Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology

by J. A. Cipriano

  The werewolf's body was yanked this way and that with every round, but Mikhail wouldn't go down. Bracing himself against his brother, he let us see his pearly whites and flew into a rage, stomping towards the Chief with his claws raised.

  In all of the books and movies, a silver bullet is enough to kill a werewolf. Here Kubo had just pumped half a clip of blessed silver rounds into the bastard and he still wasn't dropping. The only thing that did it was getting hit by a ball of tightly-packed flame from Joe's lighter, which saw his fur light up. Mikhail cut to the left, knocking into the wreckage of a desk and loosing a roar as his body was consumed by the fire. He staggered around for a few paces, lit up like a Christmas tree, before finally falling to his knees. He'd succumbed.

  Gennady watched in horror as his brother was turned to cinders. He leaped forward, taking a silver bullet to the shoulder, but lost his footing when I reached out and took him by the scruff of the neck. Hauling the beast back towards the hall, I socked him in the chest and watched him writhe on the ground, searching for breath like a fish out of water. “The kids you're planning on selling,” I demanded, kneeling down at his side. “Where are they?”

  The werewolf's yellow eyes were bulging from their sockets. His claws left deep grooves in the wooden floors as he tried to sit up. “They're... next door, in the basement,” he answered, thrusting his snout towards the next building over.

  Outside, a few of the gunmen had recovered enough to fight again. Those that lacked the sense to escape when they had the opportunity began firing a succession of rounds back into the building. Joe tossed up a wall of flame to catch the bullets, nice and easy, while a cacophonous gunfire erupted from elsewhere. The Veiled Order foot soldiers were on the scene now, picking off what remained of the brothers' forces.

  Kubo and Joe met the commandos outside, crawling over the ruined wall, and immediately set out for the building next door. I heard the door being knocked down, heard them storm inside in search of the captives. Meanwhile, I babysat Gennady.

  The werewolf was sitting up now, had dragged himself across the floor to leer at me from the corner. His fur was bloodied, his chest heaving. “You... I won't let you leave alive,” he said, gaining his feet. “Without your friends here, you have no hope. You're done for, whatever you are.” He turned his head, allowing his neck to crack grotesquely. “I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to Mikhail.”

  The demon inside of me perked up. For a minute there, I'd thought the fighting was over with. Falling into a relaxed stance, I waved him over. “Try me.”

  The pads of Gennady's feet caught the floor in rapid, booming steps as he lashed out, fangs and claws ready to rip me to shreds. His muscled arm drove a set of claws towards me like a dagger, which I pushed out of the way with my forearm. When I'd drawn him in close, I let loose.

  The first hit was just below his furry ribcage, and I could feel his organs slamming into one another as my knuckles pressed in. He staggered back, but I didn't let up, dropping a hammer-fist onto his snout that made him yelp like a kicked dog. The hit that killed him was a hard right, delivered with enough force to snap his neck and leave his tongue hanging past his chin.

  He hit the floor and gave a final sigh.

  It was done. Gennady and his brother had done terrible things in life. Who could say just how many children they'd ferried off to the Beyond, how many had died in barbaric rituals as a result of their actions? As I stood over him, I almost wished I'd kept him alive longer. Made him suffer a bit more.

  From somewhere in the room behind me came a loud whistle, along with a disembodied voice. It was Ernie. In all of the chaos, I'd forgotten he was there at all. The ghost had probably been hanging low, watching the violence unfold from a distance. To him, our struggle here had been little more than an action film. “Damn, kid. That was one hell of a punch.” The specter's face came into view, the features rendered in their usual ghostly blue. “I wonder, though, if you should have killed him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked with a frown. “You know what these guys did for a living, right?”

  Ernie shrugged weakly. “Sure, but there's something to be said for mercy, too. If you ain't careful, you might become a big ol' monster like this fella here. Just somethin' to think about.”

