Vampire Enforcer (Hidden Blood Book 1)

by Al K. Line

  The vampires don't take kindly to being told what to do by Dancer, even though by rights he's in charge of us no matter how the ancient ones like to protest. Everyone else sees us as human, or ex-human, even if the vamps think of themselves as beings elevated above humans. Me, I'm doing everything in my power to remain a human being, to stay the person I was, and it may be hard but I'm trying.

  I'd have to go see Oskari, just to make sure all this was okay, and that was another thing that rankled. Why should I have to ask permission for what I did? But I was a part of something larger now, and I'd made my choice, chose this life over true death, and with it came many compromises.

  Dancer had chosen wisely this time, not wanting to risk injuring Regulars if the new base of operations happened to get infiltrated by the bad guys or sucked into a magical time warp or something, so he'd picked a building well away from others, and had gone seriously creepy in the process. Just because he was a necromancer and rose the dead from their rest now and then didn't mean he had to conduct business from underground. Yep, he'd bought and refitted a bunker.

  Dotted around the outskirts of Cardiff are several decommissioned nuclear bunkers, and he'd bought one, used contacts and magical influence to get the permits he needed. He turned it into what was officially known as a bodyguard agency, even cleverly taking on legitimate clients both Regular and Hidden to balance the books. A perfect front for Hidden human business of all description.

  HQ was on the other side of Cardiff to our country home so I used the ring roads and made good time, then drove down country lanes, following the chain-link fence that encircled the land and bunker, and pulled up at a double barrier with entry and exit conveniently painted on the asphalt for those who didn't know what side of the road to drive on, which was weird.

  Either side of the barrier were identical huts, much larger than you'd expect for a man to sit on his backside all day and check who was coming and going, but as the nine-foot-high door opened, the oversized structures made perfect sense.

  Even after all these years, sometimes I still see Hidden as they appear to Regulars. Maybe for a split-second, maybe for half a minute, just a taster of the form they take in the world to allow them to remain what they are.

  The door swung open violently and I was presented with a man of maybe six feet with wild, brown curly hair and a thick beard hiding much of his heavyset, wide face. He wore a black synthetic tracksuit with yellow double-stripes down the arms and legs, tatty white Adidas on his feet. It was clear he'd never jogged once in his impossibly long life. Then the image flickered and the overweight man morphed into his true self.

  "A troll?" I mumbled.

  The guard was eight feet tall and almost as wide, with shoulders like basketballs and legs thicker than ancient oaks. His arms were oversized to the point of being comedic, if not for the obvious power and incredible strength they could yield. Fingers were thick sausages of rock the size of my own arms, the entire body topped off with a head as timeless as the world itself. I knew the striated head of ochre and gray, glinting with minerals, housed a priceless quartz brain that was connected like a hivemind to every other troll on the planet.

  But they really do come across as little more than rocks with a few brain cells. Which, I guess, is why Dancer uses them rather than humans to guard the gates. They're the best bodyguards as you cannot, under any circumstances, no matter what you do to them, including pulverizing, kill them. And they're cheap.

  "Wot you want?" asked the troll, resting a hand on the car bonnet. Metal squealed and as I glanced up, the roof caved in toward me.

  "I, er, have an appointment. With the Head."

  "Wot Head?" he asked, although trolls are impossible to tell apart and don't think of themselves as male or female. They just get stuck with a sex depending on what the fates deem most appropriate. Names don't help either—they're big on Boulder, or Granite, Lumpy McLumpy, that kind of thing.

  "You know, the Head. Dancer."

  "Wait." The troll lumbered off into his hut and emerged with a stone tablet. Yes, a large flat piece of rock.

  "You got name?"

  "Of course I've got a name. Kate. Kate Pound."

  "Lemme see." The troll scanned the carvings then lifted it closer to his eyes and squinted, heavy brow creaking as rock shifted. "Yeah, you got appointment. No blowing stuff up. Orders."

  "Um, right, okay. I won't." It seemed to satisfy the guard and he saluted, smacking himself in the forehead, almost knocking himself unconscious, then wandered back inside. A moment later the barrier lifted.

