Wild Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 8)

by Al K. Line

  At least there was light. Just inside the entrance, Jerard and Pierre collected a backpack containing flashlights and other essentials for wandering the ancient underground system and we each lit our way with a powerful beam that cast strange shadows over the subterranean world we were entombed in.

  One moment we were walking down a narrow tunnel with sludge crawling along beside us at a snail's pace, the next we were passing through cavernous tunnels where seemingly fresh water rushed by at an incredible rate. Then we were crossing what seemed like copies of the streets above, wide with junctions and endless thick bunches of cables overhead.

  Jerard delighted in explaining that the system was ancient, begun almost a thousand years ago, and was endlessly being updated. There were sewage tunnels as well as those for rainwater and many tunnels purpose-built to house the electrical and communications systems that snaked through the city. It was confusing and vast, and contained a dizzying array of strange streets and bizarre, echoing chambers all designed to make you lose your way and your sanity if you weren't careful.

  On and on we went, me thinking back to the time I went into the dwarven realm to help them out with a little problem and ended up causing a bigger one of my own. At least their underground world smelled better, although both were just as intimidating.

  The longer we walked, the more I focused on my breathing and getting my act together. Everything had been so rushed, so manic, and there had been way too much traveling for my liking. I got a hold of myself and allowed my body to finally heal from all it had been through, although the psychic stain still took its toll from the way Jerard had fooled and imprisoned me what felt like a lifetime ago.

  Magic built, boosted my confidence so I could take in the wondrous sights without being overcome with dread and nerves about what would happen if I got lost. Thinking calmly, I knew I could get out. There were endless shafts with rungs embedded into the walls that led up to exits, so if anything truly terrible happened I'd pick one and get above ground quick smart.

  Dreams of fresh air I could breathe without gagging gnawed at me, the need for open sky becoming more insistent with each pounding heartbeat. I had to forcibly push the thoughts aside otherwise I'd be heading for the nearest exit and be damned with Morag and her promises. But on I went, following the two men, my restored confidence ebbing away the longer we remained, knowing I was at their mercy and that I didn't trust them one bit.

  Both men had a seriously bad vibe about them now they were together. As if they played off each other and were much more powerful combined than solo. That was bad news, as Jerard was one well-endowed dude in the magical department and him having more power didn't bear thinking about.

  Yet he was also a man of his word, I knew that. I saw it when I looked at him with Hidden eyes, which I did as I followed their backs through the Parisian underworld.

  Hidden sight allows you to see so much more than this illusion we call reality. You see the nature of many things, and the shallow lies and deception humans and supernatural beings hide behind fall way, revealing the truth. In many cases it's a lot more than you bargained for.

  The men's auras shone stronger than our beams as I took stock of them. They were dedicated practitioners of the arts, Pierre weak compared to his father but strong nonetheless. I could gauge their magic viewing them in this way, and it was frightening when I looked at Jerard. He was all kinds of strong in ways I would never be.

  There was a dangerous edge, seen as sharp spikes in the colored air that shone around him. Whispers of forces beyond my interest and knowledge. Dark things, spiritual matters not to be messed with, jutted from his aura and hinted at his nature. It wasn't that he was a bad man, but he wasn't good either.

  No saint, no sinner either. A man, with all the complications that entailed. But there was an emptiness about him, a corruption because of the slant his magic took. It had tainted him permanently, taken away some of the kindness and purity, the positivity, and warped his mind, turned him toward evil. He wasn't corrupted yet, but the stain was there. I didn't doubt he would become a dark wizard eventually, a practitioner of the forbidden arts that sought out the worst in humanity and used it to further his own ends. He'd be just like Morag sooner or later.

  Maybe he'd turn things around. I doubted it, and I could tell he doubted it too. Fought a constant battle with himself to stay on one side when the darker, more powerful side tugged at his mind, promised power and knowledge he would otherwise never master or gain.

  He was honorable, though, and if he said he would give me Morag's soul then he would.

  I just wasn't sure I wanted it. Not here, not now. Not so far away from what I felt comfortable with or was certain I could handle.

  "We're here," said Jerard, putting a hand out to stop me as I wandered right up to him, lost in thought, bouncing against his outstretched hand.

  I turned to my right to see a plain, gun metal steel door set into a recess of the cramped tunnel, no markings to indicate what was on the other side.

  I let my awareness expand and sent out feelers toward the door, recoiling as my mind slammed against something cold and dangerous and furious beyond belief. He wasn't lying. Astral anger lay coiled the other side of the door, waiting to release all kinds of vengeance for the ignominy it had endured for what felt like an eternity to the presence trapped within.

  "What now?" I asked.

  "Now? Now you get what you came for," said Jerard with the slightest hint of a sneer. It was unintentional, but I caught it. He didn't like me. Even though I'd given him his son, he looked down on me, felt me weak for doing Morag's bidding. Never mind that he would have traded her soul for his son. He believed I was her puppet, and wanted done with me. Wished for a return to his old life so he could continue down his dark, deadly path.

  "Let's get this over with," I said, puffing out my chest, steadying my resolve as I drew close all the power I could muster, wrapping myself in the comforting allure of access to the Empty.