  There wasn't anything more to say on the matter. I held back on spitting on Gennady's body and just walked out onto the street, stretching. My limbs were damn sore, the bruises incurred from my tussle with the twins still healing. I'd need a good meal and a day's sleep before I'd feel like myself again. Looking up into the night, the air thick with dust and smoke, I saw the stars winking back at me.

  We were at the Steak N' Shake again. It hadn't been more than a few hours since our last visit. We chose the same booth, had the same waitress, and placed more or less the same order, except that this time, Kubo wasn't with us. Poor guy was going to be up till daybreak, writing up his reports and following up with his bosses about the night's work.

  The beauty of showing up at a twenty-four-hour burger place after midnight is that you can walk in covered in dried blood, your clothing torn and body covered in bruises, without getting too many questions about it. Joe and I reclined, drinking milkshakes and saying little.

  All told, we'd rescued about ten children in that building and had captured enough of the traffickers alive to bring the whole operation to a halt. Mission accomplished. As I looked through the window at the organic grocery across the street, I found a few cop cars still parked there, the officers investigating the “disturbance” earlier in the evening, no doubt.

  “So,” began Joe, pointing at me with a french fry. “What do you think Kubo will have for us next?”

  I grimaced. “Dude, I don't even want to think about the next job. I just want to get paid for tonight. A little time off suits me just fine. Maybe I'll go on a vacation or something. Buy a new car.”

  “Oh, yeah?” replied Joe. “What do you have in mind?”

  Before I could answer, the sound of the door opening drew my attention away. It slammed shut, the little bell in the corner dinging, but there was no one there.

  I was about to shrug it off as a trick of the wind when I heard a series of slow footsteps to my back. I turned just as an invisible hand squeezed my shoulder. It was Ernie. “Hey, fellas,” he began. “Sorry to bug ya like this. I meant to get ahold of Kubo, but he's real busy right now and won't answer my calls. He, uh, said something about giving me a third coin if I came along with y'all into that building on Hard Row, right? You hear him say something about that earlier?”

  I couldn't help but laugh.

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  About the Author

  Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again. Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee, brewed strong.

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  Angry Spark - Al K Line

  A Dark Magic Enforcer Short Story

  I’ll give you a tip, free of charge. When an old vampire "buddy" calls you in the middle of the night, and asks for a favor, hang up on the them and stay the hell in bed. I was stupid. I got dressed, and nearly got dead soon after.

  New Job

  "Faz, Faz. Wake up."

  "Huh? What time is it?"

  "Early," said Kate.

  "Need rest," I grumbled, turning over and putting my arm around her waist. I was asleep in a moment, dreaming of floating, then falling, the fluffy-cloud sensation turning into a nightmare. "Ow! What the hell? You pushed me out the bed!"

  "Only because I've been trying to wake you for half an hour. Some guy called, said he wanted to speak to yo
u, and that you were to call him back immediately. He didn't sound like he took no for an answer." Kate was sitting up, looking as sexy as if she'd just fed and the blood magic was running rampant through her system. One of the perks of having a vampire for a girlfriend, especially when she's one of the few nice ones.

  She shifted a little, a mischievous glint in her eye as I scrambled back onto the bed, eager for the distraction now I was awake. She wore nothing but a skimpy vest and a pair of pink shorts, but she shook her head, locks falling about her divine face as I reached for her, and said, "No chance. Go make your bloody call."

  "Who was it? Did they leave a name?" I tried to wipe the sleep from my eyes, but I just wanted to snuggle, or more.

  "Tantalum Method. I'm sure I got it wrong, but he insisted that was the name."

  "Shit. Why didn't you say so?" I half fell, half rolled off the bed and ran around in a bit of a panic.

  Kate just watched me, stoic, then asked, "Looking for this?" as she held up my phone.

  "Yeah, thanks. Damn, I never thought I'd hear from him again."

  "Who is he?"