  I drove off quickly before he broke my car further. A short drive up a hill and I was on the top of a large open plain. I parked in an area marked with white lines outside a large hillock with a ramp leading down to shadow, turned off the car, and got out.

  Time to go see what was so urgent.

  No Fear

  I walked from crisp autumn sunshine into shade as I descended the steep incline to the bunker door, the temperature lowering suddenly. It didn't bother me, this frigidity. Part of me welcomed it, knowing one day everything would be cold, including my heart. Steep banks hid the rest of the world from view, isolating me, no easy task to retreat if someone had their sights on me. The bunker door looked formidable, a circular wheel and faint traces of peeled away stickers, scrubbed graffiti and dents and scratches the only decoration.

  You'd never get inside this place unless someone opened up for you; it was built to withstand nuclear fallout so was sealed up tighter than a goblin's wallet. Unsure what else to do, I knocked, the sound eaten up by two feet of solid steel. How were you supposed to announce yourself?

  The door vibrated as something happened the other side, then it swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. I was confronted with a small, grizzled wizard who grunted then tapped his foot impatiently as I glanced around before stepping inside. He muttered and the door slammed closed behind me; the wheel on the inside spun fast as magic crackled. The wizard turned, wandered down the cramped corridor, and disappeared.

  I followed him, not stopping to admire the strange underground world with peculiar tubes and levers on the walls. Ancient magnolia paintwork was peeling, revealing reinforced concrete beneath, and the air was dry but had a metallic tang to it. Small rooms were set off the curved corridor, and people bustled past, in and out of the offices, all seemingly with a job to do. I turned a corner and wandered down an identical corridor, catching sight of the wizard at another junction. I rushed to catch him.

  More corridors, more chasing. Everything looked the same. Peeling paint, walls and ceiling that pushed in on me, weighed me down but gave comfort, the vampire part of me feeling at home down here beneath the earth, the weight of ages above me.

  I wondered why vampires had never thought to use these old bunkers as a refuge, a place to rest during the day. This was like the perfect coffin for my kind. Maybe it was the decor. Most ancient ones preferred the old world feel of British manor houses, all that dark wood and shadow created a suitably eerie atmosphere, whereas here everything was lit in the same stark light, apart from the occasional flash of color and noise as Hidden did whatever they did behind closed doors.

  Finally, I caught up with the wizard at a pair of large double wooden doors that wouldn't be out of place in a vampire stronghold and was in time to see him knock then enter. He returned a moment later and said, "Go in," without stopping or even looking at me. Then he was gone.

  I pushed open the doors and closed them behind me, stepping from the tunnel into an expansive, high-ceilinged, somehow bright and airy room.

  "This better not be anything ridiculously complicated," I said. The words sounded stupid even as I said them. Of course it would be. It would absolutely be something complicated, and it would certainly be ridiculous. And dangerous, let's not forget that.

  Dancer's smile turned to more of a slack-jawed imbecile look as he glanced up from the file he was reading, one of many on a desk that seemed to writhe and pulse as he spok
e, the tortured faces and naked bodies twisting and turning, calling silently for release from their carved prison.

  Dancer, slim, looking as always like a funeral director, skin pale, lips tight, hair oiled and parted neatly, got to his feet. His dark suit and white shirt were crisp, immaculate, his black tie held in place by a simple silver pin. He straightened it, nonetheless, but he didn't take his eyes off me.

  "Wow, you look..."

  "What, it's all right isn't it?" I asked, for some reason not wanting to disappoint him.

  "All right? You look awesome. I know most of the enforcers look pretty good, and Faz is always the smartest, but you, you look perfect." His cheeks tinged red, and I smiled. "I like the hair. Very sinister. Um, quite intimidating actually."

  "Thought I'd make the effort."

  "And you got the tattoos?" He was dying to see, but no way was I stripping down in front of him.

  "I got them. Now, as I said, this better not be anything too nutty. If, and I mean if I'm going to work for you while Faz is out of the picture, we need to get a few things straight."