  Nothing to worry about. I was just lost in a sewer in a foreign city about to be somehow given the soul of a very pissed off witch who held my wife hostage and had the key to a future I desperately wanted.

  Oh, and I had no idea how.

  Jerard reached out to the door. The flashlights stuttered then went dead. Everything was black. The door squealed as it opened.

  Those horror movies came to mind and I wondered how it was I'd managed to become the one that was sure to be killed first.

  Slightly Nervous

  "You're welcome to the bitch," came the distant, echoing voice of Jerard from the darkness.

  I spun in a circle, disorientated and feeling all kinds of exposed. Pierre cackled, the high-pitched sound bouncing off the tunnel walls and reverberating in my skull like a sprite with a bell.

  "You have got to be kidding me," I shouted at the voices. "This wasn't part of the plan."

  "She won't be happy with me," shouted Jerard. "Best I'm not here when she's released."

  "And how am I supposed to do that?" I asked, trying not to sound frantic and ever so slightly nervous about the whole angry spirits in the dark beneath the city thing.

  "You'll see," he said, voice little but a whisper.

  "Jerard? Hey, which way out?"

  Silence.

  Just me, the sewers, and the opened door containing the angry soul of the woman who held my future in her cruel hands. I didn't even want to think about the rats.

  As if on cue, my flashlight sparked back to life just as my Hidden sight adjusted to the darkness. I let the magic fade, saving it for when needed, and turned my attention to the door.

  It wasn't like she was standing there, all spectral and ghostly, ready to pounce, was it? She'd be in some cool magic box covered in ancient markings and all that good stuff.

  The door was only fractionally ajar, so I heaved on it with one hand and it edged open slowly.

  I peered into the pitch black interior, listening with enhanced ears for the slightest so
und, but all was quiet. Too quiet. It wasn't an absence of noise like there was nothing there, it was a silence full of tension. As though endless nasties were holding their breath, waiting for me to step inside and swing the torch in their direction so they could freak me out and jump me.

  Like I was being played with.

  Swallowing, just so I had a clear voice for when I told them I wasn't scared and wasn't getting ready to run or anything, I frowned at the torch as it flickered slightly. Nevertheless, I stepped out from behind the door and into what I hoped would be my future.

  The light panned from the floor into the room.

  And about a bazillion sets of gnashing teeth belonging to all kinds of twisted, tormented, and demonic creatures surged out of the darkness, awoken by the light, snapping at my face.

  I ran away. Very fast.

  Tricky Trickster

  I should have known Jerard would pull something like this. There was no doubt in my mind that these creatures were not present when he first opened the door. He'd allowed them access once he and his son were well away. Whatever, I didn't care about revenge for his tricks, I just wanted what I was due and to go back to Cardiff, sleep in my own bed, and never go on vacation again.

  The rest of the world is nice and all, but being mauled by creatures on home turf is a lot more fun.

  As I hightailed it down the smooth tunnel, splashing through a slow and, thankfully, relatively clear stream, I felt the air change as the spirits of the deranged and the desperate raced past, snapping at my body as they did so.

  These were not truly creatures of mere spirit, they were something worse. The lost souls of the damned given access to the human world. Imbued with power from one rather annoying wizard as they sprang through the gaps to devour reality and revel in the world of mankind.

  Such despicable souls always clamor at the portals to the world, desperate for more life, unable to accept that they've had their time and should move on. They aren't ghosts, don't haunt the world, but rather have found weak spots on the other side where they wait for as long as it takes, growing more insane as they dream of escape, of becoming real once more.

  They feed on the life essence of living humans, and I was one of those, I'm quite sure. Sometimes, I think maybe I'm already on the other side, dead and paying for my sins, but usually I'm confident I'm still alive. These eager and sneaky echoes of the living want what is ours, or mine in this case. Need the energy the human mind contains for them to remain.

  They may have made it through, but they weren't meant to be here, had missed their opportunity, and if they couldn't feed then they would fade, and fast. Their chance missed, the opportunity wasted. Nothing left of them in this world or their perpetual torment.

  It made you realize why they tried. Either they succeeded and could roam the earth in spirit form but with the ability to feel the world around them and affect it, or they faded from existence. Cold, eternal freedom finally theirs.

  But they thought nothing of this. Such musings would have vanished with their sanity long, long ago. Now all that remained was the hunger as, like vampires, they were consumed with the need for humanity's life essence. I wasn't about to give mine up. I needed it. I'd grown attached to being me over the years.

  I skidded to a stop at a wide junction, a large square that reached up high to topside where people carried on as usual, unaware of my predicament far below.

  Other tunnels joined mine and I looked at each in turn, unsure which to take as the damned howled and shrieked around me in what I have to admit was a slightly intimidating manner. Which way? How to deal with them?

  A terrible realization came to me then. If I kept running away then pretty soon I'd have no way to get back to the door and retrieve Morag's soul. Being lost was one thing—I was definitely already lost—but getting this close then losing my bounty was unthinkable.

