Neon Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 5) (11 page)

Some days I just can't seem to catch a break.

Landing hard at the bottom against the closed door, the fox howled at me from the top step, angry fur bristling, tails ready to blast me into the next life.

Ignoring the bruising to my body and ego, I pulled open the door from an awkward position on the floor, only to be greeted with the two trolls. They didn't look happy.

At that precise moment the fox let rip with all nine tails, even the damaged one, and I crawled between a troll's legs as the full force of its frustration smacked straight into the two lumps of immortal rock. Large chunks of stone exploded in all directions; tiny pieces of shrapnel pinged off the buildings opposite. The trolls roared their annoyance but remained where they were as the missing pieces of their bodies slowly moved back across the alley toward them, making them whole again.

I scrambled to my feet, amazed nothing was broken, and saw the fox move down the stairs with easy bounds to the threshold. It couldn't come after me, though, it was tied to the building to protect it. A reluctant guardian that would probably be in trouble, but maybe not as much as the trolls for their rather lax security.

While the two stoic doormen got themselves back together—literally—I nodded at the fox, who nodded in return, and I got the hell out of there.

Back through the alleys, ignoring the evil vibes of the lurkers and the murderers, I made it to the sanctuary of wider streets where the hustle and bustle was in full swing, where store owners stood at their doorways shouting and chatting with familiar faces. Everywhere I looked, people ate at food stalls and the streetlights bathed them in a warm glow of ignorance. If only they knew the truth. So many monsters, humans always at the heart of it.

More streets, then the subway, confusion and pain my world as I navigated the bowels of the city, ignored by everyone, the everyman in a dusty, wrinkled, and torn suit. A crazy foreigner who didn't understand the ways of their world or anything else for that matter.

One thing was for sure—I definitely needed that drink now. Then I blacked out for a while.

On the Town

Downtown Tokyo. Neon almost blinding as I spun in circles, getting dizzy as the crowds rushed past the disheveled everyman, covered in dust and blood, face haggard, hair in disarray. I was wild, hyped-up on violence and increasingly confused.

Lack of sleep, the ups and downs of magic use, and the tidal waves of adrenaline were playing havoc with my system. I could neither think straight nor act sensibly, a crazy foreigner overwhelmed by an ancient culture, unable to understand the ways of an alien people. I was alone in a crowd of eighteen million people, seemingly all of them out for some action at the same time.

The city teemed with revelers and those out to take in the spectacle that is downtown Tokyo at night. I staggered across the road, unable to recall how I even got here. I must have taken the subway but I had no memory of it, snippets of the journey only coming back to me later. In my confusion and utter weariness I was displaced, a man out of his own time and country, slapped down in a strange land, no bearings to center me and all landmarks unfamiliar.

A tiny sign caught my eye and I swayed like a drunken man toward the bar, knowing that if it was Cardiff the state I was in would mean I wouldn't be allowed inside. But this was Tokyo, and besides, nobody would dare refuse me in my current mood.

Next thing I knew I was sitting at a booth nursing a Sapporo Black Label, three empty bottles lined up in front of me like an accusation. I wasn't supposed to be resting, I was meant to be finding Kimiko. Failing that, why wasn't I at the hotel, curled up next to Kate and snoring away like a sensible person? Because I would never sleep again, that was why. Because I was out of my mind, frantic and despairing. I had to find Kimiko, I had to kill her, and I would not rest until I did.

It consumed me, kept my internal fires burning strongly, dangerously so, and I knew I was shedding body fat at an alarming rate. This craziness us Hidden get involved in—or maybe just me—it takes its toll in so many ways, and I was over the edge, using reserves I didn't have spare to bolster my flagging senses. I would pay for all this in a major way.

I downed the rest of my beer and set the bottle alongside the rest. Leaning back, I closed my eyes for a second but the room spun so I had to open them. Everything was blurry and I had double-vision, so I shook my head to clear it all away but it only made things worse. What was I doing? I had no idea.

