by Al K. Line
Sitting behind the wheel, I adjusted my hat, running my fingers around the brim in a way that calmed and comforted me, the soft material as familiar as my own fingers.
You may think it strange that I hadn't been tempted to look inside the duffel to see what all the fuss was about, but secrecy was something I was used to. I had discovered, at much personal peril and not a little pain over the years, that often knowing as little as possible was an excellent idea.
Whatever was inside wouldn't change the fact I had to follow through on my job, and knowing just by sending out feelers to the item that it was well-guarded and made my wards look like those of an amateur, told me all I needed to know. Take a peek and it could be curtains, and there was another reason, too.
I could sense something.
It was guarded, almost as if sleeping and dreaming deeply. There was a presence, not evil, not kind, a neutral sentience way beyond anything I wanted to awaken, and I knew with absolute certainty that if I opened the bag it would allow someone to see me, to know me, and the thing inside would awaken. I was unsure what that meant, but understood it would be nothing that would make my life more complete.
So, sensible lad that I was, I didn't even think about peeking.
Haha, believe that and you'll believe anything.
Of course I was dying to look, but I still knew it was one hell of a bad idea.
"To the city," I ordered my car, but, as usual, it remained silent and I had to do all the driving myself. You'd think living in the 21st century would mean there were proper cool cars by now but no, same old, same old.
I crunched the old girl into first, eased off slowly so I didn't get caught in a rut, and headed into the city to meet Nigel.
With any luck I'd be on my way home in an hour or so with my payment and feeling a lot lighter of spirit.
Guess what happened?
No, I wasn't surprised either.
An Interruption
There was a rule, unwritten as all the best ones are. Actually, there were lots of rules the supernatural, and just downright criminal elements I mixed in abided by come hell or high water.
One of the most important was that family and loved ones remained untouchable. If you weren't directly in the life then you were invisible. You didn't exist in our world. You may be the wife of a gangster, a girlfriend, casual acquaintance, or a son or daughter. You were never fair game, you didn't exist.
We could beat the crap out of each other, could maim, kill, double-cross, kidnap, any of it, we'd made our choice and knew the score, but that's as far as it went.
Even so, I had ensured my home was protected with the strongest magic I could summon but Sasha still laughed at me when she came to my home for the first time. She beefed up the security with true, otherworldly magic, and I'd maybe not slept better but at least lay with my eyes open through the night a lot more peacefully ever since.
Even if somebody wanted to get inside, or some thing, because, let's face it, the beasties couldn't care less about the games of humans, they would find it impossible. The place was a fortress.
That didn't stop me picking up my phone and tapping my foot impatiently as I waited for my call to be answered just moments after I came to a stop in the road less than a quarter mile from home.
"Hello?" said George, clearly distracted as I could hear the sound of heavy machine gun fire blaring from the TV.
"Bunker time," I said.
"Again? You're way too paranoid," she said, not taking it seriously.
"Only because they really are out to get me. No arguments, go now. Take the game with you."
"Fine," she said. "Ah, shit, you scumbag."
"George? George? Hello? Are you okay?"
The line went dead.
Action Stations
The sound of Dre filled the car a moment later. My phone ringing. What can I tell you, I like rap.
"Sorry, got distracted and tapped the screen by mistake."
"You gave me a bloody heart attack."
"Should I call for an ambulance?" asked George, sounding worried.
"No. I don't mean a literal one, I mean... Look, forget it. Get into the bunker, this is no joke. In fact, spend the day there. Go nuts and eat the ice cream, whatever you want. Take the game and stay there until I come home. Okay?"
"Fine, but I'm warning you, if you forget to call again and I end up down there for days getting worried, I'll eat it all and then I'll be so fat you'll never get me out."
"Haha, there's nothing to you, just skin and bone. Sorry." Lame, I know, but I'd become cautious and over-protective since George came into my life.
"Gotta stay slim so I can binge when I'm locked in basements."
"It's not a basement, it's a bunker. You know, like a panic room. Only, um, don't panic in there, just enjoy yourself."
"Oh, I'm sure I will. Not. What's happening? Anything I should be concerned about?"
I eyed the car blocking my path and replied, "No, just a chancer, but better safe than sorry. I should have said before I left."
"Okay, see ya later," said George, sounding chipper and I knew thinking of ice cream already.
"See you—" Click. She'd hung up. "Later."
I stuffed my phone back into my pocket, patted my right thigh and felt the comforting wood—hey, you know what I mean—and then sat. Waiting.
George was seventeen, going on seventy, going on seven. She morphed between moody teenager, a child unable to perform the simplest of tasks, and a whirlwind of bossiness. Offering an avalanche of instruction on how I should live my life. She could go days without getting dressed, would sometimes become manic and clean the house in a disturbing frenzy of activity, and had been found prone on the floor kicking her feet and banging her fists whilst weeping uncontrollably because she couldn't figure out how to get her admittedly less than impressive wand to change color and sparkle like Sasha's.
