Dead Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 7)

by Al K. Line

  As if on cue, the bike spluttered and slowed. I stared in horror as the fuel gauge vibrated then stuck on empty—damn, talk about bad timing.

  With a final groan, all power died and I was coasting.

  I jumped off the bike and tried not to cry as it crashed into a low stone wall and finally fell over, paintwork ruined on my newfound pride and joy.

  Dancer stopped up ahead, then turned and headed back to me. "What happened?"

  "It ran out of fuel," I said, nonplussed.

  "Thought you'd filled it up?"

  "I did," I said, scratching my head. I walked over to the bike, righted it and kicked out the stand. There was a hole in the tank. It must have been from the explosion, meaning I was lucky to still be alive.

  "What now?" asked Dancer.

  Before I could answer, we heard a roar behind us. No prizes for guessing what it was, or who was inside.

  "Guess I ride pillion." I hopped on and with no time to mourn the loss of such a fine machine, I turned and readied myself as a car screeched around the corner. It slowed when the occupants saw us in the middle of the road, then the driver put his foot down and came at us, fast and loud. Damn, but this was one powerful car.

  Dancer said, "Hold on," and he gave the bike all he could.

  For a moment, just a moment, mind you, I missed Intus' home world. I could have finished my story.

  A New Plan

  Riding pillion is scary, especially when you're sat behind your boss and he seems intent on killing you by driving you off the edge of the nearest cliff.

  Dancer pushed the bike to its limits, and having no control pushed my nerves likewise. I focused on reducing the magic, allowed my eyes to fade to regular blue and hunkered down, the only benefit to my position being I wasn't pummeled by the air and Dancer was getting all the bugs.

  Magic receded and I was myself once more.

  But there was no sickness, no cramping and moaning as the Empty came calling. No, I just ached. A deep, dull throb inside I was unsure was an aftereffect of magic, general hurt, or more than likely the result of the infection taking hold with renewed vigor now magic no longer held it at bay.

  We drove on, mindful of the darkening sky. No streetlights here, just long stretches of road connecting villages, unsuited for the raw speed we maintained.

  Inevitably, we had to slow. The road became potholed and dangerous. Our speed was just asking for us to crash at some point. We had to act sensibly, so Dancer eased off to a respectable speed and we both breathed a sigh of relief.

  Adrenaline levels adjusted and it was only then I realized quite how manic I'd been feeling. Had that just happened? Cars flipping and exploding as we tore away? Wowzers! That was some serious action hero stuff. And Intus, surely that was a dream? It was impossible to tell. Had I lost the plot for a while, events overloading my senses? Or had Intus really dragged me down to Impland to teach me the joys of parenting? If so, she had a messed-up way of doing it, but I expected nothing less.

  What crowded my mind, overriding all other concerns, was the image of Kate and Mithnite sitting in our kitchen, looking stressed and with no idea what had happened. Kate was used to me disappearing on jobs, and I'd done it since coming back into the Hidden world, but had checked in as regularly as possible. And besides, she'd been involved in quite a lot of what had gone on.

  I needed to get in touch, give her a call, but knew now wasn't the time. Damn, I didn't even have a cell phone on me, hadn't used one for days as far as I could recall. No, wait, had I picked it up when I got dressed before going to Council HQ and all this nonsense began?

  I checked my pockets, relieved to discover the hard lump that meant I wasn't cut off from Kate. I fished it out carefully, gripping Dancer around the waist tightly with one hand.

  Damn, utterly trashed. It was hardly surprising, but I knew we had to get to a phone. Were there phone booths these days? I couldn't think when I'd last seen one, but I hadn't been looking. I pocketed the phone—never litter—and held on tight as Dancer sped up on a straight.

  Some time later, I became vaguely aware of the change in the noise of the engine and the steady vibration between my legs. We were slowing. Dancer turned to get my attention, then pointed ahead.

  A car and a large black van with tinted windows, proper gangster style, blocked the narrow road ahead, no way for us to get around them.

