by Al K. Line
We stood there, stunned. This was more than I had ever heard trolls speak in my entire life. I don't mean one, I mean this was more words than I had heard from every troll I had ever met, combined. They grunt, say, "Rock hungry," stuff like that.
Dancer and I turned to Rikka, gaping as we watched him struggle for words. One thing Rikka is not, and that's slow to speak. Normally, he's barking out orders and generally shouting at people, or worse, talking quietly. If he does that you take a step back as you know you are in serious trouble.
"Oh, er, yes, good, good. That sounds excellent. How have you done it all so fast? You only took, er, charge yesterday, isn't that right?" Rikka scratched at his head then seemed to recall he now had a luscious head of hair and twiddled with it. It used to be all straggly and thin, now it's flowing and thick—it honestly could be another person.
"My dear fellow, I am an immortal of the highest intelligence," said the troll, voice still sounding like gravel tipping from a dump truck no matter that the words were eloquent. "I have reviewed your files, and although I do not approve of the disarray they are in," the troll accountant stared with disapproval at Rikka, even putting his glasses back on so he could look over the top of them, "I have put things in order, computerized them, and you shall pay much less going forward. Now, about my fee?"
"Fee! I didn't even ask you to do this. You just took over and did it. Mage Polanski has been doing my accounting for three centuries, and you pushed him out like he was an amateur."
"He may well have been doing it for centuries, but he isn't exactly up-to-date on the latest systems, and this proves it." The troll pointed at the stacks of files and papers. He had a point. It should all be on spreadsheets or accounting software or something, not that I know how it works.
Then it dawned on me: Polanski did my stuff too. I thought it best not to mention it, just in case I found out I owed more or something.
"Nice keyboard," I offered, giving the troll my best smile. "Didn't realize they sold them so large."
"I made it myself. I had a spare half hour yesterday at some point and the idea came to me. I really don't know how you humans manage to use the ones you do. So tiny, like for children."
"That's because our hands aren't like weird lumpy rocks," said Dancer. Rikka shot him a look, I tried to keep my face neutral, and the troll, all eight foot high of him, and almost as wide as his desk, pushed back a chair resembling nothing so much as a tree and stood. His head almost hit the ceiling.
He leaned forward, impossibly large hands resting on the stacks of paper that crumpled under his weight. "What did you just say? Was that supposed to be an insult? Because if it was it wasn't a very good one, but I will still crush you like the tiny bug that you are."
"No, no," protested Dancer, stepping back, "I meant it as a compliment."
"Do not take me for a fool, necromancer. I know you were trying to be rude, and I do not appreciate being insulted. If you so much as dare to think such mean-spirited thoughts again I shall deal with you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly," said Dancer, tight-lipped and freaked out.
"Good." The troll sat down and put his glasses back on. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. What a mess. How you humans have managed to survive so long if this is the way you conduct business is beyond me." The accountant bent to his work, fingers flying across the giant keyboard.
We left. What else could we do?
Down the hall at the elevator, we stood, stunned by the meeting. Inventing oversized keyboards, doing the accounts, removing the old guy that had worked for Rikka for centuries, it was ridiculous. This wasn't how trolls acted. They stand around, looking rocky, not typing and wearing glasses. They think glass is for eating, not improving your eyesight.
"See what I mean?" said Rikka sadly.
"Yeah. But look on the bright side, at least you're going to save money when your tax is due."
"Unless he turns back to being a regular troll and eats all the paper, or the computer."
"There is that. Okay, I think you need to take this from the beginning. When did this all start and just how bad is it?"
"Let's go back to my office, I need to get out of this place."
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. A troll wearing a blue dress the size of a marquee, and with her head buried in a book, stepped out without looking up and nearly trampled us.
"That's a very good idea. Troll accountants are dangerous."