  So I smoothed down my jacket, tried not to think about how I looked with the slime of millions all over my hands and suit, and skipped running my fingers through my hair. Turning, I faced back the way I'd come and let the tight bubble of magic I gathered hurriedly around me expand. Pushing back the snapping, spectral faces of twisted and tormented beings trying to suck the life right out of me.

  They came at me time and time again, never tiring, never giving up. All they wanted was what I had to offer. Power was so tantalizingly close they could probably taste it even through my layer of protection, and they absolutely would not stop until they got their prize.

  Scores of them filled the tunnel now, blocking the way, clamoring and howling for my attention. Pleading in tongues of all languages for me to open myself to them. Splitting the air with their moans and their begging, their neediness and their angry shouts, their accusations and their threats if I didn't give them what they insisted they deserved.

  My shield was strong, but it took a serious amount of mental adjustment to stop them breaking through. Normally, it's to protect me from physical objects, not psychic assault. I'd got pretty good at using it to halt weapons, but the same could not be said for high speed, spectral bogeymen intent on devouring my very essence.

  As they circled me then shot out of the darkness, each slam against the shield sent wild sparks dancing, bouncing off the damp, low tunnels wildly. The released energy lit up the chamber like an impromptu fireworks display.

  Huge, stretched and distorted faces came inches from my own, slamming hard against the barrier. Each attempt got closer, and I felt the force as if it were a series of physical blows. They were giving all they could, using whatever energy they had to reach me. Driven wilder and more frustrated as they tried and failed to break through this final barrier.

  I staggered forward, refusing to bow to their needs, their desires, the constant whispering in my ears of threats or promises. Trying to beguile me or chattering like angry insects, wishing to drive me insane so I'd not care what they did or what they took from me.

  I gritted my teeth and forged on, each step feeling heavier than the last, each assault weakening my shield and my mental defenses. I knew I couldn't hope to keep fending them off. Sooner or later one would break through and I'd be nothing but a bloated corpse found weeks later in the sewers.

  No way was I going out like that.

  Getting Angry

  The closer I got to the door, the more persistent and frantic they became. The air crackled wickedly, the rabid mess of deranged ex-humans consumed with rage. Each attack weakened the shield further, not because I was out of magic—I seemed to be able to keep drawing it—but because it took too much focus to will it to deflect attacks so alien to me.

  Being blasted with the dark arts is something I know all about, being lashed at by psychic energies made real because of the creatures' proximity to a tear in reality quite another.

  The longer I held out, the angrier they became. Utterly frustrated, they shrank as they pulled themselves into half creatures as limbs dissolved in wisps of spectral smoke so they could focus what energy they had for another assault.

  Some were almost solid now so focused on me were they, and as their heads bashed into the barrier it was like being smacked in the face by a child. It may not have been enough to knock me off my feet or do much in the way of damage, but if it happened enough it would all add up to one very smashed to bits Faz Pound.

  I was at the door now, and I knew Jerard had been good to his word. Morag was in there. I felt her as I reached out tentatively with my mind. My ability to connect with all things spiritual amplified by the deranged minds of dead people and the corruption of reality that allowed them through.

  Morag had no such opportunity to escape. She was well and truly incapacitated. What nightmares was she facing, locked away without even the afterlife to explore? Was it like my imprisonment, just a vast emptiness? Nothing to do or see, feel or experience? Would she be utterly insane by now? She may not have been trapped for very long in our world, but time held little meaning in the afterlife. Another thing I knew from recent
experience.

  I slammed forward as something heavy and solid connected with my back, and caught myself by grabbing onto the door. Turning, I was confronted with not a wild mess of disparate, almost eaten away souls, but more a congealed corruption of each of them. Now grouped so tight and layered one on top of the other they had almost taken on form as a single, new and much more powerful entity.

  I backed away against the tunnel wall, feeling gross liquid trickle down my neck from a fracture above. The thing seemed to take in a deep breath, gathering up the essence of everything in the tunnel, sucking in sound and emotions of the dead. Each face layered one over the other, the visage of the new uber-soul spasmed and flashed through countless distorted images of humanity in despair. Hungry for me and what was mine.

  It grew larger, the body vanishing, until it was nothing but a stretched head. A huge, monstrous face with gaping jaws and empty black eyes. Nose that of a skull's, white hair snapping in all directions as if the wind gusted fiercely.

  Such torment and anguish was contained within this conglomeration of tortured souls, a final attempt to break through my resolve and consume me. Allow the creatures working in reluctant cooperation to become themselves once more. They were lost to utter madness and desperation, pushing themselves into each other, forcing their spirit matter to combine to give themselves a chance at life of a sorts once more.

  It didn't matter. However much they complained, I wasn't giving up the goodies. So, all out of options, the shield I had not up to the task of another assault from this thing, I lowered it and said, "Bring it on, bitch."

  You gotta say something gnarly, it comes with the job.

  Too Close for Comfort

  As the shield dropped, and I goaded the nasties with a line sure to be stolen and used in a kick-ass movie, I clutched the open door, sprang up the low step, and swung it closed behind me.

  I knew the door meant nothing to the uber-soul, but I also knew the symbolism wouldn't be lost on it/them.