Black Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 1)

by Al K. Line

  Like he didn't know. Rikka likes to play his little games, but they always lead somewhere. Always.

  "No. Kate helped me out. She saved me, saved all of us."

  "From the mess you caused." Rikka held up a fat hand to stop me interrupting. "Yes, I know, it wasn't your fault. It was the..." He paused to check for eavesdroppers. "Armenian's fault."

  Plum's eyes went wide at the mention of the name, and looked at me with sympathy. Everyone had heard of the Armenian, but why was I the one that had to deal with her? I obviously hadn't done a good job of it first go around.

  "Exactly. Anyway, crisis averted. The way all the fake videos are gaining traction online nobody will think anything of my mistake. Job done."

  "Not quite."

  "The Armenian?" Rikka nodded. "What exactly has she done? I know you said she did the 'thing,' but what exactly?"

  "Later." Rikka stuffed another sandwich into his mouth. When he finished chewing he said, "I don't like that vampire being with you, Spark. I am in charge around here, and the whole damn country. I don't need my people being spied on like criminals. I assume this is Taavi's doing?" It had happened before, and it never ended well, but I was surprised it had taken Rikka so long to bring the subject of Oliver up.

  "Yes, he insisted. I don't like it either, and he is seriously winding me up, but I couldn't say no."

  "Of course not." Rikka understood, but he hated that the vampires ignored his Council, thinking they were above such things and refusing to acknowledge they were grouped under the Dark Council, seeing themselves as above human concerns.

  "Taavi did say that if Oliver stepped out of line then he would pretty much wash his hands of him. He's an observer only, to ensure that everything gets covered up."

  "Then he should be gone. You have done your job well. And I give you my permission, Spark."

  "Your permission?"

  "Yes." Rikka said no more, but I knew what he meant.

  If I got the chance, and had a decent enough excuse, I was to send that sucker somewhere dark and nasty, preferably for eternity. I nodded. Rikka really hated Oliver. If I could, then I would help to put the foul man down. Taavi wouldn't be happy, but there would be nothing he could do.

  We stood, as Paul and a few rather muddy and abashed zombies followed him into the dining room, making a right mess of the floor.

  "Our people are contained. Would you care to do the honors, Mage Rikka?"

  "If I must," sighed Rikka. We followed Paul back out the way we had come.

  Magic time.

  Less a Prison, More a Safe-Zone

  Zombies, or the living dead, or undead, as they prefer to be known, aren't nasty, they just don't know any better. It's a timeless virus as old as magic itself, and the Hidden ensure that humanity survives by keeping them contained.

  They are mostly happy for this service, as the last thing they would want is to be told they'd put an end to the world and there would never be a chance of brains or fresh flesh ever again.

  The infected become something otherworldly, primordial, magical, another part of the dark magic that thrums across the universe and permeates us all.

  But somehow, somewhere, some time, somebody did something very wrong, and the cosmic karma played a nasty joke to put us in our place. This original zombie, whoever he or she was, paid the ultimate price for whatever indiscretion they performed. Or maybe it was simply a virus and nobody was to blame, but either way the infection spread with a bite, and the result of a zombie getting its teeth into your skin is immortality.

  Being infected does not result in a "Isn't life great, and now I get to have incredible strength and can captivate people and do whatever the hell I want" kind of immortality that vampires have, but the "I'm scared and alone, and all I crave is fresh flesh and bits of me keep falling off" immortality.

  Once infected, their bodies are animated corpses, controlled by the virus as the corruption of magic overpowers them, claims them as its own. There is no escape, only a second death through utter destruction of the brain and the removal of it from the skull, or the smashing of it to a nasty pulp.

  Well, a lot of them would rather not have their brains smeared across the first available surface, which is understandable, so instead they try to behave. Only problem is, that's not so easy with the overwhelming desire to eat other humans, or anything else that's still breathing if your options are limited. This means that while they are still with it enough to decide, many opt for the compounds. The safe-zones, as we prefer to call them. It sounds less like a prison.