Alive and Dangerous
I have to tell you, even though I'd spent the night chasing gnomes, blasting the dark arts in the woods, squared off against my most despicable foe in a hundred years that morning—yeah, the damn chicken—and was in a car after meeting the smart troll as Dancer's stink of death battled and won against the air freshener, I felt alive like I hadn't since Kate and I had nearly been killed by a rogue Finnish vampire.
Even the usual depressing sky and rain of Cardiff wasn't enough to put a damper on my sense of optimism. Knowing myself well enough, I knew it went beyond merely feeling energized from being in company I was as familiar with as myself.
It was the excitement, the anticipation of unexpected happenings. The buzz. The thought of using magic again to its full extent. Danger, too. The familiar tingle at the thought of adrenaline coursing through my veins, bringing me alive in a primeval way. So, yes, the events of the previous night had left me hyped up with little in the way of penance as used to be the case.
The long rest had done me good. I got the feeling I had made a breakthrough. Ever since I first began to learn of magic and use it myself, under Rikka and Grandma's long tutelage, I, like everyone else, had to pay the terrible consequences for such undertakings.
You hurt like you would not believe. You ache, cry, puke, and that's if you're lucky. As you leak the magic back where it came from you suffer immensely for such theft.
But this time I had little more than a feeling of nausea, an unease rather than a guttural terror and overwhelming hurt. Granted, the gnomes hadn't exactly been my equal, but I'd still used magic. I felt tough, brimming with vitality. The sparkle that came to me when I drew magic inside myself felt permanent, like I was shining bright and strong.
I was back, but better. I was alive. I also felt dangerous.
"What have you done?" said Rikka from the back seat.
"Not following you," I said, turning. He knew I was different, I could tell, and this was just with him staring at the back of my head.
"You've been up to something, both of you."
Dancer glanced at me. I didn't know why he was so worried about Rikka knowing I'd done him a favor, but he's odd like that, likes to keep his business private. He spoke up. "Spark did me a favor, one of the ones he owes me."
"I don't care about that. I want to know why Spark here is practically brimming with magic and not puking all over my nice clean interior." Rikka runs a fleet of the latest model Range Rover SUVs, it's why I had never bought a car until I moved to the country. Now I own an old Land Rover Defender. I've always wanted one, but it isn't exactly the most practical for driving in wet cities. Great for at home though, as long as it isn't raining too hard.
"I'm not sure what it is," I admitted. "I do feel different. I don't think I get as sick any longer when I use magic."
"Told you it would happen one day. You've turned a corner, Spark, you've become a proper wizard."
"You what! What do you mean, a proper wizard? I've been a wizard since my eighteenth birthday when I got my tattoos done."
"That's what we told you, but it doesn't really work like that. You have still been learning, really. Yes, I know you are powerful, my best enforcer, so don't get all pouty,"—I wasn't—"but grown-up wizards do not get crippling sickness once they reach a certain stage. And you, Faz Pound, the mighty Black Spark, are now a grown-up, honest-to-goodness wizard."
"Oh. I thought I already was." Okay, I was pouting now.
"Haha, count yourself lucky. It took me almost three hun
dred years to stop crawling on my hands and knees looking for Death to come take me after I used magic of any strength. You got off lightly."
"Right, guess I did."
"What about me?" asked Dancer, looking keen to hear when his particular brand of magic would stop hurting quite as much.
Dancer is a necromancer. He raises the dead for a living and there is more call for it than you might think. I just wish he would stop smelling like rotten flesh, formaldehyde, and that weird bleach smell you always get in hospitals and retirement homes. I'd forgotten quite how unpleasant it could be, and it was putting a downer on the ride as there was no new car smell. I love new car smell, it rocks!
"Dancer, you hardly get touched by it at all now!" I said, amazed he'd asked.
"I'd like it not to hurt at all."
"You have come as far as you ever will, Dancer," said Rikka, smiling at the necromancer fondly. Rikka had definitely softened since I'd been away from work. He never smiled at us, he scowled and moaned. Must be the fact nothing wobbles now when he moves his face.
