by Al K. Line
And that's just the general gangsters.
The supernatural world I spent the majority of time in was a different beast entirely.
There everyone knew who and what I was, and to some extent what I could do and the work I got involved in. They also knew I had close links to Nigel, and for all his faults, Nigel commanded respect from everyone. Everyone.
He had something about him that made you question the facade he presented. There was an awful lot more going on beneath the surface than met the eye. He was too quietly confident about everything. The most self-assured person I'd ever met, and I'd met some seriously cocky buggers in my time. Nigel's breeding wasn't just a screen to hide behind, he truly was the epitome of upper-class British stoicism and made no apologies for it. Other people from privileged backgrounds tried to play it down, change their accent and their demeanor, stay quiet about their education and knowledge of the world, pretend like they were just another working class Joe.
Not Nigel. He was comfortable in his own skin, fully aware of the image he presented and played on it. Maybe hammed it up would be more accurate. He made no apology for being well-educated and comfortably wealthy. He prided himself on his clipped accent and his even closer clipped blond mustache, and was an entirely respectable gentleman of maybe mid-forties, although that's debatable.
He was also utterly ruthless and would kill you without batting an eyelid if you ever even thought of crossing him. I'd heard the stories, and I'd also seen him in action. He clearly had a military background, and I don't mean as a foot soldier. He would have been high ranking, in charge. The guy was born to boss others around.
Nigel was also a plain human. He'd never dabbled with magic beyond the most basic of basics, and had no interest in furthering esoteric skills. His interest in magic was different to mine, and there were plenty of men and women like him out there.
They understood the power that was there to be tapped into, and often reveled in the magic objects and creatures could give, or contained, but never focused on becoming someone who could control primordial forces through the sheer power of their own will.
Collectors, in other words.
Or, in Nigel's case, a broker of said collectibles of the rather esoteric and extremely rare kind.
A cold-blooded killer who, as far as I could tell, was bereft of most human emotions.
Nigel was a psychopath. And here he was, walking toward me, looking out-of-place amongst the hipsters at the outdoor cafe that thankfully had a large overhang, as, typically, it was raining.
Nigel's face was neutral as he walked neither fast nor slow through the thinning throng of shoppers. He somehow managed to make his black umbrella graceful, bending it this way and that to avoid the people, like a ballerina. He wore his usual tweed three-piece suit and tan, British hand-crafted shoes polished to within an inch of their life—you can bet he didn't do them himself.
His tie was straight, his shirt starched, and his blond hair styled yet unruly in that way many upper-class men seemed to somehow pull off but the youngsters couldn't. He was tall, maybe six-three, slender but hinting at lithe power and speed, and had the bearing of a military man through and through.
From things he's said over the years, and the people he'd put me in contact with when needed, there was no doubt he'd progressed from the military to more covert government work. Whether that was CIA, Special Branch, or something I'd never heard of I truly didn't know, but he knew people, and I wouldn't have been surprised to discover he held a high position in whatever secret organization he was a part of, maybe even ran.
"You're early," he said, nodding at my half-finished coffee which I'd given up on as it was utter crap.
"And you gave me a bouncer."
"My dear fellow, I don't know what you are talking about. I gave you a perfectly legitimate illegal and dangerous assignment to carry out. One you had a very specific payment request for, I might add. Nothing out of the ordinary about it at all."
"Okay, if that's the case answer me this. Why is Pepper dead after trying to take it from me? Why was Boris after it, also dead, and why did some dude stop me by my house and threaten George? My house! Nobody knows about my house, Nigel, you know that." His eyes grew wide at that, and angry, and you didn't want to mess with Nigel when he was angry. "And why the hell do I get the feeling this thing in the bag is watching me? Oh, and it glows, and blows things up, too."
"Is that it?" he asked, indicating the bag with the slightest nod of his head.
"Duh. I'm not letting it out of my sight until I get what I'm due. And I want it now."
"Hmm, this is rather unexpected, I have to say. Have you looked inside?"
"Seriously? You need to ask? I just want it gone. Now."
"Then allow me to do the honors," Nigel said, and indicated the bag on the chair next to me. He looked curious, almost eager, and usually he was all business, treating the items I got for him as nothing more than simple business transactions. Never showing the slightest hint of whether it was something he personally wanted or merely for a client.
He'd told me this was for a client, though, and that's a rare piece of information coming from him.
Things were not as they seemed. I saw the twitch at the corner of his eye just as my hand closed around the bag's soft leather handle. I paused, watching the tic, but then it stopped.
"Who's it for? You sure it's not just for you?" I asked, hand wrapped tight around the handle but the bag still on the chair.
"For a client. I told you." His lips parted slightly and I caught a glimpse of his wet, pink tongue licking the back of his teeth. He was excited, and nervous.
If you knew Nigel then you knew he didn't do nervous. He was as cool as a corpse in a freezer and a lot less emotional.
My Spidey senses tingled, a feeling I knew better than to ignore. I scanned the street, knowing he had men watching in case of anything unforeseen going down, but I'd already spotted them as he used the same people. No, I was searching for the men he had that he didn't want me to see.
