Guilty Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 4)

by Al K. Line

  Sat in the center of the shopping district I was the invisible man. The ghost of the city, the no-man, unnoteworthy, there but not there, unremarkable, unimportant, un anything.

  Why had I done this, put up this mask that hid me from Regulars? Had I been kidding myself all these years, running around like I thought I was important, missing out on normal life, keeping magic close, hiding behind it? Should I remove the veil, walk and be noticed?

  It was too late now. If I did that you can bet something would go wrong in seconds and my peace would be shattered. And anyway, I was fighting for my life, no way could I do that without magic and moving silently through the world. My world. The Hidden world. No, this was who I was, what I was and would always be. A dark magic enforcer. And one thing was certain, I wouldn't go down without a fight.

  How long I sat there, lost in thought, or staring blankly at the people as they went about their lives, oblivious to the invisible underbelly that was my world, I have no idea, but it gave me what I needed—understanding.

  Not answers, but acceptance, and confirmation that my life wasn't wasted. Far from it, it was great. The things I'd done and seen, no Regular gets that. I'd eaten trolls, lusted over faery ears, kissed demons and danced with devils. I'd got high on faery dust, low on giant's tears—you can't do that if you're worried about what your co-workers think about your new secondhand car.

  I had a hot vampire girlfriend and a chance of future happiness. All I had to do was figure out a way to stay alive. Yeah, there's always a downside.

  I felt like a prisoner on death row, only difference being I had to pay for my last meal. However close to death I could guarantee Madge would never do me another freebie.

  "Where the hell have you been?" asked Dancer, looking tired and stressed out.

  "Pretty obvious, isn't it? Here."

  "Don't get clever, Spark, it doesn't suit you now and it never has. I've been looking all over. Ugh, I preferred it before."

  I wasn't surprised to see him. I knew something would come along to break my peace. "Before what?"

  "Are you serious?" He studied me, like I was about to crack a smile. I wasn't in the mood. "You are, aren't you? Before everything went to crap, that's the before I preferred."

  "Things change, and not always for the better. Such is the tangled web we weave."

  "Oh, how wise. Anyway, I haven't got time to sit and chat, I'm busy."

  "Not gonna congratulate me on getting out of jail?"

  "Oh, sorry. Yeah, congratulations. You'll clear up this little mess, I'm sure."

  "Little mess! Whatever. Leave me alone."

  "I wish I could, but I've got a job for you."

  "Dancer, in case you've forgotten, I have a few problems I need to deal with. Like not getting killed by the Hidden Council, those kind of problems."

  "Never mind that, the boss, Mage Rikka, in case you've forgotten, has given you a job."

  "But he's not the boss any more, is he?"

  "He is our boss. Always. He has a job for you. You have to do it."

  "Fine," I sighed. "What is it?"

  "Can't say, but you have maybe a day or two tops to deal with it."

  "No. Absolutely not. If you think I'm doing anything before I'm proved innocent then you are out of your mind. Rikka's out of his mind, tell him that from me. I'm not doing it and there is nothing you can say to make me."

  "You will, and do you know why?"

  "Please, enlighten me."

  "Because if you don't then they'll kill him."

  I searched his face for clues that he was being dramatic, but he was sincere. "By they, I assume you are referring to the person you want me to deal with? And by him, I assume you are referring to Rikka?"

  Dancer nodded.

  "Fine."

  "You'll do it?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No, not really." Dancer got up, ready to leave. "I'll tell him Faz Pound, a.k.a. Black—"

  I held up a hand. "Spare me. People seem to get annoyed when that gets mentioned. Just say Spark, it causes less trouble."

  "Okay, Spark. Rikka wants to see you, now. He's still at the usual place and he'll give you the details. And be nice to him, he isn't his usual self." Dancer walked off, another magic user nobody would glance at twice. He turned before he was lost to the crowds, and shouted, "Oh, and you still owe me one favor."

