Black Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 1) (2 page)

My body felt odd, not really mine, and I realize I'm acting anything but cool, and that I'm sticking out like an imp in a bowl of milk. My guess is that the police will be on the scene, it'll be all over the news, and I don't know who the hell I am yet. Bits and pieces are coming back, but everything's jumbled. Not just that, it's as messed up as a vampire at a dorm sleepover.

There was a club, there was drinking, but that wouldn't explain why I was out in the early morning stumbling across people playing chess on the edge of the park.

The need to get out of the open overwhelms me. I need the cover of the streets, I need to blend in, and more than anything else I need to remember what the hell led to me doing something so stupid, so cruel. So unforgivable.

As I slow, and act all casual like I'm off to work or taking in the depressing, polluted air that stinks even though I'm surrounded by grass and trees, I take off my suit jacket, fold it carefully, and notice with total surprise that my damn arms are covered in intricate tattoos that stop me in my tracks. I hold out my arms like I'm waiting for someone to throw me a ball.

What the hell is all this?

My arms are pale, slim but well-muscled in that scrawny yet powerful kind of way that a lot of women think is hot—at least I like to think they think that anyway—and the veins are prominent. Blue and popping.

But that's nothing compared to the swirling tattoos that start at the knuckles, wrap around the back of my hands and writhe and dance up my forearms, across my bulging biceps—okay, they are more like two hard-boiled eggs—and disappear under the short sleeves of a very nice red shirt. I think it might be silk. At least I have taste. I know that much, if not a lot else.

As I look at them, they pulse almost imperceptibly, and move, as though they are alive, writhing like they want to get free. And they are black. Or is it blue? I'm still not sure.

It's a weird color, like it's so deep and dark it's the opposite of light, but different. Does that make sense?

Let's say you are in a room and there is no light. None. No windows, no doors, and everything inside it is black. Black walls, black floor and ceiling, and you are black too. Now, add in the darkest blue you can imagine, so dark it's black but not black, well, that's what the ink looked like. But it was one tattoo.

It swirled and danced and wriggled and crawled up my arms, then crept under my shirt like someone had gone wild with a marker pen and had some serious talent to go along with it.

There was no time to check how much of me was covered, as even in my dazed state I knew ripping open my shirt wasn't the best way to lay low.

It was the buzzing, that was it. The buzzing because of what I'd just done. Using whatever it was I used to kill that guy. I'd just murdered someone! I felt bad, sick and like the worst kind of nasty, I honestly did. He was a cranky old sod and acted out of order, but killing a human being, an innocent man, it is beyond criminal. Yet I also felt removed, like I was a different species or something.

My nature was different. I wasn't a human, or not just a human being at any rate.

It's the price we pay, and that feeling never goes away. There's no turning back though. Once you embrace this Hidden world, it takes a hold of you and it will never let you go.

I started walking again as I heard the sirens of police cars and ambulances.

My breathing was shot to pieces so I focused on that, steadied my heart rate by looking inside and telling it to behave. It worked, so I knew I had some seriously awesome powers then. Okay, that was something to go on. As my pulse slowed, so the tattoos fell back into place, becoming interesting markings but not looking like they were getting ready to boogie the night away either.

All hell broke loose as a helicopter flew low overhead, then another, and another, TV station logos emblazoned on the sides.

It was time to get out of the open, figure out what the hell was happening, and who on earth I was.

I needed a disguise; where were the stores?

A Sacrifice

Turns out the park was pretty small, and only ten minutes from the main shopping center of Cardiff, the capital of Wales. It's a strange country, and a somewhat perplexing and often archaic region where all the signs and literature are written in both English and Welsh, even though it's only mid and north Wales where anyone actually speaks the language, and then few as a first language.

But Cardiff is in south Wales, right by the coast, with regenerated harbors, the mud washed away, and rotten timbers long ago hauled out of sight, replaced with more shiny buildings of steel and glass than can be healthy—that's progress for you.