"You motherfucker," I said. "Who are the shifters? You don't deal with those guys. Your goons are always professional. Trained bodyguards, not Wild Ones."
"The Wild Ones are sometimes necessary when I hear of trouble brewing. It takes a monster to catch a monster," he said, voice as calm and casual as if we were chatting about the weather. "And there is no need for bad language, Arthur, I'm your friend."
"That's what I thought, but something's off. See ya." I rose and grabbed the bag, but Nigel was up and beside me in an instant, hand over mine on the bag.
"We had a deal. You do not cross me. You will have your payment, you have what I requested, let's leave it at that."
I focused with wizardly cool while he spoke words I'd expected to hear, and his eyes told a different story. Something was definitely wrong. I saw him think for a moment, as if coming to a conclusion part of him was loathe to accept.
"Run," he whispered so quietly it took a moment for the words to filter through.
I nodded, moving my head a fraction, more passing between us in those few moments than I think it had ever done before. We were friends. He wasn't betraying me, not really. Something was going on, something I didn't know about. He wanted this to be over, too. He just wanted this dealt with and for us to both go on with our lives.
For the first time ever, Nigel was out of his depth.
Then his head exploded in a mass of blood and gore and I did as he'd said.
I ran.
Underground, Overground
There's nothing like seeing the face of somebody you kind of care about explode in front of you to make you reevaluate your life choices. As I scarpered down an alley to the sound of screams and upturned tables and smashed mugs full of revolting, overpriced coffee, I had an epiphany.
No more mystery items.
It may seem strange that I'm not spouting off about the career path I'd chosen, but that would be stupid, and pointless. Do you know how hard it is to g
o straight after spending a lifetime being involved with this stuff?
No, neither do I.
The absolute worst time to decide to hang up the wand and go play video games all day is when peeps are out to get you, especially peeps with guns who aren't afraid to blast holes in probably the most influential man in the country, give or take a few shadowy figures.
Nigel was a serious player, and these guys clearly weren't afraid of either him, those he served and dealt with, or the authorities.
The bag was playing up as I ran and shouted, "Excuse me," repeatedly before barging past people and generally being a menace to society. It was glowing with what I can only describe as anger. The item did not want to be taken by whoever these characters were, and so far I couldn't blame it.
"I don't know what you are," I said to the bag, "but I wish people would stop dying because of you." No answer.
I turned a sharp left and lost my bearings for a moment, then knew where to go. I had to get to my car, get in it, and drive away very fast. Only problem being, I was heading the wrong way and didn't feel like turning around.
There was a commotion behind me and I knew it wasn't anyone looking for a truce. I couldn't do anything here, couldn't risk it. One of the Laws strictly imposed by the Alliance, part of the Code, was you did not, ever, under forfeit of death in nasty ways, use magic out in the open where it could be witnessed by the general populace. One on one, or even if there were a few unknowing folk, that's one thing, but in crowds, absolutely not. There'd be too many questions, and apart from that, if I managed to get away I'd be hounded by the insufferable Alliance until they found me and did gross stuff.
So my only option was to get away.
Moving fast through the throngs of shoppers, I found myself yanked hard by my free arm and pulled into a doorway. Ready to risk the wrath of the wizards, I moved for my wand but a thick hand clamped down tight and hard.
"I'm saving you, wizard. This way if you wanna live." The Wild One squinted at me with intense eyes.
"Um, you sure you don't wanna kill me?" I asked warily, flustered and not my usual insightful self.
"In there, through the back. Now," he ordered, and shoved me through the front door of a bakery. He was right behind me and grabbed my arm again, nodded to the pink-faced man behind the counter setting out loaves on the display, and then we went through a side door, down a narrow corridor made even narrower by all the proofing loaves, and then into the kitchen proper. A vast space with massive walk in ovens, racks of bread, men rolling loaves and buns, and boy did it smell good.
Guess people ate a lot of bread in this city. I tried to limit carb intake but was willing to have a cheat day.
Maybe another time, as the hairy dude dragged me through and then out the back into a walled courtyard full of plastic trays and industrial bins that would be wheeled out the large gates to the alley beyond.
One thing I'd learned over the years was not to trust shifters. The Wild Ones, as they liked to be known for reasons that will become more than apparent, were about as trustworthy as a cat with a mouse locked in a room and told to play nice.
They were mercenary, cruel, crazed, and dangerous. If that sounds anything like yours truly then tough, but I had a wand and I didn't go around eviscerating people that looked at me funny. Not often, anyway.
Speaking of wands...
Shredded Abs
"Don't touch me again. Who the hell are you? What do you want? Were you working for Nigel?" Yes, I was rambling, but it had been a stressful day. I gripped my wand tight and pointed it right at him, tip blazing hot and ready to shoot... Look, can we stop with this? It's a wand okay? Nothing phallic about it. Okay, there is, but please, this is a serious business.
So, I pointed my wand, my potent energy ready to blast him through the wall if he tried anything. They may have been paid by Nigel, but Nigel was dead, so with it their duty to do what he'd paid them to do.
"All right, mate, don't get your knickers in a twist. You're The Hat, right? Arthur?"
