Dead Spark

by Al K. Line

  Contents

  Title Page

  Locking Up

  Gimme a Break

  A Gnashing of Teeth

  Fight or Flight

  A Moment

  Running on Empty

  A Rush

  Oops

  Lost Implings

  Ugh

  Attack of the Nasties

  The Lost Ones

  The Need for Speed

  A New Plan

  Let's Fight

  Feeling Sleepy

  Like a Zoo

  Just Us

  Some Explaining to Do

  A Rubbish Dinner

  Heading North

  A Long Night

  A Shuffle

  The Hunger

  This is It?

  In the Kitchen

  Things Get Freaky

  The Cure

  It Begins

  An Interruption

  Feeling Kinda Funny

  Yummy

  Lady Trouble

  An Explanation

  On the Hunt

  Enough!

  A Recky

  A Break In

  Me, a Hippie?

  A Big Ask

  A Ride

  A Vacation

  Checking In

  Things Get Weird

  An Invitation

  Yummy

  Surprise

  A Long Journey

  Ooh

  Home at Last

  A Growing Family

  Everyone Likes Tea

  The Hardest Thing

  Fresh Earth

  Dead Spark

  Dark Magic Enforcer Book 7

  Al K. Line

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  Copyright © 2016, Al K. Line. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Locking Up

  "Wake up"! I screamed for the tenth time as I shook Dancer by the shoulders until I swear I heard his brain rattle in his stupid, thick skull.

  "Eh? Ugh, what happened?" Dancer ran a hand through disheveled hair, his eyes widening in shock as he brought it down and saw the blood and brains.

  "Don't worry, it's not yours."

  "Ah, good. Oh, shit!" He shot up off the floor, clearly remembering what we'd both discovered. He tugged at the tattered sleeve of his jacket then ripped it off and rolled up his shirt sleeve. "It's true? We're infected?"

  "Yeah, now let's go," I said, already turning for the door.

  "But we can't be. It's us. The Head and the best enforcer in the city. This can't happen to us?" Dancer twisted broken skin on his forearm as if he could tear the infection loose and cast it aside. If only.

  "Dancer, will you please hurry the hell up? The place is gonna blow any second. We have to get out of here."

  He snapped to his senses, finally getting his act together. "Sorry. Okay, let's go."

  As magic twisted reality, us stuck in a maelstrom of madness, the fractured wards that kept Council HQ a Hidden sanctuary now wild and dangerous, we ran from his office. We did our best to ignore the bodies we had no choice but to step on to reach the stairs, but it wasn't easy. In fact, it was almost impossible.

  Our people. So many dead. But at least the majority had escaped.

  We clambered over countless zombies on the stairs, jumped the last section that was missing thanks to the actions of Delilah the dragon shifter, and as colors whirled around us like a demented wizard's idea of a disco, we made it to the door.

  All this violence, it was a terrible price to pay. But at least the madness that Dragon had brought to our door was over with, maybe. As I took a final look at the bodies and the spasming interior, I couldn't help but think this was far from the end. Even besides us being infected and the fact we'd soon be a part of an exclusive club—the undead gang.

  No way, no bloody way.

  "I'm not going out like that," I mumbled.

  "Come on, out," ordered Dancer, frantic, and eyes wild. He kept glancing at his forearm and my leg, as if it would all go away and we weren't really bitten by creatures who's virus-ridden saliva was right now coursing through our veins. Corrupting every single cell in our bodies and turning us from men who wielded the most powerful forces in existence into something just as magical but a lot less alive.

  This is the problem with this damn Hidden life, there's always someone trying to take what's yours. I just hadn't expected it to be removed in chunks.

  It'd been a nice life, for the most part, but I really wanted it to continue. I had Kate, and she had wobbly bits and she let me fondle and lick them, and if that isn't reason enough to carry on living then I don't know what is.

  I made a decision right there and then. I'd be damned if I'd be damned. That makes sense, right?

  "Oh, for fuck's sake." Dancer yanked my arm while I was lost to my thoughts and the next thing I knew I was standing outside a small, red brick Victorian terraced house.

  The door slammed shut behind us.

  Dancer bent down and put a key under the mat.

  "What the hell are you doing that for? You know we're out of time, right?"

  "I know," said Dancer, standing. "But it's symbolic. The end of an era. The end of Dragon. The end of so many of our people. I liked my desk, too."

  "I know you did, buddy. I hate to break it to you, but it was one damn ugly lump of wood."

  "Hey, I—"

  We both felt it at the same time. Energies collided inside the building, distorted magic volatile and utterly wild now. I recalled that the old wizard charged with trying to keep it stable was supposed to be waiting for us but I guess he knew the score and had done a runner.

  As the world emptied of sound and reality collapsed in on itself, I shouted, "RUN!" Guess what we did?

  Yeah, we ran.

  Crouching low, moving fast, we made it about three feet before the world erupted into violence. We were thrown clear across the road from one row of houses to another, coming to a stop as we hit red brick, hard.

  I sat up, bruised and hurting on a whole other level, which I hadn't thought possible, and stared back at the empty space where the council once stood. Half the street was gone, nothing but rubble and roof trusses sticking out at strange angles, as if in accusation.