It's where I live. It's home. Some would say it's even cosmopolitan. There are outdoor cafes and you can walk the streets safely at night as long as you avoid certain areas.

There are parks and green expanses aplenty here. Many on the east side of the city connect to the main Roath Park via a series of community-orientated spaces with rose gardens, open fields for sports, play areas and more. It all leads to a huge boating lake, with ducks and ice-cream vans—even when it's raining, which it always is—and it's close to the city center too.

Feeling like someone had kicked me in the side of the head while wearing dirty and insanity-stained rugby boots stolen from a three centuries old corpse, I left the scene of my crime behind me, heading down to the smaller parks where there were less people and away from the swarming media and police, where I'd killed somebody for being a bad loser.

I was still fizzing like an out-of-date bottle of Pepsi with a slow leak—it seemed I had a real aversion to getting wet—but it was so subtle nobody would notice unless they were real close. I didn't intend to let that happen again.

Things went from bad to worse.

"Who's been a naughty boy then?" came a voice from up above me. What the hell, up above?

"There's going to be trouble," came another annoying sound, this time a man.

Something was off with their vocal cords, like they were talking but breathing out at the same time—it's hard to explain. I didn't even flinch. Yeah, tough guy, right? Not really, I just knew it was what would be called normal in my usual life—if I knew what that was.

"Go away, I'm busy," I said, staring up at the two "people" sat in the tree with their legs dangling over a branch like they'd been there for hours waiting for me.

"Not as busy as you will be. Somebody wants to see you," came the strange lilt of the woman.

She wasn't quite right, the guy either. They were intense somehow, and everything else faded away like an extreme case of tunnel vision, or the way you are just drawn to some people. An inexplicable presence or charisma. But this wasn't in a good way, this was in a run-away-as-these-dudes-are-messed-up way.

"Who?" I couldn't help myself. At least I was getting somewhere. Maybe.

"Who do you think?" said the man, voice almost hypnotic, his words trying to squirm into my head.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

My tattoos danced about my arms as if alive at their presence, and I felt something slam down hard in my head—a rusted steel shutter stopping them getting in and making me do things I didn't want to.

"He's doing it again. So annoying," whined the woman. They clearly didn't appreciate the denial of entry.

"We'll be seeing you soon," said the man.

They jumped down and stood in front of me, scowling at my arms and at me in general, like I was a disappointment.

I guess I was.

I thought it would be a fight there and then. They smiled this weird smile at me, all exposed teeth, sharp and pointy canines just like you'd expect. It was an act—who smiles so their teeth show like that? They looked stupid. They also looked freaking terrifying.

There was an almost overwhelming urge to turn around and see who was staring at me. Like that funny feeling that washes over you sometimes when you are somewhere incongruous, maybe in the newsagents buying a paper and you half expect the bulbous-headed Toad King to peek out from behind a shelf and lick his lips. Or is that just me?

These were not pretty, mesmerizing characters, they were people you knew deep down in your bones were wrong. Their minds were on a different plane to mine and their movements were strange—like a few frames were missed out, making them jerky, running on a different frequency. They looked too old, as if they were weary but had no intention of giving up. Ever.

I brushed past between them, a false bravado. My head was not ruling my decisions. There was this aura about them, like you could lose yourself in their eyes for eternity. They were waiting, waiting to drag me under and take me. No way.

As I moved past, there was one hell of a tingle in parts I really didn't want to get involved, not with me being on the run and all.

"See you soon," said the woman, and they laughed as I picked up speed. I turned a few moments later. They were gone.

That's vampires for you, always got to be dramatic.

Yes, I know. You're thinking, hang on, vampires, in the day, and not bursting into flames? Not gorgeous and impossible to resist? Nope, they were nasty looking, gave me the creeps, and had no problems coping with what passes for daylight and summer around what the locals refer to fondly as "Wet Wales," and for good reason.

So how did they do it, these supposed ghouls of the night?

Magic. From the Empty.