  Newly turned are almost wholly aware, just locked inside this creature drawn to human flesh like an imp to your new pair of socks. Yes, they get unstoppable cravings for other humans, but they are still the person they were, if rather pale. The color is understandable, but quickly degenerates, as without blood flowing it pools at the extremities, giving horrendous swollen features and limbs. These unfortunate creatures are animated, but very much dead.

  Their solution is to drain out the blood and transfuse a special blend of preserving agents, much like a mortician would do to keep a corpse fresh, or a taxidermist to preserve their art for posterity.

  But you don't exactly look your best, and mirrors aren't popular among the living dead.

  Other than that it can be life as normal, but you may never go home, never see friends or family again. It has to be kept secret for obvious reasons. There are issues of health, not to mention survival of the human species.

  Over many years, and countless persecutions and misunderstandings, agreements have been made between those that act as sometime leaders for the numerous zombie factions and the Hidden—it's all very amenable.

  They don't want to wipe out humanity, but many prefer to remain undead than to accept the rather more permanent alternative. They have their compounds, and in each Ward the Head is responsible for the zombies, just like all other aspects of dark magic use by those classified as human, or once-human, Hidden.

  It gets complicated. I think half the time nobody really knows who is in charge of what, but for the most part it all seems to work out somehow.

  Rikka has charge of this enclave as it is in his local Ward, but the whole country is his too—both human Hidden and true Hidden—so it's no wonder he eats too much. As he is the most powerful, and the one the zombies trust, he deals with the magic that keeps them from turning the UK into the Apocalypse.

  They'd obviously got a little carried away though, and the bind hadn't held—probably as it was old and needed updating anyway—and the pigs that act as their food had clearly tempted them too much by straying close to the edge of the magic barrier, and they'd managed to push on through then probably forgot what they were doing or where they were and had a lie down. Zombies tire easily, especially the old ones.

  I can't imagine a worse existence. Watching the years pass by while you slowly rot, even with the preservatives inside you. Bits breaking off, no way to feel any of it as your nerves no longer function, body getting eaten by bugs while skin peels away. All the while somehow sure that letting it carry on for years, or decades, is worth it. Credit where credit's due, they are hardcore and no mistake.

  Down at the edge of their designated area, Rikka prepared to update the magic containment line that ran around the whole area, a forcefield that stopped them crossing. A simple summoning of the Empty when done on a small scale, but for a large barrier like this Rikka was the man for the job.

  Trolls, shifter, dark magic enforcer, vampire, and zombies stood well back as Rikka edged forward and did what he does best—it's a sight to behold and like the northern lights on crack.

  He paused and turned back to us. "Wait in the house," he said, staring at Oliver.

  "You can't tell me what to—" Rikka took a single step toward him. "Fine, fine. Didn't want to see your little show anyway." Oliver turned and walked slowly back up toward the building where he leaned against the wall and continued to push his luck.

  "Definitely got to g
o," said Rikka, staring at me now. I nodded. He turned back to his task.

  Rikka, somewhat unassuming overweight man with casual clothes and long, thin brown hair—his only concession to the days of his youth—spread his legs a little to root them properly in the earth and make a good connection, then opened his arms out wide.

  His meaty arms practically blinded us as his faded ink of centuries ago bulged and vibrated rapidly, faster and faster as the air cracked and reality faded quicker than a single chuckle after a bad joke.

  The world took on new and darker meaning as he drew the Empty into himself, let it envelop him by force of will and the connection he'd mastered over the ages.

  He became something altogether different. Gone was the fat man, here were a thousand different Rikkas, blinking on and off like flicking through the pages of a book.

  All the versions of him there had ever been and maybe ever would be, morphing from a child, to a boy, to a young man, to the man he is today, from slender novice wizard with long hair and robes, to all manner of strange incarnations as he flipped through the various body forms and styles of the centuries as if trying to find one that would fit.