  "He's someone who did me a favor a long time ago when I accidentally found myself surrounded by a coven of dark witches and was gonna get my ass kicked. Gosh, must have been almost eighty years ago. I was a noob enforcer then, didn't know what I was doing. Did he..."

  Kate was asleep. Not that I was jealous or anything. I took the phone from her lap and went downstairs into the kitchen of our cottage. Our retreat away from the madness that is our often violent world.

  It's always cooler in here, and I like it. I'm sure the hobs, the small creatures you rarely see but help keep the house and land tidy, keep it this way just to be kind.

  I made a mug of instant coffee and sat, staring at my phone. What did Method want after all these years? I'd heard how he'd progressed through the ranks of the gangster life over the intervening time, and some of the stories were less than glowing. He was a hard man. Cold, and with high aspirations within the strict and cutthroat underground hierarchy, but he was a friend, nonetheless, and us users of magic, thieves of magic from the Empty, well, we don't have many friends, or if we do they don't stay alive for long.

  I sipped my coffee, checked the last number that had called, and phoned back the man known as Method. He thinks it makes him sound like more of a gangster, and I guess he's right.

  "Black Spark, the numero uno dark magic enforcer, sorry to wake you."

  "No problem, Method. How you doing?"

  "You know, the usual. A bit of this, a bit of that."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah. How's Grandma?" Everyone calls my Grandma that, and if you ever meet her you'll understand why.

  "Fine. All good." He was stalling, and if Method was stalling it didn't bode well for me.

  "That's great. Ah, can we meet?"

  "What, now?" I checked the time on my phone. One thirty in the damn morning. But then, he was an old vampire, and the old ones are weak as kittens in the daytime, so you had to remain flexible.

  "Yes, now. Like, as soon as possible. This is important, Spark. You know I wouldn't be calling otherwise."

  He sounded rough, even for him. His breathing was always labored because he's always been grossly overweight—unusual for a vampire since they mostly stay lean and youthful looking because of the blood magic, but he felt it made him seem like more of a mob boss or something.

  "I don't want to call in a favor, or make you think you have to come, but... Hell, please come. I'm at the club, in the city. You know the one. Gotta go. Bye."

  I'd heard the shouting and the crashing, not to mention the final throes of bad comedy at the mike, so knew only too well where he was. Downing my coffee, I got up and crept back upstairs, grabbed my clothes as quietly as possible, then dressed in the bathroom.

  After brushing my teeth, I put on a simple black suit from the nineteen sixties, a red shirt—I always wear a red one when on a job as you can guarantee there will be blood and it hides the goop—straightened my tie, argued with my bleached-blond hair, but it failed to behave even with my pleading, laced my winklepickers, then left the house.

  I stood on the front step, breathing deep of the Welsh country air. It was cool and slightly damp, perfect for waking me from my bubble of warmth and safety.

  Checking I had what I needed, I was good to go. Keys, phone, wallet, kick-ass attitude, all present and correct.

  Hi, I'm Faz Pound. Most know me as Spark, a.k.a. Black Spark, Dark Magic Enforcer, and this snappy dresser is heading out, reluctantly, to meet a blast from his past.

  Same Old, Same Old

  The city slept. Cardiff was almost deserted as I drove into the center and parked. Nothing but a few hardcore late-night revelers, lone vampires prowling for likely prey, and the odd insomniac roaming the streets searching for answers the city would never provide. It was also raining, even though it was summer, but that's Wales for you. I remained dry, the rain fizzing millimeters from my body—a perk of being a wizard.

  What did Method want? It would be nothing good, certainly not to catch up over a beer. He was an odd one, and I kind of liked him, but it had been years since we'd spoken and a lot can happen in our world in that time.

  Magic, this drug we're all addicted to, it has a way of getting you into trouble, and vampires are often at the heart of it all. This unknowable energy, it defines me. Ever since a boy, I've been immersed in Hidden culture, stealing magic from the Empty to do my job, dealing with the abusers and the cruel who use it to cause mayhem. I suck the magic right out of them, and there's often no coming back from my particular brand of punishment.

