by Al K. Line
I knew my breakfast was over. Time to go pay Rikka a visit; no avoiding it any longer.
"I should kill you right now," said Dancer, jabbing a finger into private airspace in front of my face, dirty fingernails stinking of soil and death—he'd obviously had a busy night digging up somebody for one reason or another.
"You can try," I sneered, trying to flex my bicep as I stood and squared to him, the effect slightly ruined by the toast dripping butter onto the linoleum.
Dancer stared at me, clearly trying to figure out what to do. He knew I wasn't to be messed with, that my looks were deceiving, but he also knew that the chances of anyone stepping up to help me out if he tried something were minimal—I wasn't Mr. Popular at the moment. He sighed. "Boss wants to see you. Now."
"Fine, just let me finish my—"
"Now! And what's with the ghoul outside? Making new friends, are we?"
I dunked my egg, took a bite of toast, and bowed to the watching misfits. "See you later, Madge." I waved at her as I goose-stepped after Dancer who was already at the door, holding it open for me and scowling through his thin and pale lips from a face I had thought about punching more times than I'd eaten at Madge's. And I eat there a lot.
"Sort out your hair," said Madge.
I stepped out into the cold; the door closed behind us.
Oompf. "Why you goddamn—" I felt his icy necromancer skills tug at my tendons and reacted instantly. My tattoos flared, eddying around me and swarming into the Empty, sucking what was needed out and into my right hand.
Feeling like Spiderman, I flipped my hand upright and blasted the tiniest sliver of dark magic toward Dancer, visible like a spiked line of noxious smoke so black it would freeze a Regular's heart. Not that they could see it now I was back to being myself. I'd just look like I was in need of my meds.
"Argh!"
"I told you not to mess with me, Dancer. What the hell?"
"My hand. You took my finger off!"
"I'll do a lot more than that if you try any of your animation tricks on me, Dancer." The idiot had tried to take me over, make me move against my will like he did his stinking corpses. What the hell was he thinking? All I did in return was fire a little of the dark stuff at his pinkie. Hardly a scratch really.
I kept the sickness out of my face. Dancer managed less well. His already waxy skin turned kind of yellow, like he was the corpse, and he fought to stay upright as the Empty came to take its payment.
Why he had bothered, I don't know. I was going, wasn't I? Guess he just thought he could try it on as I was in trouble already. His loss.
"My finger! Look at it," he moaned like a baby. I dunno, some people. It wasn't like he couldn't grow another one—a few weeks and he'd be right as rain. For a bloke that raises the dead for a living—and for fun, I have the sneaking suspicion—he sure was being dramatic.
"The new one will be nicer, all pink and shiny. You need a bit of color anyway." Dancer just stared at me with hate. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Where's the ride then? Look, if you dragged me out of Madge's just to play these games and Rikka didn't send you then I'll go back and finish my breakfast."
Dancer nodded down the street a little, past the bemused Oliver. There was no mistaking one of Rikka's vehicles. Right then I wished I had my own transport, but I could use one of Rikka's when I needed wheels, so I guessed I'd have to tag along with old pinkie.
I couldn't resist. "Hey, Dancer, guess what? I have a new nickname for you now. Pinkie, how does that sound? Kind of nice, right?" I gave him my most winning of smiles, but for some reason he wasn't impressed. "Suit yourself," I said, and walked away, ignoring Oliver.
"You coming?" I called over my shoulder. Dancer, a.k.a. Pinkie, clutched his hand and joined me at the SUV.
Rikka, Mage Rikka as he prefers to be called, actually insists—he thinks it makes him sound more intellectual than wizard—is a bit of a car buff, and he has a small fleet of identical vehicles his staff or part-time employees can use for his business. They are, to put it mildly, a little OTT for my taste. But I seldom drive and don't own a vehicle—this way fuel is free and I always have new car smell, which is awesome.