  The whispers of the truth behind the veneer of reality grew more intense and the Empty poured into him as his hair stood on end and his ink went wild. The power flowed, dangerous and deadly to a lesser practitioner, changing him into something primitive and pure. Energy, magic that constitutes the building blocks of all realities and was inside of him, and outside of him, and was him, and everything else, and was his to do with as he pleased.

  Carefully squatting, Rikka put a finger to the grass and mumbled something unintelligible, then the finger of his other hand, while darkness whispered to him and he fought the sickness and beat it.

  He slid his hands across the grass, wide and impossibly fast.

  CRACK.

  The ground erupted into blinding fire as dark as soot. In either direction a black line of scorched grass no thicker than his plump fingers raced away. Moments later, a less intense crack could be heard directly behind us on the other side of the building as the lines met.

  Rikka got to his feet, turned and smiled at us, his eyes black and wide, sparks of blue catching the gray of the clouds, dangerous and masterful. Then the sickness came, even for Rikka. His smile turned to pain.

  In a moment it passed and Rikka was Rikka again.

  "Right, time for a quick bite to eat, then we should be off." Rikka held out an arm. Stone took it and guided him back up the slope to the house.

  That's Rikka for you. He's pretty matter-of-fact about his abilities, and this was little more than an interlude to his feasting. For anyone else they would have been sick for days if they could even manage it—most couldn't. I could, but boy would I have puked.

  This is why Rikka holds so much sway over human and true Hidden alike—he truly is like an elemental force of nature and I'd seen him put down demons between bites of a chocolate bar. His powers are immense but he has little in the way of forgiveness, even less remorse.

  I followed them back up to the house. It would be rude to leave now, and besides, I felt sick from the magic residue. So did Paul and Plum, judging by the way they walked, although it was hard to tell with Paul—he alway staggers about and looks a little green.

  My stomach sank even deeper into my dirty winklepickers as the memory that we hadn't got around to discussing what the deal was with Ankine Luisi surfaced like a soul eater and clutched at my insides—I knew the feeling wouldn't let go until I dealt with it once and for all.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I'd become a baker, or a postman, or maybe even a deeply contagious virus tester. They all seemed safer ways to earn a living at that moment.

  An Admission

  "Ankine Luisi," began Rikka—god, how I hate that woman's name—"has overstepped her boundaries and must be stopped."

  "She's never known any boundaries, that's always been the trouble."

  "Exactly."

  I waited for Rikka to continue but he just ate. Was that it? "So, what did she do, exactly? I know she's done 'the thing' but who with? I want details, specifics, if I'm going to pull this off."

  Rikka leaned back and stared at me with eyes so old it felt like the complete history of wizardry was held within his gaze. Telling of the power that was his to call upon and the things he had seen and done. He wasn't even too troubled after the magic given to the zombies—powerful almost beyond compare. "She picked the wrong person this time, and she has to be stopped. Look, Spark, I've already been over all this with you yesterday."

  "I know, but I don't remember. Most of the day is fuzzy, just like this morning. I was just there, at the table playing chess. I don't know what I did or what happened before that. After all these years of us playing, and now it's ruined." I loved chess, I truly did.

  "Then I suggest you find out. Don't you think that's a good idea? And you'll get over it. The game's still there, waiting for when you are ready."

  "Thanks. And I will find out what happened. But come on, give me something. What did you tell me yesterday? This is for you as well as me, you know? It's in all our best interests I have as many facts as possible."

  He knew I was right, so stopped eating and stared at me, hard. Those eyes, so full of knowledge, and power, and pain. I do like Rikka, and I guess I love him. He's been part of my life for so long he's like a father, but he's distant, hard to connect with, nearly always all about business. So what he said really surprised me, and it meant more than he will ever know. Or maybe not. Maybe he knew I needed it. Maybe he did too.

  "I never had children, Spark, never saw the point, or wanted the inconvenience, until you came to me and I took you under my wing. We have been through a lot together, you and I, and for a century you have been a constant in my life. Sometimes a thorn in my side, sometimes a joy to watch, but there, and I've even worried about you at times."