It's not a place, not a thing, it's all there is when you get right down to it. It's the darkness behind matter that makes us all. It's what drives us, what allows us to be alive at all. This is the essence, that mysterious first flip of the switch that turns a collection of cells, or in some cases rocks or the air itself, into something more.

It can be used; brought to life; change you. Like, I'm a wizard, although I don't care for the name. I don't think of myself like that. I'm just a kick-ass part time enforcer for the UK Dark Council, more specifically for Mage Rikka. But he doesn't own me, I'm what they call an Alone.

It's the name they give to those like me, sentient beings that aren't part of a coven, a sect, a family, or whatever any particular species, race, creed or collective calls itself—as if it makes a difference in the long run.

I answer to no man, woman, or entity. Well, that's not strictly true, but I'm not part of any of that nonsense. I will not be classified, categorized, or cauterized—I grew out of gangs a long time ago; it all seems so juvenile.

But it has its drawbacks, this life I lead by choice, like when you kill someone and show the world magic exists and a couple of freakoid vampires come to taunt you and you don't know who you are or what to do next.

Picking up speed once more, I got out of the damn parks, crossed a road without getting hit by a bus, and entered the outskirts of the city.

*

Ten minutes after walking through soaked and depressing streets lined with terraced, red brick Victorian houses—some with flaccid spiders of smoke clawing their way out of black chimneys even though it was summer—and crossing the main road that led to the city center, I was feeling a lot better.

I had my bearings, remembered that I lived in Cardiff and, most importantly at this moment, I knew where the pharmacy was.

Time to get a bit of a disguise going before the hunt was on for me and I got into even more trouble.

The shopping district was packed, so chances were high this was the weekend. Who cared? I had more important things to worry about, at least I assumed I did.

Bing-bong.

I nearly lost it right there, but it was just the damn door making that weird noise to tell the woman behind the counter someone had come in. It was off though, like the batteries needed changing. The noise bounced around my head like a half-deflated beach ball. Stuff like that must drive you nuts. How many times would it happen every day?

The place was busy. That's the damp Cardiff air for you. Everyone always has the sniffles, or a chest infection, and you can't walk five paces without someone coughing something gross into your face. I don't need to worry about that though—perks of being the Black Spark and all.

I got what I wanted from the shelves after wasting precious minutes hunting around—why is there always so much choice in these places?—and stepped up to the counter.

Money! Did I have any? Maybe I was down on my luck, or homeless, or one of those people that never carries it so they can annoy everyone else and amass a fortune by pleading poverty. I patted down my jacket pockets, then quickly put it on as the woman was looking at my arms funny—nice move, Faz.

There was a cell phone, a wallet, and a slip of paper. I tried not to gulp at the contents of the wallet—money somehow permeating my fog of amnesia as I could see I was loaded—and gave a note to the woman.

After giving me my change, she asked if I wanted a bag. I said, yes, and she asked for five pence. She looked at me funny over the top of her glasses. Maybe I pulled a face, or maybe she looks at everyone like that.

I'd forgotten that you had to pay for bags now or carry your purchases loose. Why didn't she ask me before I paid? I changed my mind on principle, declined her offer, and stuffed the items in a pocket.

Back on the street, I picked the closest McDonald's, fought through the carnage of plastic food and plastic containers and plastic smiles of parents with pleading eyes silently imploring, "Save us. Is there nowhere else left to eat now our city is 'cosmopolitan?' Is this all there is?" and hurried through to the back where the toilets hid to deter passersby from braving the morning melee, instead deciding a bursting bladder was a small price to pay for freedom.

And, please don't think bad of me, but I went into the disabled toilets. It was the only one where I could have a room to myself and I could lock it so no one came in. Honest. Look, I may be, well, me, but I'm not that callous.

Jacket off, goodies on the sink, and ignoring the handsome but rather haunted and, I admit, freaked out and no-wonder-the-lady-in-the-pharmacy-looked-at-me-weird face, I took a deep breath and began cutting.