Apparently, this was what most teenage girls were like. I had this on good authority from George herself, and I guess she was in the best position to know. All I remember about seventeen-year-old girls is that when I was their age they wouldn't let me anywhere near them, they smelled nice if I did somehow get close enough, and they sure as hell never hid in underground, magically shrouded bunkers. Unless I was very out-of-touch, and that's entirely possible.
Still, George was no regular kid, and she hadn't had a regular upbringing from what I could tell.
I was a rather bewildered single father, and it still sounds weird to say that word.
Father.
It was all rather sudden. One day I was at home wandering around in my boxers, drinking coffee, the next there was a knock at the door and I had to wear clothes inside the house.
"You're my father," said the soaked thing on my doorstep. "Your wards are crap. I could come in no problem if I wanted to," were the words my daughter used to introduce herself into my world.
"I guess that makes you my daughter, then. But no way could you break the wards," I said, calm on the outside but panicking so much on the inside I had to suck in my belly so it didn't wobble.
"No, wait!" I shouted, but she stepped off the mat and her foot hovered in the air just inside the doorway as her body went rigid and her face froze in a rictus of pain. Tears fell and even as I lowered the wards she was flung backward and landed in the mud.
It took her a week to recover, and in that time I got the whole sorry story.
"Eh?" My daydreaming about George was interrupted by a rap on the window.
"We gonna do this, or not?" asked a handsome man with a jawline to die for, wearing a black designer t-shirt, limbs tight with scrawny muscles and popping veins.
"I'd rather we didn't," I said. "I've got somewhere to be."
"And I've got this," he said, raising his right hand and placing the muzzle of a gun against the window pane.
"Ooh, got one for me?"
"Just get out, wizard," he said, sneering in a way he obviously practiced in front of a mirror. "And don
't try anything. You may be fast, but you aren't this fast." He pointed at the gun with his free hand.
He had a point.
A Tall, Dark Stranger
I got out of the car slowly, the man's gun trained on me. "Move to the front," he ordered.
Making no sudden movements, I did as I was told like a good wizard and asked, "What can I do for you? Are you sure you have the right wizard? There are a lot of us about, you know. Quite common nowadays."
"Shut up. Where is it?" He glanced inside the car and spotted the duffel on the back seat. "That it?"
"No. It's another nice duffel, not the one you're after at all."
"They said you thought you were funny. They also said you were a wizard. Haha, a wizard. These guys, they crack me up." To be honest, he didn't look particularly amused, and he didn't look like he believed it either, which was good.
"Is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" he said, cracking a smile and chuckling at his own joke.
"Haha, like I haven't heard that one before."
"Just empty your pockets. Hurry up, I don't got all day."
"Don't have. It's don't have," I said, ripping open the Velcro—it's good for a fast draw.
"Just do it!" The smile faded and the stony stare returned.
I'd met this kind of killer countless times and they were all pretty much the same. They didn't care about human life and they didn't even care about themselves. They lived only for the thrill and for the fear they could instill in others. But he was getting jittery and trigger-happy already as I wasn't acting scared or doing what he thought I should.
I pulled the wand out my pocket and said, "Now what?"
"What the hell? It really is a wand! Why the fuck do you have a stick in your pocket? You don't actually believe you're a wizard do you? Like, for real?"
In answer, I moved my hands like you do in conversation, the utter incompetent not for one minute thinking I could do anything with it. As my focus and charge drew down into the wand and the expertly carved sigils running down the shaft glowed deep, burnished orange against the dark wood, my aim was spot on. A jolt of invisible energy slammed into his radius, breaking the bone. The gun dropped, his hand was left hanging limp, and he screamed.
"Amateur," I said as I blew on the end of my wand and holstered it. Okay, pocketed it, but you know what I mean.
"You broke my arm," the guy wailed. He cradled it with his other hand and screamed loudly as the bone snapped again, the magic having worked as directed. I could have done without the draining, but needs must and all that.
"Of course I broke your arm, you had a gun on me."
"I'll kill you for this," he hissed, his forehead already slick with sweat from the pain.
"Tell you what," I said, "how about we both go our merry ways and pretend this never happened?"
"No way. I'm gonna..."
Man, this guy was predictable. I could see his mind working, thinking he'd distract me while he grabbed the gun from the road while we talked. I stepped forward and as he bent I put a well-worn sole over his good hand, grabbed the broken arm, and squeezed. Tight. As he screamed, I looked him in the eye and said, "Don't test me. I'm having a bad day."
His body relaxed a little so I removed my foot. "Back up." As he did, I picked up the gun and then emptied out the bullets, wiped it clean, and threw it into the brook beside the road.
"I'll put this down to you being an utter fuckwit and I'll be on my way now. You don't even have to tell me who sent you as I'm not someone who goes in for torture and I doubt you'll talk otherwise. But be warned. I never want to see you again. Do you understand me?"
"Yeah. Whatever."
"Good. Nice t-shirt by the way."
I left him there and got back into my car.
Some people, they just never knew when to admit they were beaten. Before I started the car, he drew on his bravado and shouted, "I know where you live. Hear you've got a young girl in there." He smirked, then winced with pain, and began walking to his vehicle.