Cardiff is not exactly teeming with off-road opportunities, at least not in the city center, and anyway, you really don't want to get Rikka's vehicles dirty. Nevertheless, he runs a fleet of Range Rover Sport SUVs just because he likes room and comfort. Fair enough, as he really does need the room. You'll see, just wait until we meet him, okay? It's not like he goes out much though, but anyway, it is what it is. He likes gas guzzlers and can afford it.
"What, you not gonna open the door for me?" I asked Dancer.
"Just get in." He walked out into the road and opened the driver side door and clambered in, moaning about his finger and giving empty threats.
I joined him inside and put on my seatbelt. Safety first.
The rear door opened and we both turned.
"What the hell are you doing?" shouted Dancer, face as dark as his art.
"Don't think so, Oliver."
The vampire scowled at us and said, "Taavi said to watch you, Spark, until this is dealt with. All of it." He moved to get in and me and Dancer exchanged glances.
Dancer was ready to call up all manner of nasties and I had to put an arm on his shoulder. I stared into his eyes, shook my head.
I turned to Oliver, still half inside. "Look, you may have your orders, but I don't answer to you, or Taavi. Dancer certainly doesn't, and I know for a fact Rikka will go mad if you make his car smell of vampire. I'm going to his place now, make your own way. But get out of the damn car, right now!"
Oliver's eyes widened and I could see his mind weighing up the options. He got out and was gone. He'd be there before us. Vampires can move fast, really fast.
"Okay, look, Dancer, I know I messed up, but I'm trying to fix it." He gave me a cold stare. "Fine. I was going to fix it. Nobody can think on an empty stomach though. I just needed breakfast. Look, I've already seen Taavi so I needed some down time."
"You've seen Taavi, already? Damn, Spark, you really are in trouble if that guy got you so soon. Even the Boss, um, Mage Rikka, only just heard. That's why you've got the vampire escort then?"
"Yeah. As for Rikka, it's because he insists on ignoring the TV and the Internet," I said, knowing how much the Boss hated what he called a "temporary blip on the road back to the good days."
Rikka still believes that the time of magic will come and we can all somehow live together, Regulars and Empties—what we sometimes refer to ourselves as.
He thinks that the new technology is a bad idea, aches for times long past, when he was a child and things were simpler.
"Whatever, but he's not happy. Far from it. You better tread carefully, you know what he's like when he's in a mood." Dancer turned to me. "How could you, Spark? How could you be so stupid? And you killed someone. You actually killed an innocent Regular. Are you nuts?"
Dancer isn't a bad guy, not really, just a bit full of himself. He may enjoy playing with dead dudes but he is no killer, and as far as I know has never killed a human being, vampire, troll—not that you can—or anyone you would class as a sentient being.
He's still a muppet though, but harmless. Unless you're dead and somebody paid him to re-animate you for reasons I try not to ever think about as otherwise I know I won't sleep well at night.
"It was an accident. I can't believe it either. Poor guy. Okay, let's get this over with. Take me to your leader." I know, lame right? It's just I've always wanted to say it and that was my chance.
"Dick." Dancer started up the Range Rover and pulled out into the damp streets of Cardiff.
I tried not to let my half finished breakfast come up. Yeah, Mage Rikka has that effect on you.
The Big Boss
Mage Rikka is the head honcho in the UK for all things magic related—he's even got a certificate and everything.
Although there are any number of subsets of people, an
d species, that have their own leaders or rulers, officially known as Heads—and some that answer to nobody and you couldn't organize them if you tried, have you ever met a troll?—we all ultimately answer to Rikka in our country.
He has an elevated position as not only UK Head of the Dark Council—nearly always composed of wizards as nobody else takes to rules and the Laws like they do—but also the UK Head of the Hidden Council.
The Hidden Council encompasses all Hidden, including vampires, whether they like it or not. Not that the vampires play by the rules, and you would never see Taavi doing something just because Rikka said so. It's all a bit daft really, as the Hidden Council beats the Dark Council—which is strictly for human magic users, so why they bother I don't know. That's humans for you, always got to have their own thing and make life more complicated.