Dancer had come a long way recently, proving himself capable of holding the fort when Rikka went missing the previous year. "You are the best necromancer there is, and you peaked halfway through the last century. If I remember rightly it was soon after the war. What a century that was. So much horror, so much change."
Rikka is old skool. He hates the modern age with its computers and virtual worlds, and longs for the old times when it was all pointy hats and proper magic schools like it was back in Finland when he was a boy. That doesn't stop him investing in modern businesses though. Money still comes first.
"Oh, I thought maybe I would have an epiphany and one day it wouldn't even touch me." Dancer focused on the driving as traffic grew heavier. We were in the heart of the city now, skirting the shopping district, heading past the museum, close to the castle and some of the best pubs in the city.
"You guys, I can never win with you. Count yourself lucky, Dancer, you too, Spark. You may not know it but it still hurts me. Not like it used to, but I feel it. It never goes away. It's what makes magic special, what gives us the edge. You have to pay if you want to play, and the price is always pain. Never forget that."
We were quiet after Rikka's words. He had a point.
"Drop me off here," I said to Dancer as we approached a bus stop. "I'll catch you guys up. It's been ages since I walked in the city, so I think I'll take in the air."
"The air! This is Cardiff. The air is damp, it smells of exhaust fumes, and I have a lot to talk about with you." Rikka didn't look pleased.
"I won't be long, just want to say hello to the old girl." They looked at me, confused. "What, you don't think of it as a woman?" All I got were blank looks. Guess it was just me then.
Dancer pulled over and I hopped out as a bus beeped for him to move. "I'll see you soon, won't be long."
"Make sure you aren't. You've got work to do. And besides, we wouldn't want Kate getting angry if you stay out late. Haha."
"Yeah, whatever."
"Spark, just remember one thing." I peered through the open door at Rikka. "I am still your boss, so show respect."
"Sorry, Boss. See you soon." I thought him being like one of the lads was a little too much to expect.
Dancer edged into traffic and I breathed deep of fume-filled air. Sure, it wasn't the countryside, but it was still home, or had been for a long time at any rate. I walked back the way we had driven, soon lost in a mass of people. Once more I was the no-man, the ghost of the city, there but not seen. I guess you could say the same thing for most Regulars—nobody seems to take much notice of much at all anymore.
I managed to get about a third of the way down the high street before I spotted a zombie staggering about and lunging for people.
Just great. One bite from the seriously green animated corpse and Cardiff would be decimated before it was even time for supper.
"Welcome home, Spark," I muttered to myself before I went to deal with a flesh eating, virus carrying zombie I was sure I recognized from the compound. What we call a safe-zone, when really it's nothing more than a prison for the walking dead. Don't call them that, or zombies, they get funny about it.
Undead is their preference. That, and brains.
Zombie Shopper
Why didn't I panic? Why wasn't I freaking out and screaming for everyone to watch out as there was a zombie on the loose?
Obvious. This stuff happens to me all the time. This is the Hidden world, the world I have been entrusted with protecting, with ensuring it remains unknown to those uninvolved with magic, and you'd be surprised just how often problems arise. If it isn't vampires running amok, it's corrupt wizards, or suicidal seers, or imps on the sock rampage, so it was business as normal.
Plus, and you know it's true, if some guy suddenly started running down the high street while you were busy trying to talk on your cell phone and drink your coffee, looking in the windows of the expensive stores at the same time, then you'd either ignore him entirely or just stare and then take a picture with your phone. You know I'm right.
So, instead of shouting and drawing attention to myself, not that anyone would remember me because of my permanent magical shroud, I took off my jacket, removed my tie, and tried not to take too much notice of my tattoos as they squirmed around my arms in anticipation of the magic that was already coming to me like a faery to a free Italian meal—man, they do love them some pasta.
