by Al K. Line
So, I drove through heavy traffic, parked after having to wind my way right to the top of a multi-story car park—I hate these places, there's never enough room to open your door without dinging the car next to you—then dashed through the city center as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself.
I burst through the door to the club, ran down the stairs, and before I could stop I slipped on the soaked floor and skidded, landing on my bum with a soft thud. Looking up, all eyes turned to me for a second and I said, "Ta-da," before they all got back to the business at hand. Magic flew in all directions.
"Don't you people ever bloody sleep?" I shouted. Someone threw a lamp at my head.
Troll Dissection
Dancer had been right to call me, but he'd also been wrong to do so. This was way out of my league, like totally.
Normally, the club was empty until the wee hours, although Brewster left the door open twenty-four seven. He only worked when things heated up, though. You could come and go as you pleased, as long as you paid for your drinks. Apparently he always knows, so everyone pays.
But the infected Hidden must have congregated here, drawn because of the weirdness happening, maybe safety in numbers. It had gone terribly wrong.
A large crowd of wizards, several witches, and witches never came here, ever, a shortage of dwarves, a handful of sprites, even three gnomes, and several other Hidden were all gathered around the center of the room, shouting and screaming, bickering, and punching each other. Magic flared, things got singed, fried, torn off, or hacked with axes, and amid all this chaos they were united by one main purpose.
They were smashing Brewster to bits with sledgehammers, stabbing at him with shovels, and pulverizing him with pipes. The dwarves were the worst, wielding their huge hammers and chisels as thick as my arms with glee and utter abandon. Their massive forearms knotted with pumped-up veins from what had obviously been a prolonged and intense bout of rock breaking.
Brewster was in pieces, literally. Limbs and random chunks of his body were strewn about the room. Small groups focused on each bit, stomping and smashing and seeing if they could lift the larger chunks, which they couldn't, and playing games. They were throwing fist-sized pieces to each other in a revolting game of catch, kicking little balls, even playing marbles. Some were laughing wildly as they chased shards across the floor that were rebuilding Brewster as fast as he was destroyed.
I shoved everyone aside and got to the center of the main group, staring, aghast, at the mess they'd made of him. His arms were gone, one leg was missing beneath the knee, one side of his face was dust beside his head but was quickly joining back up, and his chest was caved in, revealing nothing but more rock.
He repeatedly sat up somehow, only to be smacked with hammers and blasted with magic by wizards covered in dust, troll dust, and I knew what this meant. That they'd totally lost the plot.
I backed away, hoping I wouldn't get caught in the middle of it all, and then it happened.
The air sparkled and everything felt beautiful for a moment, a pure, deep peace descending. The faery popped into existence with a ping.
Everyone paused as her presence forced itself into their awareness. However far gone they were, a faery always let's you know when she's arrived.
"What do you lot think you're doing?" she screeched, tiny wings that'd rip your face to shreds beating frantically as she darted above the prone form of Brewster. "You know the rules, you can't do that to a troll. You're eating him. Absolutely not."
"Shut your mouth, you stupid faery," shouted a wizard who put his hand to his lips in shock at the insult. Even lost to madness he was aware enough to know such blasphemy would not go down well.
The faery sped like a supersonic jet fighter and came to a halt an eyelash from the wizard who recoiled in horror at the razor sharp wings and the wrath of the tiny creature. Even angry, you could see why people fell hopelessly in love with the fae whilst at the same time being terrified of them. They are the Hidden police of a sort, having taken it upon themselves to punish anyone who infracts the true Hidden Laws. Not those laid down by the Council, but the rules they themselves believe to be of utmost importance.
And one of those Laws is that you do not, ever, do this kind of thing to a troll.
"What did you say?" asked the faery, peering into the terrified eyes of the wizard.
"Eh, what? It wasn't me. Okay, it was," he blurted, "but I didn't mean it. Something weird got in my head. I don't know what I'm doing, why I said it."
"Is that troll in your mouth?" she asked sweetly, and if you know faeries you know that when they talk to you like that it's time to run. Fast.