  "Hold it right there." Dancer raised a hand to stop me. "I'm the boss, I run this country, you don't give ultimatums. You do as I say." He stared at me hard and I stared at him back. He caved like I knew he would. "Okay, fine, worth a shot. Damn, does nobody show me any respect around here?"

  "You're my friend, I'm not gonna let you bully me. You sure this is okay with Oskari? I haven't spoken to him yet."

  "Yes, he said it's fine. In fact, he seemed pleased."

  "Pleased?"

  "Yeah, weird, right? Guess after what's gone on between us all, and his predecessors, he wants everyone to get on. Me too."

  "Good, that's good."

  "Maybe. Anyway," he said, all businesslike, "you need to get right on this. I've already had Persimmon on it, but she's, shall we say, less than subtle. All she's done is crack heads and piss Hidden off. This needs a smarter approach."

  Suddenly I understood why he was so insistent on having me. "Maybe someone who has the backing of humans and vampires, who is known for keeping in the background, who people are more likely to talk to?"

  "No, someone who can blast the buggers with true Hidden magic and won't take no for an answer."

  "Oh. That's how you see me?"

  "It's who you are, and yes, I see it in you, Kate. I know what you have inside, that you're one of the good ones, but I know you can get information because people like to talk to you, but that you're also powerful. You know you've pissed off a lot of wizards, right? Seriously pissed them off?"

  "I figured as much. I've had a few run-ins."

  "Exactly. They work for decades, sometimes centuries to get control of magic, taking it from the Empty and paying the price with pain, and you, you suddenly have the real thing. No years of practice, no decades of sacrifice, no comedown, just there, in an instant."

  "That's hardly fair," I protested, but I understood how it made people feel.

  "Anyway, that's their problem. As far as I'm concerned you're the perfect enforcer. No needing weeks or months off after a job, no baggage, and being a vampire will help, too. You can get access to places others can't as everyone likes you, and you can kill 'em if they get out of line."

  I'd heard enough. "Enough buttering up. What's the job?"

  "I'll get right to the point." Dancer did exactly the opposite, began messing with files on his desk and stroking the contorted faces.

  "Dancer, get on with it!"

  "Fine, because there's no point beating around the bush here. You positive you want to do this?"

  "Dancer!"

  "Okay. Everyone's lost their fear." Dancer wiggled his eyebrows as if I should lift my arms in shock, and gasp.

  "Huh?"

  I waited, expecting more, but Dancer just held my gaze, eyebrows almost sliding off his face, like I had an answer for him.

  "Is this how it usually works? You say something dramatic and then off your enforcer goes to save the day? Cause I don't think so. So spill it, mister, before I kick your ass."

  "Hey, I'm your boss, show some respect."

  "Dancer, oh, excuse me, Head Dancer, oh mighty ruler of all UK Hidden, master of all things magical, I will bend you over my knee and spank your bottom unless you stop playing games. Spill it."

  "Hmm, that sounds tempting."

  "Dancer!"

  "Fine. Half the Hidden population of the city have lost their fear. They aren't scared of anything. It's like a parasite has taken them over and eaten away anything that makes them scared."

  "And?"

  "And can you imagine? Hell, if they aren't scared how do you think they're behaving?"

  "Badly?"

  "You bet they're acting badly. Trolls are the same, as they have no fear to lose, although some seem to be playing up, but wizards, witches, warlocks, earth goddesses, imps, seers, dwarves, although dwarves are always like this come to think of it. Um, where was I? Ah, yes. Any humans involved in magic, or any true Hidden, all species, some of them are out of control. They aren't afraid of anything, meaning of each other, or of death or getting beaten to a pulp, or dangerous machinery, or anything really. It's chaos." Dancer was flustered and rambling; this was serious.

  "What, everyone?" Suddenly the incident with the goblin made sense. It explained why he'd gone for me for no reason, not even afraid of exposing himself and paying the ultimate price if the Council found out. The imp too, unafraid of me or the goblin.

