff Sergeant Davis, had his leg shattered in three places after he... fell into a chasm." He peered at me over his paperwork. "That doesn't sound like defensive magic to me, Mr. Gilmore."

  "What about the rest of the unit?" I asked, growing furious. "There were eleven others with him that were all fine."

  "They are all physically sound," he said, smiling. "You should be aware that three of them are going through the early stages of PTSD. We have one of our doctors on hand helping their doctors diagnose and treat the disorder."

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  He folded his file, placing it on the counter next to him. "No, Mr. Gilmore. I'm not. The Grand Council has rules in place to protect society from people like us. Without these rules, the rest of civilization would be at the mercy of the first wizard with an agenda."

  "So you questioned me while letting a rogue technomancer run rampant on the streets?" I asked. "Do I need to tell you that his deaths were not self-defense."

  "We are looking into the actions of Bradley tucker. But unlike you, he isn't a registered member of the council."

  "So that gives him a free pass?"

  He shook his head. "No, it doesn't. But it makes it harder for us to track him down."

  "You can't track him down, yet you can find me in a hospital in a town two states away from my house."

  He grabbed the remote attached to my bed and turned on the TV. He pressed the button a few times, stopping on a local news broadcast. He left the sound on low, making it difficult to hear what they are saying, but the video was proving his point. There I was, standing in the middle of the street flinging fire at the nearby cop cars. I sighed. Of course they wouldn't show any footage of the cops shooting the tires and gas tanks of their own vehicles. I guess I stole the show when I got to work.

  "You haven't been lying low. Have you, Mr. Gilmore?"

  "I guess not," I said, turning away from the TV. "So. What happens next?"

  He grabbed his briefcase that was sitting on the ground next to my bed and pulled out a large yellow envelope and placed it on my lap. "You are to be tried in front of the council on August third. I advise you to get your affairs in order fairly quickly, Mr. Gilmore. They won't judge you favorably if you continue on this path." He closed the briefcase, picked it up, and walked towards the door. "One last thing." He turned around. "Please make sure you attend."

  "What happens if I don't?"

  "Let's just say my next visit won't be so pleasant." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and placed them on a chair next to my bed. "I took the liberty of having your car moved to the hospital parking lot. I'll see you in a few weeks."

  The door slammed as he left the room. I knew it was just a matter of time until I crossed the council. I only hoped it would have been for a better cause. None of that mattered anymore.

  The positive news was that they were willing to talk. If I had crossed the line, they would have done something to make sure I didn't wake up. It still didn't answer any of the questions I had, but I got the gist that he wasn't here to answer any of mine. In any case, I needed to get out of this hospital as soon as possible if I hoped to take down Bradley. I only had two weeks to do it before facing the wrath of the council.

  - 14 -

  I woke up feeling like I had the worst hangover in the world. Bright light pierced my eyelids, making it difficult to open my eyes. I tried lift my arm to shield them, but it was restrained by something around my wrists. Handcuffs if I had to guess.

  I felt betrayed that Captain Andrews would have me arrested after saving some of her officers. If she had me locked up, she must've believed that I was the one controlling the cars, even though I was actively helping fight them off. Surely I could talk some sense into her, she didn't seem unreasonable at the end. Wanting to get some answers, I forced my eyes open slowly, giving them time to adjust.

  "Well, well. Look who finally woke up." To my right, sitting on a small stainless steel stool was a man with a book in his hand. He was bald, wearing a fancy red suit accentuated by a red and black stripped tie with a red rose boutonniere pinned on his collar, just above his left front pocket. Whoever he was, he at least thought he is important.

  "Where am I?" I said, pulling myself into a sitting position.

  "You are in a room on the third floor at Foothills Hospital in Boulder." He scooted the stool to the side of my bed, leaning his head close, revealing a pair of dark brown eyes. "You took a nasty hit the other day. What do you remember about it?"

  I looked at the man confused. "I don't remember taking a hit, but I remember hiding behind some guy's door when the cars exploded outside."

  He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black notepad and one of those fancy pens. The type they leave locked up at the office supply stores, his without a case or a fancy design, just a black pen with gold trim. "What do you think caused the explosions, Mr. Gilmore?"

  "Couldn't tell you," I lied. "You know, I never caught your name."

  "I'm sorry about that. I figured you would know." He pulled out a stack of business cards from his lower right jacket pocket, handing me the one on top before removing the handcuffs from my wrists. "The name's Cedric Rogers. I'm an investigator for the Grand Council."

  That would explain the line of questioning and the knowledge of events. With a news helicopter flying overhead, they probably had plenty of footage of me taking out the cars.

  "What brings you to Boulder, Cedric?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "I'm here to find out why you believe it is OK to use magic to destroy government property. The Feds don't like it when one of our own acts however he pleases. We are allowed to exist in this society because we promise to follow their rules. Number two on the list is not using magic to destroy property."

  I stifled a laugh. I also broke rule number 3. It says we are not allowed to use magic in the presence of those who cannot, or do not, believe it exists. That one they tend to write off unless you were flagrant about it, which I was.

  "Don't the rules allow for us to use it to save others?"

  "Tell me," he said, rubbing his chin. "How did you save lives by throwing a fireball into the engine of a Delta Airlines 747? Correct me if I'm wrong, but if the engine had blown any other way, we could be talking about how you killed hundreds of people the other day."

  "They were in danger," I said, balling my fists. "Besides, I didn't have any other options."

  "So your only course of action to saved a 'doomed' flight was to crash through the protective fence and attack the engine?" he asked, head tilted sideways. "Then perhaps you were attempting to sa
ve the Colorado National Guard unit as well?"

  "I thought disabling people in self-defense was allowed."

  "Oh no, disabling in self-defense is perfectly fine." He pulled out a picture of a man laying in a hospital bed with his leg propped up in a full leg cast. "This man, Staff Sergeant Davis, had his leg shattered in three places after he... fell into a chasm." He peered at me over his paperwork. "That doesn't sound like defensive magic to me, Mr. Gilmore."

  "What about the rest of the unit?" I asked, growing furious. "There were eleven others with him that were all fine."

  "They are all physically sound," he said, smiling. "You should be aware that three of them are going through the early stages of PTSD. We have one of our doctors on hand helping their doctors diagnose and treat the disorder."

  "You've got to be kidding me."

  He folded his file, placing it on the counter next to him. "No, Mr. Gilmore. I'm not. The Grand Council has rules in place to protect society from people like us. Without these rules, the rest of civilization would be at the mercy of the first wizard with an agenda."

  "So you questioned me while letting a rogue technomancer run rampant on the streets?" I asked. "Do I need to tell you that his deaths were not self-defense."

  "We are looking into the actions of Bradley tucker. But unlike you, he isn't a registered member of the council."

  "So that gives him a free pass?"

  He shook his head. "No, it doesn't. But it makes it harder for us to track him down."

  "You can't track him down, yet you can find me in a hospital in a town two states away from my house."

  He grabbed the remote attached to my bed and turned on the TV. He pressed the button a few times, stopping on a local news broadcast. He left the sound on low, making it difficult to hear what they are saying, but the video was proving his point. There I was, standing in the middle of the street flinging fire at the nearby cop cars. I sighed. Of course they wouldn't show any footage of the cops shooting the tires and gas tanks of their own vehicles. I guess I stole the show when I got to work.