"Yeah," I said warily.
"Heard all about you, innit?"
"Innit? Innit what? What are you talking about?"
"Just a figure of speech, mate, just how I talk." He had a strange lilt to his voice, almost singsong in a gruff old banjo player kind of way. A twang, melodious but very street, if that's the term the kids were using now, which I doubted. I'd have to ask George, assuming I didn't get eaten or shot or something way more inventive in the meantime.
I needed time to think. How the hell had they done this to Nigel? More to the point, why had he got shifters involved? Nigel was old school in so many ways and this wasn't his style at all.
What should I do? Was this guy on the level? Should I tickle the wand to life then do a runner? Or was I overreacting?
He waited patiently while these thoughts and thousands more went through my mind. Something about him made me think he was legit, but I'd been wrong before. Just once or twice.
"Look, dude, it's best if we don't hang around here too long. Nigel has just been pretty effectively shot through the fucking head." He folded his arms across his slender but well muscled chest and tapped his foot impatiently, even though I got the impression he would've waited while we were stormed by whoever shot Nigel and was now after us.
Not us. Me. Not even me. The item.
Mind made up, I said, "Okay, let's go. But this doesn't mean I haven't got a lot of questions for you, buddy. Don't know why this is going to the dogs, er, excuse the idiom, so quickly, and I sure as hell don't know what you and your mates are doing involved in this, but I guess I'll find out as long as I stay alive."
"That's the spirit," he said brightly, well-groomed brown beard shining in the weak light. Damn, but what was with these hipsters? A beard should be ragged and bristly, not looking like it had product in it. I bet he used a comb on it, and that's not right, not in my world.
Dealing with shifters was always a stressful business. You never knew what the hell they'd do next. You could guarantee that nine times out of ten it would come as a shock. One moment you're chatting, or arguing, with a well-manicured man or woman, and the next they're pulling off a dress, unzipping their fly, or generally in a state of undress before their body cracks and pops and they're at your throat.
It was the incongruity of it all that freaked you out the most. They always seemed so smart and respectable, in a casual way. Self-assured with well-toned muscles any gym goer would be proud of—not that I was jealous or anything. The latest fad in the shifter community was for the men to appear coiffed to within an inch of their lives. Strange, otherworldly hairstyles but clearly meant to look like that. The women were just the same.
The Wild Ones' clothes had always been smart bordering on funereal. Maybe it was because of their rebellious nature, refusing to live up to the stereotype the name suggests, not wanting to appear like the animals they truly were. The animal within was never far from the surface, clawing at their insides, them taking years to master the inner demon that would spring free at any moment if their control wavered or faltered.
That's the one thing about the Wild Ones you had to respect no matter what you thought of them as a race, species, or somehow maladjusted human. Yeah, okay, maybe I'm going a little overboard. They were human, but had something inside seriously wonky. DNA corrupted in ways nobody ever came close to explaining.
It was only when you got very near to a shifter you got a sense of their true nature. Animal magnetism drew you close, pulled you in. Over the years, I'd seen it time and time again—people overcome with urges, body almost out of control as they reached out a hand, took a step closer before they even knew what they were doing. You couldn't blame the shifters for that, they weren't responsible for the actions of others, but it didn't take away from the fact they enjoyed it, played on it. They had a scent, a musk, pheromones that made them almost irresistible to members of the opposite sex and just as irresistible to those of the same sex who had even a passing inter
est in exploring the body of a virile looking member of a very dangerous breed of human.
"Um, look here, mate, you may be The Hat, and I'm sure you've got some wicked skills with that wand of yours," the shifter gave a sly grin but unfortunately for him I wasn't that way inclined, "but can we, like, go do this somewhere we're a little less likely to get our heads shot the fuck off?"
I had a few options, none of them particularly inviting. Either go my own merry way, hope the shifter didn't try to stop me, and deal with whoever it was had just shot Nigel and was after me, or trust that Nigel had known what he was doing when he picked the shifters to protect him. That was the real rub, though, wasn't it? They'd done a piss-poor job of it so far, what with Nigel's brains now residing in a cup of overpriced, watery, cold coffee.
"Let's go," I said, knowing there was zero chance of this going well.
A Really Wild One
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Wondered when you'd get around to asking. Steve. The name's Steve." He held out a lean, powerful hand. We shook.
"Damn, dude, that's one hell of a grip you got there." Steve looked powerful, but Steve was a lot more powerful than he looked. As we shook, our eyes met, and understanding passed between us. He wouldn't take any of my usual crap—that's what he was telling me.
"Not too shabby yourself, mate," said Steve.
Shifters were hard to read. They didn't go out of their way to advertise their nature, and even when you got to know them well it was still never a simple thing to anticipate what they'd do next. They battled constantly with their inner demons, some hating what they were, others loving it. Reveling in the power inside and itching for the chance to go feral.
"Right, mate," said Steve, "you ready to do this?"
"I'm not exactly sure what this is. What do you have in mind? You guys didn't exactly do a good job protecting Nigel." Steve's lip turned up at the corner in a snarl, and his muscles bunched beneath a shirt that must've taken hours to iron so smooth.