  The bike slowed further, crawling forward now. I glanced behind and tapped Dancer on the shoulder. He took a look then nodded. We were trapped. Cars approached from the rear—we would have to fight.

  I hopped off as Dancer stopped and flicked out the kickstand. He shut the bike down, which I thought showed real cool—a sign he was confident he wouldn't have to ride off in a hurry—and we waited.

  "You look awful," I said, noting the black spider's web of marks all over his bitten forearm, spreading up under his rolled up sleeve.

  "You too," he said, although I wasn't sure if he meant in general or if I was looking suitably zombieish. Probably a little of both.

  We stood and waited, the Romanians taking their time to come close from behind. Cautious, as they didn't know what we could do.

  "Wish we had another gun. One with bullets," I added needlessly.

  "Yeah, but it was risky. Could have lost an arm."

  "True," I agreed. I inspected the bike for the first time, wondering about what Ethelbald had said regarding the modifications he'd seemed inordinately proud of. I'd seen his bikes before, rode a few over the years, and he always liked to surprise his customers with something that blew them away—after all, they paid a lot for his work. It was what he was known for, and he had a reputation to maintain.

  I ran my eyes over the beautiful, gleaming body, and noted some of the strange protrusions that were clearly detachable. Weapons of a very shiny, chromed variety. I yanked on a bulbous ball of polished metal only to find it came away with a chain attached and a handle that slid out of a tube running along the rear, part of the grip for a passenger.

  "For you, Boss." I handed it to Dancer and he looked at me, surprised. "Ah, you've never seen this kind of work before, right?"

  "Nope. But I'm sure glad you have."

  I fumbled about, checking quickly, knowing the wyrmlings might attack at any moment. My eyes caught on a cross shape with a simple pattern, and I gripped it and yanked hard.

  Schlick.

  "Sweet. Remind you of anything?" I asked Dancer as I swished the sword left then right.

  "Hell, he really does take his work seriously."

  "He's an artist," I said. "Hey, you got a phone? I think maybe I should call Kate."

  "Sure, it's in my... Damn, I left my jacket, and it was in there."

  "It's okay, I'm sure we'll be fine," I said, feeling quietly confident despite the tiredness and the you-know-what on the old leg.

  We held ourselves tall and proud despite the hurt. The cars behind came to a stop, and they too turned off their engines.

  All was quiet for a moment, so welcome after the constant sounds of engines and the wind roaring in my ears. A man emerged from the passenger's side of the van up ahead and moved to the side. Without looking at us, he slid open the door.

  Dancer and I looked at each other, checking we were up for whatever they threw at us.

  We weren't. We were wrecks. "Let's give it our best shot," he said, squaring his shoulders and swinging the shiny weapon.

  "Wouldn't have it any other way." I adjusted my grip on the sword, took what I thought was a suitably kick-ass looking stance, and got ready.

  Then the zombies shuffled out of the van and I may have panicked, just a little.

  Let's Fight

  "You know I'm going to slap you across the head if we get out of this alive, right?"

  "Yeah, I know." Dancer sighed and rubbed at his temple like he was getting ready for the blow. This wasn't just about Dragon and what we'd done to him. These were the wyrmlings that had rushed over from Romania not only to meet the man they adore
d, but to kill the one they despised.

  "Just what the hell did you do to these guys?"

  "I told you. I maimed about forty of them and killed a few more."

  "But why?"

  "Spark, there isn't time. Later, okay?"

  "Damn straight, later."

  We watched as the driver got out and then the car beside the van emptied of men, five in all. All looking powerful, all looking angry, all looking huge.

  Not stupid, though. They waited until the zombies were closer to us than to them before exiting the vehicles, and, needless to say, those behind us were now heading straight for us.

  Time for action.

  I sank deep into dark magic enforcer mode, tattoos bursting, magic whirling, eyes black as Dancer's hair and my rage. I sent out feelers toward the men and picked up on their vibrations. Only two were channeling the Empty, the rest were just followers of Dragon. Shifters, not a one of them a simple, Regular guy. Made sense. Wyrmlings were all about magic and the man behind it all, and I knew now wasn't the time to remind them he was a nasty bugger and had lied about being the father of all shifters.