The paving was soaked from the heavy downpour, but I remained dry like I always do, the rain fizzing off me like I was on fire. Shoppers wandered morosely in all directions, stepping to avoid the puddles and the weaving zombie that staggered in that slow and unbalanced gait they love so much.
I watched the poor creature snap at passersby as they stepped aside, but it's attempts at a meal were pretty ineffectual. The creature was slow even by zombie standards. People just frowned at it and rushed past muttering—they wouldn't even remember what he looked like. He reminded me of myself, but maybe nobody takes notice of anyone anymore?
Preservative that stops zombies rotting away too fast leaked out like a faulty hose from a puncture wound starting at a knee, staining its filthy clothes even darker, pink liquid spilling from a tattered brogue and mingling with the rain.
I'd never known one get so far from the safe-zone before, and this was definitely one I remembered. Sure, we get outbreaks now and then, but with so many Hidden spread throughout the country, and the world, they are picked up fast, damage minimal. Which is a good job, as otherwise the world would be over for humanity quicker than you could say, "Oi, stop gnawing on my leg."
How the hell had it got here? Did it take the bus, or get a taxi? No, obviously not, so something was up.
See, told you I'm as much a detective as an enforcer. Okay, maybe not that great at deduction, but I was just warming up.
Understand that although I could see the zombie as it truly was, that wasn't the case for Regulars. They saw what was to all intents and purposes a crazy guy. He was unkempt, with straggly hair and a beard, drawn face with sunken eyes, and he certainly wasn't the paradigm of health and vitality. But he didn't look like he'd been bitten by an infected dead person so now had a virus that animated his body and made him crave warm flesh and brains.
People didn't point and think, "Oh, I bet that dead dude's filled up with a secret chemical solution that preserves him, so he can continue to live his undead life until he eventually falls to bits."
No, they saw what the magic—and it is a virus born of corrupted magic—allowed them to see. Otherwise, everyone would be running around and screaming, or wishing we were allowed to have guns in the UK rather than air rifles if we are lucky. What can I tell you? We don't shoot each other with bullets, we get close and use knives, or blast the dark arts in back alleys instead—it all amounts to the same thing in the end. You still wind up dead and wondering if you left the oven on and turned out the lights before entering your own personal afterlife.
>
Anyway, back to the zombie.
I searched for, and found, my phone and flipped up the lid and speed-dialed Rikka. Yes, it's a flip-up, you got a problem with that?
"What?" Such great phone manners.
"There's a zombie, doing some shopping. You better call Paul."
Rikka sighed. "Okay, will do. You know what to do?"
"Of course! I haven't been gone that long."
We hung up. Rikka would call Paul, the zombie ostensibly in charge of the safe-zone, a pretty nice place to while away the years regardless of whether your heart still beat or not. No way should any of them get so far from their home.
As the walking dead teetered and tottered around the high street, getting close to feeding when a couple of teenagers stopped to take a picture of each other in front of some new department store I'd never heard of, I knew I had to deal with it straight away.
Knowing nobody was paying attention to either of us, not really, just a drunk or a homeless guy and me the invisible man, I did what any self-respecting enforcer would do. I jumped the zombie.
I sneaked up behind him, wrapped my coat around his head, tied the arms together then grabbed his hands and secured them behind his back with my tie.
My eyes threatened to snap to black although I didn't even need the magic, but I have to say I was itching—literally—to let the Empty enter me and to feel it surge through my ink like it has so many times before.
As people began to take an interest, I slung the writhing creature over my shoulder and ran as fast as I could back to the main road and away from pedestrians. The poor guy was wriggling like a goblin in a leotard, and I could hear his teeth gnashing against the material of my jacket. It was pristine, too, an original from nineteen sixty-five, but good for nothing now.
What was I supposed to do with a zombie in the middle of the high street? I ran on, making it to the taxi rank in less than a minute, out of breath and lactic acid burning in my thighs and lower back—I was out of practice at this sort of thing.