All wizards, witches, users and abusers of the Empty that aren't innately magic by right of birth or species, a.k.a. humans, as well as those that are truly magical beings—true Hidden—answer to him. This is not an option. It is how it works for the Hidden. Think of it like normal humans answering to the law, except ours is written with a capital L, so it makes it more important—see how they think?
Rikka is our law, or "Law," and he dispenses justice or punishment as he sees fit. As long as he keeps everything in check then there is little interference from the Hidden or Dark Councils. Why we still insist on the "Dark" bit I don't know, I guess it stuck long ago, but there is no other magic for humans. It's all dark, and it all hurts to use, but I suppose other species don't have that problem, so for them it's just magic. Not even that, they just are what they are.
It's a strange hierarchy and not one that has any specific rules as to conduct, and that's probably why we get ourselves into trouble, and why there are people like me. More than anything else I'm an intermediary, able to move between Heads, species, Houses, Wards, loose collectives, even gangs, and usually be welcome.
What can I say? I'm an amenable kind of guy who deals with many problems that arise. I arrange meetings, truces, sometimes even fights when there is no other option, and basically enforce what Rikka wants.
He has his businesses, and he certainly has his people, but for the proper work, the delicate stuff, he calls on me and a few others. Semi-freelancers, more world-wise than many Hidden. People who know the lay of the land and can talk without blowing someone up, or conjuring a demon just because a zombie spilled your pint, or a necromancer stole that corpse you had your eye on.
Enforcer. Dealer of justice or punishment. Arbitrator, peace keeper, and all round lackey to the Boss.
Why the big wigs all chose Cardiff is a long story, but it goes back centuries and all stems from everyone failing to keep up with the changes of ever-advancing societies. Stuck in the middle of it all, in large cities like London, things easily got out of hand.
They couldn't cope with the pace, found no peace with things moving at breakneck speed, and as technology took jump after jump they all moved out here, where the pace of life is a little slower and there is room to breathe.
Personally, I think that is all nonsense and they just like the countryside—it's right on your doorstep here—and they are a shrewd lot too. You get a castle in Wales for the same price as a crappy apartment above a butcher's shop in Central London.
Anyway, whatever. I was being taken to meet my boss, and I felt sick. It had nothing to do with magic or a greasy breakfast either.
Did I mention I'm sort of a detective too, unofficially? No? Well, it comes with the territory. Enforcers need to track down the troublemakers, find solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems, and placate angry species or humans, which means doing a lot of detective work and knowing a lot of things. People too. Although I use people like this: "People." See me doing bunny ears?
Rikka keeps odd hours, meaning he never seems to sleep, or not in a bed anyway. Although, because of his size, I seriously doubt there is a bed massive enough for him, but with his money he could get one made, I'm sure. But I digress.
Dancer pulled up the SUV alongside several identical vehicles and we got out.
"Goddamn. Oliver again," I muttered. He was at the end of the row, looking as smug as ever.
"If Rikka sees him you'll be in even more trouble," said Dancer, smiling.
"Any more grinning and I'll tell Rikka you gave him a ride."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Try me."
We ignored Oliver, knowing even he wasn't stupid enough to follow us inside House Rikka territory. The fact he was looking increasingly annoyed lifted my spirits a little, not enough to make me do a jig, but it helped.
I followed Dancer through the front of the building, past Rikka's heavies who stared at me blankly—trolls, they are very good at hanging around looking big and menacing, because they are—and tried to stay as cool and calm as a rapper named after a refreshing beverage, as I walked alongside Dancer past the reception. I winked at the new girl.
A few twists and turns later, through a private door you could never open without being one of us, and we were in Rikka's lair.
Guess where we are. No? It's a health club, a fitness center of all things. I know, right?
Of all the places Rikka could set up as his home turf, his seat of power, his place of business, he picked a leisure center. He thought it was brilliant. "Gotta love these recurring subscriptions," he told me once, rubbing fat hands together with glee. "It's the best business model in existence. People sign up for a year, pay in advance with no way of getting out of it, and then they hardly ever use the place. It's like printing money."