  The men all held back, smiling viciously, ready to watch the show.

  "You brain 'em, I'll chop off their heads," I said staring straight ahead, not in the mood for any more nasty surprises.

  "Deal." Dancer grimaced as he swapped the mace from right to left then moved it back to his right. If he felt anything like me, then the limb was burning and aching so bad he felt like asking me to hack it off. Or maybe it was just me being a lightweight about an ickle zombie nibble.

  "Oh, no, wait. Hey, maybe they won't attack as we're turning into one of them," I suggested hopefully.

  I was wrong, because the zombies, pretty well-preserved ones at that, sped up and did the old arms flailing and teeth gnashing that they are so well known for.

  Dancer roared and ran at them, so I did likewise, not wanting to be left out of all the fun—not. He swung and connected with the lead zombie, smashing half its face away. I was about to finish it off but realized there was no point, its brains were already spilling over the road.

  I swung out hard at those to my right, aiming high and getting a good clean draw across two necks but missing the third. They dropped and I stabbed down hard at first one then the other, right through the skull. The third came at me fast, and I only just managed to sidestep as it clawed at my face.

  Spinning, I jabbed the hilt into an eye and as it staggered backward I faced it and thrust expensive steel hard and fast right through its throat. The zombie fell forward onto the sword, right up close, and its weight almost toppled me. I yanked down and away, retrieved the blade, and staggered to the side as two more came in fast, moaning and with only one thing on their minds.

  With the blade down low, I swung to my right, backhanding like I was returning a volley, and chopped through their knees. They ignored it, felt no pain, but I'd obviously severed something. They collapsed as they tried to move, legs angling in all the wrong directions, bones crunching as they were mangled under the weight of their own bodies.

  Again, I punctured their throats, the zombie preservative that stopped them rotting within a few weeks of being infected leaking out in lumpy, dirty brown puddles around both bodies.

  Arms already exhausted, I took a deep breath and willed magic into my limbs to keep me going, knowing that without it I'd be getting my second zombie bite of the day.

  Turning to help Dancer, knowing he'd be in bad shape, I stopped with my arm half-raised.

  "Wow, nice going, dude." I stared at the bodies on the patchy road. Each of them leaking, heads smashed and all the stuff that's meant to be inside now very much not.

  "Thanks. Told you I could fight when needed."

  "I never doubted it," I said, trying to sound convincing. It was stupid, but I still found it hard to shake the image of the man he'd portrayed, where he never showed he could fight and stuck strictly to necromancy. I had to get over it. This was the true Dancer, and he was formidable, if still an utter muppet.

  The wyrmlings were chattering loudly, gesticulating at us and goading each other. "You know what they're saying?" I asked.

  "Yeah. They're saying they aren't happy and they want us dead."

  "I kind of guessed that much."

  "You asked."

  "You ready?"

  "Nope. You?"

  "Absolutely not, but let's do it, anyway. I'll deal with the wizards, you deal with the shifters."

  Dancer turned and stared at me hard. "What? That hardly seems fair."

  "Fine. Whatever. You do the wizards, I'll take the shifters."

  "No, wait. Hang on. Um..." Dancer weighed up the pros and cons of each, and while he wasted time the wyrmlings attacked.

  "I'm definitely gonna slap you for this," I warned.

  "I think I deserve it," Dancer moaned.

  As they closed in, I heard the sound of a vehicle behind us, but didn't bother turning. We had enough to deal with already, me getting more worried would have to wait awhile.

  Feeling Sleepy

  As I focused my will into my hands, ready to blast until I dropped, a terrible lethargy took hold and I swear I almost lay down and went to sleep right there and then. I was beyond tired, beyond spent, this was something else.

  This was the sleep of the zombie.

  Some infected turn almost immediately. The virus enters their system and that's it—undead. But for Hidden it's different, and it can creep up on you in many ways. The end result is always the same, although the path you take to get there can vary wildly.