  "No, just some. And it's only here, in Cardiff. Hasn't spread as far as I can tell. This is a local problem, but if it goes national we're in the shit. We have to put a halt to this and soon. Actually, you have to put a halt to it. Now."

  "Well, as long as you're easing me in with a simple job to start," I said, in half a mind to walk back out and forget the whole thing.

  But something happened then, and I stripped off my leather coat hurriedly, suddenly warm.

  "Bloody hell," said Dancer as he stepped forward to inspect my tattoos.

  I looked down at my arms. My ink was fat, raised above the surface of the skin, and I could see the clear energy of my magic flowing through these new passages. The tips of my fingers sparkled where they touched the tattoos, sending flashes of color off in all directions.

  "Er, yeah, this is interesting." Gathering my wits, I asked the obvious, "What do you want me to do?"

  Dancer looked at me funny, then said, "What enforcers always do. Deal with it. Find out what's happening, stop everyone going nuts, and deal with it."

  "Oh, right. Guess I'm ready to kick some Hidden ass," I said, with a feeling this would go badly. For everyone. I pulled on my coat and left with a nod.

  A moment later, I popped my head back around the door and asked, "Can I have a car?"

  Dancer sighed, then nodded.

  Sweet.

  Familiar Haunts

  There's only one thing to do in Cardiff when you're new to a job and unsure where to start. You go for breakfast.

  I stood outside the door, taking in the peeling paint, the scratches, the dents, the grime, and could already taste the grease. The window dripped with moisture and fat, same as always, uncleaned for years, smeared and smudged and revealing nothing but faint silhouettes of the customers inside.

  There was an ancient sign barely legible above the shopfront, but you wouldn't find a menu or a price list or the opening hours on the door, or anywhere else for that matter. For this fine establishment served one thing and one thing only. Breakfast. Not just any breakfast, but the best breakfast in the country. Nothing else even comes close.

  When I'd first come here it was with high hopes, having been told about it repeatedly; one look at the exterior and my hopes were dashed.

  But once I'd been insulted and force-fed sausages I understood what all the fuss was about. People came from across the country to be shouted at or abused, to have cutlery thrown at them and be served piles of steaming fried food on chipped plates and told to get their own milk. T
o be stared at by semi-sentient sauce that congealed around the rim of the ketchup bottles like imps playing hide-and-seek.

  Welcome to Madge's Cafe, the only cafe in the world where the clientele is stranger than the food, and almost as dangerous.

  Sausage-tastik

  I pushed open the door and stepped inside, leather coat flapping dramatically in a sudden breeze that blew litter across the ancient checkered tiles until it hit the grease and stuck fast. You took your chances with your footwear in Madge's; many a customer had left one boot stuck to the floor.

  The door creaked closed in a suitably eerie way as I entered with a flourish.

  Nobody even looked up.

  The peeling flock wallpaper dripped with the grease of a million fry-ups, the air weighed heavy with particles of burnt toast and fat molecules of butter, and I knew I'd gained a few pounds just breathing it in.

  For a Tuesday mid-morning the place was busy. Usually, it was the lull between the early breakfast rush when Regulars and Hidden alike crowded in for their daily sustenance at a discount price, and when the lunchtime traffic hit before Madge closed up for the day. Today it seemed every Hidden species had a representative present.

  In the corner, several dwarves shoveled runny eggs into mouths hidden by beards dripping yolk. At another table two wizards talked quietly, heads almost touching, the air between them alive with golden glyphs that vibrated with out-of-tune notes before popping like bubbles. A lone troll stood immobile in a corner, licking the salt shaker, whilst three goblins played a game of punch each other in the face between biting moodily on sausages as black and green as their teeth.

  I pushed through the cramped room, sidestepped the worst spills, dodged a few wayward pieces of flying cutlery—having to force my magic down as I really wanted to blast someone—and then there she was, a vision in thick glasses. Madge. Her hair was as gray and frizzy as an electrocuted squirrel, her apron—I suspected it was the same one she'd worn since she opened the place—was greasier than the fried bread she served, and she was frowning at a rag she repeatedly swiped across the high counter she spent a goodly portion of her life behind.