He runs a load of them, all over the country. Weird, but smart.
When people first meet him, they expect to be taken to a night club, some seedy joint, maybe with strippers and vampires or something, loads of weird stuff going on and all Gothic and scary like. Or something like Taavi's, proper old skool with skulls and ancient, forbidden books, maybe even a few lesser demons on leashes just in case, but no, they go to "Rikka's Fitness Emporium." That's what it's called! And he has loads of them, and people pay him a fortune for the pleasure of not getting fit. Some even use it just to have a shower and the odd sauna. Nuts. Whatever. Wish I'd thought of it.
Rikka set up shop in a large back room in a corner of a proper hardcore gym. There are no shiny machines here, this is members only. Rikka's people. And they are serious about their muscle. There is always more testosterone in the air, and more steroid use, than at Mr. Olympia. Some of these guys would win if they cared for such a title—they don't.
Rikka doesn't lift weights though, he lifts chocolate. And cakes, and ice-cream, and anything he can stuff into his mouth—if he can find it beneath the folds of fat that make him look like a partially deflated football with a lot of hair.
Dancer opened the door to the gym. The stench of sweat, the clanging of weights, and the grunts of the jacked greeted us.
I saw Rikka over in the corner. He had donuts left on his desk. I wished I'd still had memory loss as I caught sight of the jam-filled goodies. If you knew Rikka then you knew that was a very bad sign indeed.
Dancer closed the door behind us; everyone looked at me.
I wished I was back at Taavi's. At least vampires aren't as sweaty.
What's Your Plan?
I walked past the meat-heads, although many of them were trolls—so, rock-heads, I guess—plus a few dwarves up from the mines, or able to drag themselves away from their mountains of gold for a bit of business topside, and a few shifters.
The place was busy, as always. Serious Hidden lifters aren't fans of shiny chrome and the latest fashions, especially when they have to wait for Regulars to finish their sets, so Rikka's place is always rammed. Everyone can be themselves, and it's always a relief to not have to pretend to be something that you aren't. Which meant there was a group of eight foot tall—and almost as wide—trolls at the squat rack, a monstrous thing looking more like some arcane torture device than exercise equipment.
Rikka got the floor reinforced years ago after an accident, and upgraded the equipment to make it more specialized. The rack was modified for trolls, skip-loads of plates were delivered, bars thicker than a human leg were specially commissioned and the trolls were happy.
A few dwarves were doing curls. In place of the usual barbells and dumbbells were bespoke hammers, huge things that I couldn't even dream of lifting. But they were happily pumping out the reps, going up and down the rack. Man, they have some serious biceps. All that mining, I suppose.
There were a few mean looking goblins at the adapted shoulder press station, shouting and cursing at one another. All were sweaty and sick looking, as none of them would admit defeat and proclaim another stronger.
There were a few regular looking humans, although even then some of them were using equipment that was way too heavy for a normal person, mostly those that spent only part of their time in human form.
And then there were the shifters, sticking to their own kind, bears and wolves, a few others, all pointedly ignoring the other groups, trying to outdo each other and pretend they had no interest in what anyone or anything else was doing.
The atmosphere was electric. Loud, and full of grunts, groans, the occasional scream.
Rikka thrived amid the testosterone, probably as it made him happy that his people, or those he could call on when in need, were ensuring they were as ready for work, and as strong, as possible. It also meant he knew exactly where they were.
One gym-rat in particular caught my eye, like she always does.
"Hey, Plum," I said, trying to look all handsome and carefree, but feeling a little self-conscious about the size of my muscles when faced with some of the dudes, or dudesses—with trolls, dwarves, and creatures like imps you can never tell.
Plum finished her set of bench press as I paused in front of her. She sat up and wiped her forehead with a towel. You know you have it bad when you find sweat sexy. "Hey, Spark. You're in trouble, you know that, right?"