  Not only that, but once true zombie some manage to maintain their sense of self for many years. Sure, they have the cravings, but if they can be satisfied then many zombies can act rationally, even hold conversations and wax lyrical about the benefits of undead immortality. Others sink fast into utter madness, watching from behind a veil, unable to halt the infection from overwhelming them completely. They cannot control limbs or cravings, are lost to themselves as they sink further and further from their humanity until all that remains is the shell. Their soul no longer truly here, or free to move on to the next realm. Limbo of the worst kind.

  One thing that was the same for them all was that there was no turning back, and no way they could ever be allowed to be part of the general population. Urges were unstoppable, actions wild and often came seemingly out of nowhere, and day by day they rotted away, slowly or rapidly depending on the expertise of those that basically embalmed them to keep them from falling to bits.

  Oh, and as the infection gathers pace, it springs suddenly, overwhelming you with a tiredness as it shuts you down, forcing you into slumber. A sleep many never wake from as a human being.

  So I fought it, dismissed it as not even a possibility. No way was this thing gonna win. Not now, not ever.

  "I hope this bloody..." my words trailed off as I turned to Dancer. He was rocking back and forth, eyes closed, mouth opening ready to release a snore.

  I shook him hard and gave him the early slap he deserved. His eyes snapped open and he shuddered violently then said, "Thanks."

  "My pleasure. Any time. To business?"

  "Sure, let's do it."

  I sank deep once more, ignored the lack of the flow in my leg where magic bottlenecked then pushed on through the broken ink on my thigh. Feeding my body and reversing some of the effects of the bite as it gained power and strength. I watched our attackers with black, Hidden eyes.

  Not too powerful, and nothing I couldn't handle. As the wizards raised their hands to attack us I emptied my belly, created a vacuum, then breathed in deep and hard as I ran at the men. They faltered and stepped back, the loss of magic coming as a surprise. Guess maybe they didn't have someone like me back home and hadn't heard what I was capable of.

  Good. We had surprise on our side.

  Their magic came to me in great lungfuls of power. Their loss was my temporary gain and with each breath in I took more of their power and each exhalat
ion gave most of it back to the Empty, but not all. I was growing stronger, channeling their magic into my ability to devour theirs. They shrank, becoming less of themselves.

  But I couldn't focus on them all, knew that to take the innate shifter ability was a different matter entirely, so Dancer had his hands extremely full. I had no time to look behind to see what the newcomers were doing, just hoped that Dancer was on the ball now and could cope, if just for a while as I took more and more from the wizards.

  They crumpled with moans and stuttering magic that shot from their hands but never reached its intended mark. I was something different now, stronger than ever and part of that was the rage inside. These men were responsible. Followers of Dragon unleashing the undead on us and look what had happened. My beautiful life ruined unless Dancer had a miracle up his bloody sleeve.

  Soon their magic was gone and I breathed out with a cough, twisted ephemeral lumps of magic hissing and spitting in anger as it dissolved in the half-light and became pure again, back where it belonged.

  Half a dozen magic adepts lay in various states of ruination on the pitted asphalt, features shadowed as the evening closed in, eyes sunken and cheekbones sharp, faces little more than thin skin stretched over bone.

  They moaned and wailed in their mother tongue. Shamed, bereft, already hitting the terrible comedown from loss of their magical abilities. It would only get worse, not better. They were in for days, weeks, maybe months of terrible pain as their bodies called for magic they could no longer gorge on, my skills meaning they would be lucky if they ever managed to use magic again in their lives.

  I left them to their pain, and moved to help Dancer. He looked like he needed it.

  Like a Zoo

  I tightened my grip on the sword's hilt and bellowed like I was defending against marauding invaders on the shores of my own country, ready to crush those that came to take what was mine. Which, I guess, was close to the mark.

  As Dancer swung his mace at what I'm sure was a supposedly extinct wolf breed, and it cracked loudly as he made contact, a damn donkey neighed loudly, yellow teeth looking gross but dangerous nonetheless, and ran right at him. Donkeys may look cute with their big ears and adorable faces, but not when they are heading right for you—they can trample you to death no problem, kill you with a kick of a leg.