Two residences down, a wooden house with a fire, and fire itself. Was this two of the five elements? I got a sinking feeling that whatever property I chose next I'd be caught in the loop of the way the elements are arranged—invisible strings pulling me in one direction, maybe towards my doom.

I was surrounded by superstition and an esoteric hum, a background noise of spirituality and magic entrenched in the culture. Wood to feed the flame, fire which produces ash to form the ground. Earth to mine for metal, and metal which attracts the dew which creates water, and water which nourishes wood. A perfect circle of the elements, me stuck in it. Maybe I'd just had too much to drink and it was all nonsense, but the feeling stuck as my emptiness overwhelmed me.

Time passed in a blur, and I must have ordered more beer as I vaguely recall a long line of them on the table, but the next time I came back to awareness was when I found myself standing up on a low platform, karaoke machine next to me and mike in hand.

I was singing, "Oh baby, baby" and mangling what Britney had done so well—what? She did. My hips were swaying and I was belting it out. The patrons paid me little attention as most were more interested in their drinks or chatting—I guess my voice was as forgettable as I am.

I sang louder, getting just as lackluster a response, trying to follow along with the words on the screen but I couldn't see them at all now as I was blind drunk and could hardly stand. Why on earth was I in a Regular bar, and more to the point why was I in a karaoke bar, and even more important than that, why the hell was I singing? I don't sing, I have a voice like someone was strangling a cat slowly while blowing on a bagpipe.

The song finished and I bowed before stumbling out of the bar. I'm not even sure if I paid for my beer.

Focus was impossible even though the fresh air hit me hard and sobered me up a little. I think maybe I was crying tears of frustration as the neon was clouded and people kept bumping into me as I weaved down the street, no clue where I was heading or what I had in mind. I told myself over and over to get it together, to not lose the plot entirely.

There were things I had to do, important things, and this was no way to act. But I think I needed the release, the chance to forget my worries for a while. Stupid. Booze is never the answer, the comedown is always worse than facing your problems head-on in the first place.

*

My head was clear when I awoke. Most disconcerting. I expected to have the mother of all hangovers but it seemed like Japanese beer agreed with me a lot better than anything back home. Note to self—buy Japanese beer from now on.

What wasn't clear was where the hell I was.

It was dark and I guessed maybe I'd made it back to the hotel, even into bed. That would explain the reason why I was flat on my back. It wouldn't explain why I couldn't move anything apart from my head, though. I tried to get up but something was holding me down. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I became aware that there was a fire in the room and I wasn't totally horizontal. I was propped up against a hard board, angled so my upper body was slightly elevated, meaning I could see down the length of my body. Flames danced across my naked flesh... Naked flesh? What had I got up to?

To the right of my head was an empty ceramic bottle used for serving sake, but going by the smell it wasn't what it had contained. I knew that smell, familiar from spending so much time in Grandma's kitchen.

This was a potion, a simple thing designed to give you focus and ultra clarity. To dispel the fog of booze or indecision, to bring your thoughts into stark relief, make you be utterly in the moment. A potion to clear away any interference because of battered or bombarded neurons and force your mind to function properly. Someone had given it to me and I'd obviously drunk it. Maybe Japanese beer was the same as ours after all. Not to self—cancel the Japanese beer order idea.

It didn't explain why I had been given it or why I was tethered to the floor of a room, though. Some time later, light crept over the walls through slatted blinds. The dawn was arriving, the world carrying on regardless of what happened to stupid, drunken foreigners. The room remained rather dark but the heat was intense.

All my questions were answered soon enough as a man entered and nodded to me. He walked over to a length of rope with a hook on the end and hung up a leg of what looked like a young pig. The fat man took up his knife and I watched, mesmerized, as he expertly flayed the skin in long strips. He turned when satisfied that his blade was sharp; he pointed the tip at me and nodded again.

I was next.

An Anatomy Lesson

I didn't want to watch but couldn't turn away either. I think it's in our blood to be fascinated by the morbid, and this was about as morbid as you can get.