  All too soon I was at the door. Breathing deep, I pushed on faded paint and entered.

  Ah, the Hidden Club, home to Hidden and Regulars alike. A place where you can smoke until your lungs bleed, drink until the sun comes up, fight, argue, laugh if the Chemist is doing new material for his stand-up, and just pray the owner, Brewster Bunker, one of only a few trolls who have their own business, doesn't catch you trying to nick a drink and flattens your skull.

  The air was so thick with smoke and alcohol fumes I had to waft my way through, feet sticking to the booze-soaked floor, feeling lightheaded and half drunk just by breathing. There was no one on stage now, the show over, not that you would've heard them over the beer-infused revelry.

  I ordered a beer, paid promptly, and searched for Method.

  Trying to keep the shock off my face, I headed over to a table that was still intact. Brewster even puts out little lamps with red shades in an attempt to make the place nice, but the clientele just use them as an exciting way to brain someone who looks at them funny.

  "Dude, what the hell happened?" I asked, sitting down and unable to hide my shock. The once heavyset Method was little but skin and bone, flesh hanging off him like wet washing, skin pale and waxy even for a vampire.

  "It's bad, isn't it? I knew it was, but not sure how bad. Spark, you gotta help me. I don't know who else to turn to. Not now, not after this."

  "Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?" I swigged my beer, but I wasn't in the mood, had been staying clean of late so put it down.

  "Aw, hell, this is a nightmare." Method waved an arm about as if the whole world had gone sour, accidentally knocking my beer over in his misery. "Shit, sorry. I'll get you another."

  "Don't worry about it. I didn't want it, anyway."

  "You sure? I don't want to—"

  "Oi, did you just spill beer on my leg?" I turned in my chair to face the goblin who was poking me on the shoulder with a bony finger.

  "Sorry, it was an accident." I looked down at the green git's leg, but there was no splash mark, just the bottle that had rolled up to his foot. Maybe.

  "I fink you done it on purpose. I fink you and your boyfriend are asking for a fight."

  "Look, mate, I said sorry, and to be honest I think it's you that wants a fight, but let me ask you something first."

  The goblin looked confuse
d for a moment, massive nose wobbling like a rubber prosthetic as it scratched. "Er, okay."

  As it spoke, I stood, eyes snapping hard to black, and I called on the Empty for a hit of magic, just enough to do what needed to be done. I slammed my hand onto the goblin's head and said, "How are you enjoying this?" I breathed deep, his flesh shriveling as I drew in his essence, making it mine.

  I couldn't kill him, could never take it all as this was a truly magical creature, but I could make his recovery long and hard.

  "Argh, geddof, geddof." The goblin, a nasty piece of work I knew from around, struggled to stand but he was just a bully, and a poor fighter, relying on intimidation rather than skill.

  "Stay right where you are or I'll drain you until your mates here will use you as a footrest for a fortnight. Understand?"

  He nodded once and stopped squirming. He knew as well as I did that it was no idle threat. I would do as I promised and his "mates" really would take advantage of his weakened state.

  I eased off, returned the magic to the Empty, and let it fade from my ink. The tattoos that covered my entire body returning to their usual beautiful designs rather than a way to channel elemental energy.

  I sat, not bothering to even look at the goblin, and said, "Now, where were we?"

  Method said nothing about the altercation—it's par for the course in the Hidden Club—merely adjusted his position so he was a little more upright. I could see the strain on his face as he moved—weak as a kitten, and that's not good for a vampire. "You were staring at me in horror while I waste away, that's where we were."

  "Ah, right." I let my body settle, already longing for magic to course through my veins and ink again. The Hidden Club has that effect on you, as you know it won't be long before you need to blast the dark arts because of one thing or another. I didn't know what it was, but I was jittery around Method. Something was off, and it wasn't just the fact he looked like he'd been on a crash diet and didn't know when to stop. "What's going on? There's something weird happening, right?"