I yanked open the car door, my anger bubbling over, and by the time I got to him my wand was in my hand, gripped so tight the spell-infused symbols that came to life at my touch were already burning into my palm.
"What the fuck did you say? You are one utter piece of shit, you know that?"
"Shut up, old man. You won, for now." He moved to open his car door but I slammed it shut again and faced him square on.
"What, you gonna blast me with your stick again? Pathetic. It's just some stupid new stunner or something. You're like a child, pretending to be a wizard."
"No, I need to conserve my energy for those that are actually a problem. And you, you filth, are no longer a problem."
Sticks, wands, staffs, rods, whatever you want to call them, magical or otherwise, are excellent weapons in their own right. They are, after all, long, hard, and easy to wield. Why do you think almost every police force in the world has some form of truncheon, baton, or similar? Because they're effective, that's why.
Adjusting my grip with expert timing from countless hours of practice, I held my wand like a javelin and thrust it with all my strength into his right eye.
It sank halfway up the shaft and only stopped when it hit bone. I ripped it out with a gross sucking sound and pushed the man over before bending and wiping the wood clean on his t-shirt.
"Nobody threatens my daughter. Nobody. There are rules."
My heart raced and adrenaline surged. It's scary, these things we are capable of, but I would not stand for anyone stepping over the line most of us wouldn't dream of crossing. I'd met some of the nastiest, cruelest, meanest men to have ever existed, preternatural creatures too, and they would never dream of making a threat like this dude had. It was about respecting the boundaries we'd set ourselves, and if you crossed them then you got what you deserved.
I pulled out my phone. "All clear," I said, then hung up as George began shouting at the TV screen.
I made another call, this one to the best cleaner in town, and gave instructions.
Then I dragged the body to the car, bundled him inside, parked it in a verge not far away and walked back to mine.
With my body back under control but my mood a little darker, I continued my drive into the city.
I wanted rid of this damn bag, and the sooner the better.
An Appointment
Time is fluid. When you sit staring at a clock it moves slower than when you are engrossed in a good book or shooting up bad guys in a computer game—or real life.
Some will argue that time is just time, it doesn't move faster or slower. Nonsense. Of course it does. It's a measurement of the ever-changing present, as you can only exist in the present, never the past or future, and everyone's perception of time is different, depending on what it is they are doing and how their body reacts to said situation.
Nigel didn't see it like that.
For my broker, although that's a rather narrow definition of what he was and what he did, time was one thing, and one thing only—a measure of the man.
He was a stickler for punctuality, adhered to it rigidly, and expected others to do likewise. Nigel was never late or early, and if you failed to turn up when arranged you'd find him gone, or leaving. He was also keen on giving you a look. A weighing up of you as a person, concluding that you must be lacking if you couldn't even perform such a simple task as keeping an appointment.
It was fair enough. In our world time often became crucial. Miss your moment, fail to take advantage of an opportunity when it arose and act with split-second accuracy and you may have blown not only your chance of getting paid but you could very well forfeit your life, too.
So I arrived early.
Truth be told, I was not in the best of moods now. What with the morning I'd had and the death of Pepper, I was shaken, even if my demeanor didn't show the frail state I was in. My body ached something terrible from the beating, and although the pain was fading thanks to the energy within, it wou
ld take time for me to feel one hundred percent again. Plus, my nose kept grinding, which was disconcerting, and it kept making a weird whistling noise, which was downright embarrassing.
A few bruises were the least of my worries, though. I was more concerned about the mess Nigel had got me into. It was unheard of for people like the man I'd killed to come after magical artifacts, it just wasn't how things worked. These type of objects of power and immense curiosity were true underground stuff, the realm of the magical only. Nobody in that circle would send somebody who didn't even believe in magic to try to retrieve it, so something was very amiss.
Was it just a chancer? Somebody who'd heard something somehow and sent a hired assassin to get what they believed to be merely valuable? It was the logical explanation and that meant it was probably the truth, but it didn't bode well at all for me if every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the underground knew The Hat had something precious.
My guess was it was something to do with Boris. One of his goons must have talked and word spread. Much of the criminal activity in the UK had nothing to do with magic, and quite a lot of the jobs I'd done were carried out with small groups of men and women who wouldn't believe I was a wizard if I waved my wand and turned them into frogs.
Sure, everyone knew the rumors and the aura of mystique around people like myself, but they didn't actually believe. It wasn't a part of everyday life no matter if you were a criminal or perfectly respectable. If something weird happens, if things occur that you cannot explain then you don't just suddenly believe it must be magic, you conclude it was just one of those strange, inexplicable things and get on with your day.
So chances were good that the idiot I'd dealt with earlier was a cheap killer-for-hire sent by an opportunist who knew better than to mess with me directly.
It wasn't the case that everyone feared me, they certainly didn't, but many respected me or at least didn't actively despise me, anyway. The Hat was a face. One of the best, and they knew that. I dealt with top-tier operatives only. Worked only with the best, and then only if absolutely necessary, as, let's be honest, they were a bunch of criminals and I wouldn't trust them with my toothbrush let alone anything valuable.