The wizard rubbed at his lips and spat. "Eh, no, it's er, I was just smoking. Haha."
"And you, all of you," she said, turning, "you vile humans and vile dwarves and disgusting—"
"Get 'er," shouted a goblin who snatched out trying to catch the faery, resplendent in a figure-hugging blue dress, her cleavage surprisingly bouncy, pert, and large, for something you could wrap your hand around.
The faery dodged easily and the group turned their attention from the troll to her. She flew high above their heads as wizards blasted, goblins jumped for her, and dwarves threw battle axes and hammers.
I leaned against the bar and watched as Brewster's body reassembled while the crowd were distracted. The closer he got to being complete, the faster the reconstruction went, until tiny balls of rock were flying through the air to rebuild the timeless creature. Fingers flexed, toes wiggled, the head turned, and Brewster lumbered to his feet.
"Right, that's it, you're all guilty of troll abuse and faery disrespect."
"Shut it you sparkly speck of spew," a dwarf grunted as he heaved his hammer and flung it.
The faery, eyes wide in shock at the torrent of abuse, had clearly had enough. She waved a hand, waggled a finger, and the dwarf was gone, just gone. Everyone stared in shock at the empty space then turned and advanced on her, unafraid of the consequences. All apart from the one wizard who skulked off up the steps, shaking his head at the madness below.
Then Brewster was on his feet. He bellowed in rage, grabbed the two nearest heads and slammed them together, fusing bone and brain; the two bodies fell as one. He swung out with his left, smashing the head clean off a goblin, then kicked out with his right foot and sent a dwarf careening against the wall so hard several bricks were dislodged and the dwarf was nothing but a pint-sized stain.
"See, told you not to mess with the troll," said the faery with glee. "Brewster Bunker, do you need my intervention?"
"No, Brewster deal with troublemakers." Brewster punched out straight ahead and three wizards discovered they now had a huge hole through their midsection a moment before they went on to whatever afterlife awaited.
The faery nodded and then was gone, leaving nothing but glorious, intoxicating, highly prized faery dust behind. I was tempted to go try to catch some to lick, but I'd been down that road before and I had enough addictions as it was.
It was time to leave; there was nothing I could do here. As the bodies flew and the screams intensified, I dashed up the stairs and leaned my back against the wall outside.
Moments later, numerous Hidden came dashing out and ran away as fast as they could. Either they'd come to their senses or trolls are so damn scary they beat anything the goblin machine could do.
Time to go report in.
I walked through the city, but it wasn't like it was, not just full of people doing their shopping, or taking their kids to the fair on a gray afternoon in Wales. There were disturbances everywhere I looked. Hidden were the cause.
Dwarves who looked like stocky miner types causing a scene outside a hardware store, goblins dressed in ill-fitting Lycra at the sports clothing store, arguing, and poking spotty teenage kids at the security point, and right in the center of the street a wizard was surrounded by police, their van parked beside them, the wizard giving them abuse and knocking their hats off. At least he had t
he sense not to use magic. Even in his state, he knew he'd be history if he ever revealed our world to the Regulars.
My walk became a run, then a sprint to the car as the madness intensified. We had to stop this, and soon, or the whole Hidden world would be exposed.
If we didn't all kill each other first.
Vampire Infighting
I shouldn't have taken the detour, but the fact is I'm a vampire, and although mostly my allegiance is to all Hidden, and I'm a part of this secret world now, there is an unmistakable bond between all vampires. Most of them are utter dicks, not people you'd ever choose as friends, but some are decent, are like me. Struggling to make sense of what they are, trying to forge ahead in this frightening world and stay sane, keep their identity, hang on to their souls.
At the main residence I had several friends now. Not friends who came around for dinner or anything, but people I'd grown close to over the years, although many have died, or left. Some remained, some were still good, hated the fact they had to feed, did it nonetheless, but fought off the terror and tried to live relatively normal lives, not that they were ever successful.