  We got up, brushed at the dust—utterly pointless but we have our standards—and marveled at the carnage.

  "We'll say there was a gas leak. We have people for this kind of thing," mused Dancer, back in his role as Head.

  "Do we also have people for that?" I asked, pointing at the group of wyrmlings running down the street. No, they weren't running away, more's the pity, they were heading toward us, and fast.

  "No."

  "Didn't think so."

  "Run?"

  I nodded. "Run."

  So we did.

  Hi, I'm Faz Pound, and I'm a zombie.

  Gimme a Break

  "Ugh, no fair," I gasped as my body basically laughed as if to say, "You've got to be joking, dude. You do know what just happened, right?"

  I gave it a stern telling off and promised it cake, but it knew I was lying so only partially responded. I switched to threats and swearing as my only backup plan to cajole exhausted muscles into at least trying to move fast.

  Dancer sped off ahead and then suddenly stopped at a pillar box at the end of the road.

  "Now's not
the time to post your mail," I screeched, wondering if he'd lost the plot.

  "Quiet," he said as he fumbled with a key and opened a small hatch at the base. He stood, unwrapped a bundle of hessian and smiled an evil grin, all teeth and menace.

  "A gun! Are you nuts? We don't do guns, they're dangerous," I warned, the words sounding stupid even as I said them.

  It's true, though. We simply do not use them. Partly because they are so scarce, and expensive, but mainly because they're so prone to going wonky on magic users. Same with any device that relies on anything apart from thrusting or swinging.

  It's why we stick to magic, and when we can't use magic we stab each other or whack each other with bats. It's the only civilized way to fight, and it stops you getting your hands blown off. Which is always a serious drawback as one preternatural creature or other bears down on you and all you can do is hold up a stump and say, "Um, would you mind not trying to pull my gizzards out, I just had an accident with my gun. Look, no fingers."

  "Shut up. Er, please," said Dancer, before he widened his stance, took aim, and did whatever it is you do with a gun to make it fire tiny bits of metal at high velocity, hoping they make a hole in someone you dislike.

  It exploded with a noise so loud my ears rang and I was sure that when I turned to look he'd be down one arm and pissed off. But no, the gun was steady and he fired again, hitting a second wyrmling before any of them could react.

  Again, and again, then twice more. Then clicks of an empty chamber.

  "Tell me you've got more bullets," I said, excited to see the Romanian menaces retreat the way they'd come.

  "Nope, that's it. Don't want to push my luck. Anyway, it hardly seems fair to cheat."

  "Cheat! They want to kill you, me too, and I bet they don't want to do it in a nice way, either."

  Dancer glanced at me quickly. "I thought you said I shouldn't use it?"

  "That was before you killed the bad guys. Got any more?"

  "No."

  "Ah. Um, okay, here they come again. Run?"

  Dancer nodded. "Run."

  We ran.

  Again.

  This time we made it a dozen paces before things went awry. A line of five nasty looking dudes came around the corner. We were cut off and out of options.

  "Shit," I moaned, just because it was by far the best way to sum up the situation. We skidded to a halt and glanced behind. Yep, they were still coming. At least twenty, so dealing with five seemed like the better option. I sank as deep as I could into the Empty and came up with little more than a slight clouding of the eyes and a fizzle of my ink that died down like sprinklers had been turned on.

  I cupped my hands and whispered into Dancer's ear. He nodded and I said, "Ready?" Again, a nod, his hair falling into his eyes before he slicked it back.

  "You need to keep a comb handy," I said. Then we sprang into action.

  By sprang, I mean we ran at the five men who had clearly expected us to not do something so stupid. As we got close I said, "Three, two, one. Now," and we did the old "kick them in the knackers and then just run away" routine.

  It worked pretty well.

  For about a heartbeat.

  A Gnashing of Teeth

  The men either end of the line went down with a satisfying "Oomf" and appropriate screams and moans only those with testicles booted up into their stomachs can manage. We hopped over them like we'd won gold in the newly sanctioned sport of knacker kicking, our victory short-lived as the three with still-dangling scrotums pounced, grabbing us by our already trashed clothes and yanking hard.

  While Dancer fought valiantly and I the same, it was clear we would be done for if we didn't get away, and quick-smart. I elbowed, I punched, I kicked, and even did a bit of biting as it seemed to be in vogue at the moment, but I was being bested by a single large lump of a man with a smelly coat trimmed with rancid fur, and a beard that wasn't much better.

  Dancer had two to contend with and was faring even worse.

  Angry men were closing on us from down the street and just as angry men were punching us and twisting things that should not be twisted.

  The only upside was that I wasn't thinking about the bite and the whole zombie thing, but it was little consolation as I got a fist in the side of the head and saw stars.

  Then it was silent, and I was free.

  I shook, then scrambled to a fighting stance only to find a massive head inches from mine. A gleaming set of razor teeth snapped to the right. I turned to see the face of a man chewed off, and the panther spit out bloody flesh before springing, agile as, er, a panther, at the two attacking Dancer.