The fat Japanese, skin sweaty and oozing sour sake, stood over me where I lay on the floor. The grotesque creature wore a dirty loincloth, thick material knotted around his groin, right up the crack of his backside like a sumo wrestler but twice as intimidating because of the wicked knife he held. He smiled an evil grin and sank down on his haunches. He was covered head-to-toe in old ink, much of it faded and blurred, the demon faces rippling while his fat flesh wobbled as he began his work.

He started on my left thigh.

I tried not to scream but that was just being stupid, so I screamed and I screamed some more. I don't know how long it went on for, that first taste of the skinner's knife, as I blacked out countless times, only to come to with his sweat-soaked face leering at me and nodding, knowing how much it hurt. Enjoying it, telling me now I was awake that the work would continue.

Over and over and over again, each slice worse than the last, each smile nastier when he slapped me back to consciousness, grinning as the sweat from his bloated face fell into my eyes, stinging and humiliating me.

The room was smoky and cloying, the fire burning bright then low then bright again as my torturer added more wood to keep himself hot in the spartan room. He clearly had a sense of ritual to his work. Almost naked, drenched and stinking as he rested between bouts of intense concentration, he swigged from a never-ending supply of sake. Sometimes he paused to eat, or just squatted by the fire humming to himself, rocking back and forth, huge belly overhanging, before he turned the moment he somehow knew I was conscious and shifted over close to resume his work.

Hour after hour it went on, my upper thigh eventually peeled, looking like an orange when the skin won't come away easily and you end up making a mess of it and it's all mushy underneath. But this pulp, this oozing and bloody mess, it was no orange. It was my thigh. The skin was gone from knee to groin, peeled in a thin layer, the strips arranged carefully on a low table close by, aligned beside me so I could see.

The fat man stood. I watched his flesh bounce as he patted folds of it with a towel, soaking up stale sweat infused with the smoke from the hot fire. It was dark outside now, the only light the red of the fire, crackling and spitting, making me overheat, but he fed the flames and the temperature increased. It was like a sauna, and I laughed as I thought about the time I'd got trapped in one many years ago, freaking as I was on a job and had a suit on, thinking it was the end of the world while I panicked and shook the door, unable to get it open until I remembered I had magic at my fingertips and could get myself out of there in seconds.

Magic wouldn't save me now, couldn't. I was trapped, bound to the floor with stakes and rope and magic wards too powerful for me to break.

Eternity filled with pain was my world as the man grunted and held my gaze while sharpening his special knife, a terrible curved blade specifically made for the skinning of human beings. Beautiful in its purity of purpose, the handle carved and the blade gleaming, keen to continue the work it was forged to carry out.

He began on the other leg.

He must have found his stride, because he worked diligently without pause, humming to himself some tune I still have in my head now, unable to dispel it. But the words meant nothing when he would suddenly break out into song before returning to his humming. He lifted up a long strip, pride behind his eyes because he'd managed so much of my skin in one bloody length.

As with the other pieces, he cleaned it gently, carefully, as if he were washing a lover, and placed it beside the rest.

Was he going to do my whole body, stripping me of my ink? Was that what this was about? Not just torture, but to take away my magic, steal the essence, the power held within my tattoos that allowed me to use magic so well? The way I could channel it and change it, direct it with my will thanks to how it enhanced the abilities I already had?

Would I be laid out flat on his table, a map of my body with my tattoos telling the story of my life? Would he use it to do something worse? No, nothing could be worse than being flayed alive by the fat man.

Nothing.

I was wrong.

Meeting the Enemy

On and on it went. The later the hour, the hotter it got, and the sweatier the man became. It was as though he sank deeper into the skinner's trance, his craft improving as time passed in a dream-haze of terror. Bottle after bottle of sake, the sound of the blade being sharpened, steel against stone, him pouring a little of his drink onto the stone to ease his practiced strokes. A sound that will haunt me until the day I die, as I knew what it meant—more pain, more skin lost.