I had to warn them, had to warn everyone. It was daylight so many older ones would be sleeping, but the younger ones, they'd be awake, doing their duties or off out in the world up to who knew what. A phone call wouldn't suffice, I had to go in person and explain before things got out of hand and the vampires became as infected as everyone else. It may well be too late but I had to try, had to at least attempt to warn those who were, I realized for the first time, my people.
The thought made me sick. My people. Vampires. Undead. Murderers. Cruel, uncaring, cold, unimpassioned killers of Regulars. My people.
I still drove like a maniac through the city, cursing the never-ending procession of vehicles heading to the fast-growing funfair although it didn't open officially until that evening, out into the fresh air and the smell of cow manure where you could believe everything was fine and the city wasn't in utter chaos.
At security, I slammed on my brakes, the line of tire bursting spikes up across the road. I beeped my horn but nobody came and nobody opened the gate. Where were the men? The dogs? Normally the entrance was crowded with security.
"Goddammit," I groaned and got out, shut the car door in a temper, then climbed over the high gate, having to vault the top and be mindful of the razor wire. The electric fence burned my skin and I knew it wouldn't be long before my clothes and hair were on fire, so I dropped the fifteen feet, landing expertly. I shook off the effects of more volts than can possibly be good for you, and sprinted up the long drive in under a second.
At the large fountain in the center of the circular drive, I skidded to a halt leaving a long furrow behind me. Off in the distance were men with the dogs, dashing to the entrance, and there were plenty of vampires all around the grounds close to the house, some fighting, some shouting, others staring in mute wonder at the chaos.
And at the center of it all was Oskari. Dressed immaculately in black clothes complete with a black lightweight coat. His black sunglasses with the gold trim caught the weak light and shone, and his ghostly long hair blew dramatically in the wind. He was circled by bodyguards but they kept having to fight off vampires of all ages and types as men and women charged, shouting abuse at Oskari, screaming that they were gonna kill him and that he wasn't all that, and his glasses were stupid, and why didn't he do something about his hair?
A gap appeared in the goon squad and three men I knew were mild and meek for the most part launched at Oskari, screaming obscenities. Oskari's lips frowned almost imperceptibly and he dodged easily. He ran at them as they came again and swept them up in his arms before discarding them like rag dolls. They flew thirty feet in the air and crashed down to the grass, limbs snapping and stuck at weird angles. It would be a while before they healed.
I shoved aside shouting vampires, flung them away with ease, and said, breathlessly, "We need to talk."
"So it would seem," said Oskari, utterly unflappable. "I assume this means you haven't dealt with the matter yet?"
"I'm working on it."
Oskari raised an eyebrow. "Hmm."
"I came to warn you, to tell you this might get worse before it gets better. But I can't stop, I—"
"One moment, my dear." Oskari's fangs glinted in the dull light and he snarled as he yanked the arm of a raven-haired beauty—no, not me, haha—so hard it came out of the socket, picked her up, and tossed her aside casually. "You were saying?"
"I know who's responsible. It's the goblins. They've got a machine, I think it's taking energy from some of the hells, human afterlives anyway, and it's feeding people's fear back down. It's complicated, but Mithnite, you rememberer him?" Oskari nodded. "He sort of helped me discover how this works, and I met a guy who... Look, it doesn't matter. You need to get everyone under control until this passes. They need to focus and be ready for when this comes and then they can protect their minds."
"No, they can't. You're forgetting, most of us use no magic, Kate. Only magic from the Empty can allow you to counter this. Blood magic will not protect us from this madness. Go, deal with it. Now." Oskari nodded at his goons and they formed a tight circle, me on the outside, and as vampires battered at their backs, they ushered Oskari inside and the doors slammed shut.
"Right, I'll just go deal with it then." I shook my head, dodged a kick, blocked a punch, slammed a fist to break a dude's nose—I never liked him anyway so why waste the opportunity?—and scarpered.
Don't know why I bother, I honestly don't.
Change of Plan
As I sat, staring in annoyance at a brightly colored truck with what appeared to be a kids' merry-go-round in pieces on the back, my phone rang.