  The sleek cat raked scythe-like claws down the back of one man, and as he turned it ripped out his throat. Dancer, from his position on the floor, took his chance and jabbed up hard with straight fingers into the Adam's apple of the remaining attacker. As his hands went up, leaving the rest of him exposed, the panther slashed across his belly, slicing through his shirt and deep into flesh.

  I pulled Dancer up and we watched, dumbfounded for a moment, before the shouts of approaching wyrmlings made us spring into action. We ran after the already retreating panther, doing our best to catch up but not quite succeeding.

  "She's such a fine looking creature," said Dancer, admiring the rear of what I could only assume was Persimmon and not just a stray that felt like doing a good deed.

  "And she saved our asses," I said, not arguing with his observations although it felt somewhat odd to be ogling the gyrating hips of a cat.

  We jogged after her, weaving down side-streets, switching back, turning left then right and generally doing whatever we could to lose the wyrmlings.

  With breathing heavy, both of us sounding like we had a bad case of "not enough exercise and too much standing around blasting the dark arts"—which I guess was true—we turned a corner and stopped suddenly, neither of us knowing where to look or what to do. Or I felt that way, anyway. Dancer was standing beside me with his jaw slack, wiping at his sweaty brow.

  "What, never seen a naked woman in the street before?" asked Persimmon, hands on hips, looking all kinds of luscious. Her body gleamed with a sheen of sweat, her firm breasts high and proud. Waist taut, hips wide, legs you wanted to climb up just to reach the summit and sink your teeth into wobbly bits. Her skin was heaven come to earth. God, I'd forgotten how silky and utterly flawless it was. She was just like her cousin, rich and chocolate, like a mild frothy drink I never know what to call. Glorious, ripe, and entirely distracting.

  The only other time I'd seen her naked was when she'd tried to kill me, so this was much better by a long shot.

  "Um, no," mumbled Dancer.

  "I have. Quite a few, actually. There was the time I was up against the bouncing Blonde from Bo—"

  "Shut up, you dick," said Persimmon before she vaulted a wall with some serious skills, proper parkour style, and plucked washing from a rotary line in someone's back garden. She came out the same way she went in, but clothed now in a simple yellow dress.

  "Suits you," I said. "Right, Dancer?"

  "Eh? Oh, yes. Thanks, Persimmon, you saved us back there."

  "No shit, Sherlock."

  "She's got a way about her, right?" I said, nudging Dancer. "It's the language, so poetic."

  "What the hell is wrong with you?" asked Persimmon, cocking her head to one side.

  I instantly felt exposed, so ended up blathering. "Sorry, I think I must have hit my head, along with just about everything else. Okay, we really appreciate the help, but leave it to us now. We've, er, gotta go do some stuff. Important stuff. But, er, not too important. Nothing to worry about."

  Persimmon eyed us suspiciously and Dancer didn't help by tugging at his sleeve. I knew I looked guilty as hell, but I crossed my legs to try to hide the exposed flesh of my thigh.

  "What are you two hiding?"

  "Us? Nothing. You've got a suspicious mind, you know that?" I tried to act casual and only just stopped myself from whistling—that would have be
en a dead giveaway. Haha.

  "Hmm. You sure? I can stick around."

  "No, thanks, Persimmon, we appreciate the help, we really do. But please, don't put yourself in danger. I wouldn't want to see you hurt." Dancer mumbled his last sentence. I glanced at him and then understood. He had it bad, real bad.

  "Wotcha, Spark," said a cat that sauntered past without a care in the world.

  "Oh, hey, Ifstad. How're the kids?"

  "Don't get me started, driving me bonkers. Just having a year off. Recharge the batteries and all that."

  "Ah, right. Well, see ya."

  "Laters, amigo," said the tabby cat that was actually a rather demonic imp Intus had introduced me to a few years ago. He/she/it's nice, but really should try to do a better job of looking like a cat. There was still a slight fork to the tail and the fur looked so matted and mangy you had a hard job to see any face at all.

  Ifstad scrambled up onto a wall, pounced onto a shed roof, then disappeared through a window into a house. Probably off to do some important sock hiding work.

  "Um, where were we?" I asked.

  Persimmon stepped forward, the scent of her strong. Not a perfume, an animal musk that insinuates itself into your mind with promises of sweaty times and strong thighs. I may have gulped, and I know for sure Dancer did. They locked eyes and I'm sure they had a moment. Could she like him? I guess weirder things had happened, but I couldn't for the life of me think what or when it could have been.

  This was Dancer, and she was, well, her.

  "Let's go," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. Already, the sound of the wyrmlings was getting closer, Romanian dialect, I assumed, and it was angry, and loud.

  "Go back over the wall and wait for the coast to be clear," said Dancer, then pointed at the wall like she had never seen one before.

  "Now you're acting weird, too," said Persimmon, looking perplexed and staring at each of us in turn like we were hiding sweeties behind our backs and she couldn't have one.

  "No we're not, you are," said Dancer, just to make her absolutely positive we were.

  "Whatever. Stay safe." And with that she hopped back over and crouched.

  With no time to waste, we headed away from the voices. We had thirty seconds before someone found us, if that, so we sped up and ran, again.