  "Bloody hell, talk about kicking a man when he's down. What is it?"

  "Don't get killed, okay?" He was gone.

  He's not so bad, not really.

  I stood. I got the feeling there would be no more peace for quite some time. That, or I'd be dead soon enough, which was just as likely.

  I went to visit Rikka. Sometime boss, always ready to make my life that little bit harder.

  Not the Same

  I was surprised that Rikka was still at the gym. After the "incident" with the vampires, and the death we rained down on them, I was arrested, he was stripped of his position. Since then the magic world had been up in arms. The Dark Council was abolished, gone, just like that, leaving Rikka out of two jobs, one kick ass enforcer, and a hell of a lot of potential income.

  From what I'd heard through the magical grapevine from those that came and went to the prison, things were actually a lot smoother after the changes. No longer was there a Council just for human users and abusers of magic, all Hidden were on equal footing so to speak, ruled by the Hidden Council.

  Rikka was ousted because he had played a hand in the overthrowing of the vampires, never mind that they had, under Taavi's direction, basically committed genocide on the shifter community of Cardiff, our home. It didn't matter. He had helped orchestrate revenge on a scale the Hidden Council found unacceptable, and with Taavi's death came blame, a lot of it.

  Rikka had not been punished like I had, but was stripped of all titles and positions, and with the loss of status came the loss of many of his business interests. He still had Rikka's Fitness Emporiums, though, and still made a gym for Hidden only his base of operations.

  I wasn't happy about the amount the taxi driver charged me as I got out the car, but at least I was somewhere familiar. It felt like I'd never been away as I walked through the foyer, smiled at a receptionist I had never seen before, and went somewhere I could feel safe, a place full of my own kind.

  And the moment the door clicked shut behind me and I was greeted with the heat, the stale odors of sweat, and all manner of weird and wonderful gym equipment, I knew I shouldn't have come.

  Standing there at the door, on scuffed rubber matting, a knot in my stomach hardened and I was sure I'd be sick. My arms dropped to my sides, lifeless and weighted with emotion. An emptiness hit like a punch to the face by a troll after I'd insulted it's ancestral home, and I had to force myself not to turn around and march right out of there. Then came the anger, for what the vampires had taken from us and that so many of us were punished for their crimes.

  I felt discombobulated, out of time and place, emptiness filling the void of hurt, and if I wasn't afraid of others seeing me I think I would have just broken down and cried.

  I looked at the empty bench, at the squat rack being used by some unfamiliar kid, and all I could think of was Plum. Her of the perfect behind, tantalizing chest and flawless skin. I pictured the way she would scowl at me and usually punch me for being a dick, but I would never see her again.

  The image of the last time I saw her had haunted my dreams for a year, seeing her reanimated face a mask of death and grinning maniacally as she dealt out her own unique brand of justice to the vampires that had killed her fellow shifters, starting the whole sorry mess.

  I thought about her most days, dreamed about her every night, terrible images of her face morphing into one of a cruel, uncaring beast, distorted and hateful, and that wasn't how I wanted to remember her. Memories flooded in, taking away that image, as I recalled the countless wisecracks I'd made to her in the gym as I admired her bum while she squatted, tried not to feel inadequate as she
warmed up with three or four hundred pounds on the bench press, gulping and feeling hot as her chest heaved, wanting nothing more than to rip her clothes off, stand before her in all her naked glory and lick her all over.

  Now that would never happen, not that it ever would have as she was well and truly out of my league, but I was thankful for the memories, and maybe I would sleep better for the first time in a year. Maybe.

  What was just as startling as the depth of the emotion I felt was that the place was almost empty. No shifters, which made sense, but no goblins, no dwarves—there are always dwarves working out—not even a ghost. Just the dude at the squat rack and a gremlin. Macdubhgall Carmine by the looks if it. I'd recognize the oversized, even for a gremlin, ears anywhere. I nodded at it and it squeaked then kept on doing its leg extensions at the tiny bespoke workout station.