  This was unheard of. Rikka never spoke like this. Even after all these years I had never had put into words what he felt of our relationship, and I often thought I was just another one of his people, even though I knew he had gone out of his way to help me, and my family, a very long time ago. I stared, didn't say a word. I don't think I even breathed.

  "People come and go, so do other species. Most are flaky no matter their origin, and many are downright nasty, magic or no magic, but you, you are a good man, Spark. So be careful, okay?" Rikka wiped at his eyes with a napkin—I sat there with my mouth open.

  I felt like a baby, how it must be when you are wrapped up in a blanket by your mum and all you feel is warmth and love and safe.

  "I will. Thank you, Mage Rikka. I love you."

  "You silly sod, pass me a sandwich."

  I passed him two and after a few grunts and some manly eye-dodging, until we got our acts together, he finished his snack and settled back to tell me the story.

  The sounds of zombies being batted away by trolls at the entrance to the dining room faded away, as did the shouting and despairing of Paul as he repeatedly had to steer the undead either inside or outside, depending on who needed fresh air and who needed to go lie in a dark room.

  Plum stood to attention by the doors out to the grounds, keeping watch and acting like she wasn't eavesdropping. All that remained was me and Rikka, a man I owed my life to and a man I sometimes hated, sometimes loathed, sometimes ridiculed behind his back, but always loved.

  Ankine Luisi's Tale

  "You know her history, right?" I nodded. "She's as old as time, Spark. Maybe older. You think of me and even Taavi as old, and he is a lot older than me, but it's nothing. A blip. Meaningless. Even some on the Dark Council are millennia older than him or I, and we are but still children. Imps, trolls, fae, elves, the true Hidden, they are the ancient ones. Creatures of the world, or the world behind this facade we find ourselves raging against, at any rate."

  "Magical creatures."

  "Yes. Magic was here long before humans, and will be long after we a
re gone. It's why it hurts so much, but you know this. It isn't our place, not really, but we are human so, as usual, we force the issue. Such is life. Our nature is to push the boundaries, and you can't blame us for wanting to use magic any more than you can blame a troll for eating chalk."

  "Haha, they do love that stuff."

  Rikka ignored me—he was on a roll. "And in ages past, the succubi, and incubi, have always thrived when mankind thrived. More people, more superstition and magic, always meant more of their kind. They have many names in many cultures. Qarînah in Arabic folklore, Yakshini in India, the list goes on. Succubi are always depicted as beautiful, voluptuous women who take what they want from men in their dreams, or by their power over the weak minds of males. Ring any bells?" Rikka smirked at me.

  "Yeah, maybe," I mumbled.

  "Of course, they are all just stories, but as with all myths they are based on the truth. Ankine—"

  "You gonna be long? I got stuff to do." Oliver leaned against the dining room door, smirking. Plum was next to him in a flash, ready to fight to the death if need be.

  "Get out. NOW!" Rikka would put up with a lot, but failing to show respect for the man he was, not just his position, would never be tolerated. Especially by what he saw as nothing but the lackey of a truly evil creature.

  Oliver bowed and left. "Touchy," he said, reappearing for a second.

  "He's got to go. I mean it, Spark."

  "I know." Like my day wasn't bad enough already.

  "Now, as I was saying. Ankine Luisi is an ageless succubus. She has known many names and many countries. Has known countless men and given birth to innumerable children. But, for us, and for as long as anyone from either Council can remember, she has been the Armenian. She has always done as she wishes, and nobody dares try stop her as she cannot be stopped. Until recently Armenia remained her home."

  "Shame she didn't stay there."

  "That was good for us, but not good for them. You have to take a global view of things these days. No country is isolated any more, and it makes life a lot harder for us all. But it is what it is. For years now, hundreds, she has roamed the world, locked to this realm. She has visited us for so long that she is now part of it. She belongs here and cannot just come and go as she pleases and appear in men's dreams then vanish.