"What?" I snapped, knowing I shouldn't talk on the phone when driving but what choice did I have?
"Change of plan," said Dancer. "It's gone nuts here and we had to lock half the people up. Glad I chose the bunker, the doors are really strong." How he was so smug under such circumstance is a testament to his smugness.
"It's madness at the Hidden Club and Oskari's locked himself inside the house too. The vamps have got it now, and even the city center's in chaos. People will find out about us, if we don't all kill ourselves first."
"I know all about that. And you weren't supposed to go see Oskari," he snapped. "You work for me."
"I work for you but as a favor, don't forget that," I barked back, having to force down my rising anger, unsure how much was me being annoyed with Dancer because he was a muppet and how much was the machine, which was clearly up and running again now.
"Sorry. It's been a rough morning, afternoon, whatever time it is. Can you swing by shifter territory, pick up Persimmon?"
I tried not to frown, but it wasn't easy.
"Hello? Kate?"
"Yeah, I'm here. Why her? Why there?"
"Because we need her. Most of the shifters seem immune. Several have gone crazy but most are okay. And she's one of the best. Go get her, then meet us at the goblin compound. We'll attack and put an end to this."
"You sure? You got a plan?"
"Of course, I'm the Head!"
"Okay, if you say so. See you later. What time will you be there? What's the actual plan?" He was gone.
"Ugh, this day just keeps getting worse and worse." I dumped my phone on the seat, did a u-turn to the sound of horns, and drove to shifter territory to pick up Persimmon.
A Rival
The shifters live in their own world right in the heart of Cardiff. If you walked down the street all you'd notice was that the neighbors were friendly with each other, the kids played in the middle of the road without fear, and most front doors were open no matter the weather. You'd also get a lot of rude stares and leave as fast as you could.
Several streets are shifter only, nobody else buys property there. It's theirs, and they are a very close-knit community. All kinds of species live here, and they've had more trouble than most from outside influence,
much of their most recent issues down to vampires.
Persimmon is a panther shifter, and her and Faz have a troubled history, mine and hers isn't without its ups and downs either. But we'd bonded over a spot of bother, spent time together, and both shown the other what we were made of. In many ways we're similar, and, obviously, that means we don't always get on.
The main issue, and I'm not saying I blame her for it, is that she's drop-dead gorgeous with a body any man, woman, preternatural creature, or an angel herself, would die for—and some literally. She is hot with a capital H, sexy without trying to be, curvy and big-chested. She has plump lips and eyes so dark and steamy you could get lost in them for eternity. Her legs are long and lithe, her hair is raven and as perfect as a blackbird's song, and her smile, not that she smiles so much, lights up the darkest of rooms.
So, obviously, I didn't like her at first. Partly because she tried to disembowel my husband, partly because they made up, and partly because I knew for a fact he'd got close enough to her for me to smell her perfume on him. Sure, there was nothing going on, but since when did that stop irrational jealously from rearing its ugly head?
She is a nice woman, and sexy as hell with a perfect body, can shape-shift into a bloody panther that's also so damn lithe it makes you want to jump on for a ride, and it winds me up.
I'd put it all aside, got to know her, and discovered she was a genuinely nice person. Strong-willed bordering on obstinate, knows her own mind, and is often too quick to act. Persimmon is always up for a fight, overly protective of her friends and her loved ones, will do anything for her community, and is loyal until the end. Like I said, we're very alike.
She's also an enforcer, and a good one, and most shifters don't do that kind of thing, focusing their energy on their own community, many of them involved in highly illegal stuff of one kind or another as that's just the way they are. They're outsiders, shunned by many Hidden for being too different, unable to get along with Regulars or work in the Regular world because when angry they are prone to lose the plot and shift at inopportune moments. They also simply downright dislike being told what to do or how to go about their business. So they live a life of crime, have their own store where many do most of their shopping—some never leave the small enclave—are acquainted with almost nobody outside of the community, and are isolated because of it.