  Where were the grunts and screams? The air so thick with testosterone your muscles grew just being there? The fights, the arguments, the shouts of Rikka? Hell, where was Rikka?

  As if on cue, he appeared from behind a divide at the rear of his desk. I did a double-take. Had I imagined that he'd got thin and looked good before I went away? I was confused, unable to process what I was seeing. Had any of that happened? He looked like he always had, like I'd known him all the years he'd taught me about magic, brought me up along with Grandma, kept me from going nuts.

  He was fat. Not just chubby, but huge. Rikka was larger than I could recall him ever being, he gave obese a new meaning, and he did not look well for it. He looked pasty, sick, skin kind of lumpy like porridge.

  I walked over cautiously. He still hadn't seen me, preoccupied with eating, cheeks bulging on an already bloated face.

  "Blimey, I don't need to ask who stole all the pies. It was definitely you, and by the looks of it you ate them all too. It must have cost a fortune."

  "Shut up, Spark, I've been stressed." Rikka put a finger into a blob of jam that squirted out of a sugar-coated donut and landed on his shirt. It was the last one from a very large box of emptiness.

  "You must have been really, really stressed then."

  "I was. I am. And that's enough of your nonsense. I'm a bit sensitive about my weight."

  "Oh, sorry." Was this even Rikka? Sensitive? Feelings? We'd be hugging next.

  Before I knew it we were hugging. His fat arms squeezed me tight and his massive belly pushed against me, so I had to kind of angle my legs away or I'd be suffocated. He also got jam on my already ruined suit.

  "Enough, enough. What's got into you?" Rikka released me and I took a step back.

  "Sorry, it's just so great to see you. You look well, apart from the suit. We heard you were out so I sent Dancer right over. Did he tell you I had a job that is urgent?"

  "He told me. It would be nice to have a few days to catch my breath first. Or maybe a few years, not that I have it. Look, I'm gonna be dead in three days, so I'll be busy trying not to be."

  Rikka waved away my words like they were nothing, as if he knew I would be fine. "Don't worry about that, I've got it all under control. Spark, my favorite, and now only enforcer, you have to do this job. If you do we can get back what was ours. All of it, but better."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Rikka. I've been away in case you've forgotten, so I'm not up on all the gossip. I heard you were taken off the Councils, that they disbanded the Dark Council and that Hidden aren't too happy, but beyond that..." I shrugged. There was nothing else to say and I was tired, unused to fighting, already feeling the comedown hard. I would have to crash, rest and sleep. What a way to get out of jail.

  "Okay, let me tell you all about it."

  Like I had a choice.

  A Broken Man

  Rikka was manic, and he wouldn't stop eating. I'd never seen him like this. He was always in control, unflappable, and he never seemed to let much of anything bother him, never to this extent no matter the problem.

  But, just like me, his world had been turned upside down and inside out. With the zombies eradicated, shifters decimated and vampires either dead or truly pissed off, he'd been ousted and lost it all. But, and it was a big one, that wasn't the worst of it. With his position gone he was fair game. There would be no penalty for anyone that decided to kill him as our world doesn't work like that. And he was sure that there was someone out to get him.

  "So who is it? And why are they after you?"

  "It's not good, and the problem is not even the who, but the fact I'm not Head of the Councils. I have to get my position back, Spark, and I need to have a plan."

  "Oh no you don't. I'm not getting involved. I have to get my own affairs in order first, otherwise I can't help you with anything."

  I was getting annoyed. Nobody seemed to be taking seriously the fact I was going to die. Didn't they care?

  Rikka chewed on a donut from a fresh box, finished it and mumbled, "Like I said, I will get that cleared up. Why they took a bloody year to get around to this I honestly don't know."

  "They're bureaucrats, but anyway that's not the problem. The real issue is that all their evidence points to me."

  "They're a bunch of amateurs. I'll help clear you but you have to help."

  "Okay, who's after you? Let's start with that."

  "Reade Littlejohn."

  "Okay, bye." I turned and headed for the door. No way was I getting in the middle of something like this. I loved Rikka, but my affection had its limits. So did my common sense.

  "Spark, you get back here right this minute."

  I stopped and turned. "Rikka, you're not my boss now. You don't tell me what to do."

  "Please?"

  Damn. Rikka never asks, he tells. He really was concerned. The man that can blast hordes of demons back to hell, erect magical force fields without breaking a sweat, and he was scared. I didn't blame him.

  If the Littlejohns were after you then you were basically screwed.

  These Scottish giants, they are harder than trolls, angrier than a goblin if you poke it, more dangerous than a dwarf after you steal its gold and make fun of its mother, and as indestructible as a faery.

  I should have left him there and then, but I'm loyal. And an idiot.

  The Problem With Giants

  Giants are rare, uber rare. Not tall people, but your timeless, ancient, almost never seen, genuine from out of the time of dinosaurs type archaic Neanderthal giant.

  They are immortal and not that bright, or so I'd been led to believe. They are Scottish, and are not to be messed with. The Littlejohns—yeah, I know—are one of the few remaining clans anyone has ever heard of. Giants are the stuff of legend even to the Hidden. Nobody sees them, deals with them if they can help it, or even knows how many still exist, but we all knew about the Littlejohns.

  Every fifty or hundred years, stories filter through about one of them. Either Gavyn, Reade, Roth, Mealcoluim, or Gib comes down from the highlands and gets involved in the Hidden world before disappearing again. The names are legend, the men only ever seen alone, like they take turns to mess with our world then go back into hiding.

  The years mean nothing to them. They have been here since the dawn of time and will be here when we are gone. They are barbarians, ginger-haired, bushy-bearded, broken-toothed, surprisingly well-spoken, elegant and merciless creatures that are hitmen for hire if you can find them, if you can pay, and if they decide not to kill you for disturbing their slumber. And you better take food with you, lots of it.

  I've heard they sleep for years at a time, hibernating and just making their way through the ages, surfacing for brief spells then poof, gone again like a shadow, just a very bloody big one.

  What kind of picture do you have in your mind? A guy that's big? How big? Double it. The Littlejohns, if the stories are true, are twenty to twenty-five feet, wear kilts you definitely do not want to look up or you'll get a complex, and have been recorded by trusted sources to have bitten the heads off wizards and then used said head for a spot of golf, whacking the fleshy ball with their
trusty wooden club to get a hole in one.

  And magic doesn't work on them, which is, when you get right down to it, a definite downer. Talk about unfair advantage.

  The stories go that there were many clans as recently as a few thousand years ago, carrying on with their lives as they always had, which mostly involved fighting over trivial matters and doing their best to bash each other's heads in. The clear high air would be alive with the roars of giants as they battled, while those that believed in magic would hide in their hovels, tell their children it was the thunder, and wait for morning.

  But as the population of Scotland increased, and more people encroached on their lands, the fighting between them got ever more fierce. They wanted their space and their isolation, so they needed to eliminate other giants. Eventually there weren't many left, and they kept to the higher ground, living in deep caves, wandering the quiet valleys and rocky mountains, feeding on whatever they found. Learning enough to be able to steal cattle from stubborn farmers that let their animals roam to graze on the heather.

  They soon became nothing but legend, never seen by other Hidden. They are a race many have forgotten about now, but we remember. Here in the UK we know they survive—you only have to talk to somebody that has seen one to get an idea of what they are capable of.

  If one was after Rikka then he was in major trouble, and I wasn't sure what I could do about it.

  "Okay, what's the deal?" I asked.

  "The damn giants are after me, that's what. One is, anyway. He's already on his way, leaving a trail of destruction behind him like you wouldn't believe."

  "So you've had reports he's making his way down here? Reliable sources?"