Wild Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 8)

by Al K. Line

  For in this room, this disconcertingly small, rather funky smelling and dangerous as hell room, was the fractured reality that they'd come through and that could take them back where they'd come from.

  The longer they remained in my world, the weaker they became, and a few seconds was all I wanted right now. A moment to get my focus back and come up with a daring yet undoubtedly inventive and some would say ingenious plan.

  I got nothing.

  While the sound of torment was dulled by the closed door, so the room came to life as I shone my torch. Where the souls in limbo had emerged, the air remained black, the fracture empty of light, hovering high up near the double height ceiling. The rest of the room was empty apart from a small globe on the floor.

  "A snow globe? You have got to be kidding me." Was this a sick joke of Jerard's? Fake white snow danced inside the glass globe on its small stand and I figured I'd been duped, that the power I'd sensed must have been the other souls, not Morag's in particular.

  As I glared at the globe in disgust, I realized it wasn't snow inside and this was no cheap trinket. This was an orbuculum. A genuine crystal ball.

  I took two small steps to reach the globe, clear halfway across the cramped room, and bent to peer at it.

  I shouldn't have looked.

  Inside was a murky swirl of milky white with a darkness languidly twisting and turning in perpetual motion. Light defied all rules, casting strange shadows as it occasionally rotated in random directions on the cheap stand.

  I shone the torch and it reacted as if alive, the white turning gray, the black shooting away to the far side of the globe. Was this it? Her? Morag's life essence trapped somehow in this rare, ancient ball of crystal?

  "Morag, are you in there?" I whispered, peering at it closely.

  Something powerful and incredibly harsh stabbed into my mind like a spear of hate. I slipped, and fell onto my backside, almost dropping the flashlight.

  That's survival 101—you never drop your only source of light when lost in a sewer with untold otherworldly shenanigans going on. Easing away, I pushed out mentally to shake off the scream that had pierced my consciousness. It was Morag all right, and she was less than happy about her incarceration.

  In fact, she was utterly insane. I got a glimpse with that one stab at my mind the thing once known as Morag's soul had made. She had been trapped for an eternity in a swirling maelstrom of foggy nothingness. Her soul ripped and twisted this way and that as the magic-warped crystal that constituted the globe eddied and swirled in unknowable and impossible patterns defying the laws of nature.

  She was a concept, an essence of Morag distilled down. Squeezed tight into the crystal itself. Like a child's plaything, unable to stop it, but made to endure forever the loss of everything, only her mind free to roam. And roam it did, even now. I felt the anger and wildness it contained, but also understood it was mindless, that this was a gibbering wreck of a thing, no longer a person. It had been broken over a spiritual eternity, Jerard's punishment for what she had done to Pierre total and utterly ruthless.

  Guess she deserved it, but it was pretty harsh. Jerard was undoubtedly one hardcore dude and then some.

  Morag was gone, out the other side of insanity and lost to herself. What little remained was fast fading, weakening as I was sure Morag herself, her physical self, would be. The time was nearly upon them both, for each was part of the other and there was but one in the final moments.

  The Morag soul had been tortured by being nothing, by succumbing to an emptiness that endured. Floating endlessly on a sea of confusion and horror, locked in darkness away from any sight or sound that could possibly permeate down here deep in the sewers.

  Knowing I had no choice, and mentally prepared with a barrier like the steel door firmly in place in my mind to prevent me getting any cozier with Morag's soul and feeling even a hint of what she felt, I picked up the globe.

  It was heavy, much heavier than I'd expected, and freezing cold. So cold that as I went to move it I found my hands stuck, frozen to the surface. I peeled them away painfully, skin ripping as I did so, and as red hot pain seared across my fingertips I let out a howl.

  It must have pissed off the hungry creature in the tunnel, as the moment I screamed the door smashed open, just missing me. There in the doorway was the gaping maw of dozens of desperate souls all intent on one thing.

  They wanted a Faz Pounder and I was well and truly on the menu.

  Bit of Bother

  The globe felt like it weighed a hundred pounds although it was probably only ten. Luckily, I had large pockets and a good quality jacket, so the stitching wasn't about to come loose any time soon. I stuffed it in nervously with blistered and blackened fingers and rapidly formed a plan.

  It went something like this. Get the hell out, get up to the surface, give Morag back to Morag, get Kate, go home. Relax.

  Not much of a plan, but simple is best.

  Knowing the longer I waited the worse it would be, I took a deep breath, yanked the door open, and ducked. The spirit mash-up zipped into the room and I felt rather than heard it let out a collective gasp as it came perilously close to the rent in reality. It may have been dangerous and scary, but it wasn't too bright. Its desire for me had made it forget the peril it was in.

  I jumped down and ran, sure it was pointless but needing the movement just to check I was still alive and not in a nightmare of my own choosing. Within a second it was after me, whooshing down the tunnel like something they cut from the final Ghostbusters movie for being too scary for kids and adults alike.

  Almost upon me, it screamed its intent. A mournful shriek that slammed into me with as much force as if it were a troll. I stumbled forward, arms flailing, and only just managed to stay upright. Careening forward as it hit again, I slipped, my winklepickers skidding on a particularly squishy something I really didn't want to think about. I was down, flying forward and sliding along the tunnel as foul thick liquid damned up in front of me as it tried to pass.

  Coughing, spluttering, utterly grossed out, and annoyed at the loss of another suit, my anger rose, mixed with frustration at being thwarted so close to the end. As my ink thickened, the magic swirled, and my strength shot through the roof—something I would pay for later—a thought, clear and bright, came to me as I lay in the foulness.

  Would it work? Could it? Only one way to find out.

  Going well beyond anything I'd ever tried before, unknowing of the consequences but somehow confident just the same, I readied to do what I did best.

  "I don't care if you're all dead, I'm gonna suck the magic right out of you," I warned.

  The maddened entity, now filling the tunnel, dominated my sight as it squeezed past in front of me. The entity shone with a dull, white anger. It understood. It shrank back then flashed forward in a rush, attempting to consume my energy before I did as I'd promised.

  Powered by boosted muscles, I exploded to my feet and focused every ounce of my being on my unique skill-set. Mouth wide, chest expanded, I breathed in deep of the elemental forces that converged to create such a vile mess of minds. These were no regular souls, these were something brought forth by magic. Existing only because of Jerard and the rent in the fabric between our disparate worlds. The souls within the single head were powered mostly by magic now, unable to remain here otherwise, and I sucked them on down.

  I gulped until my lungs were ready to burst. The head stretched out in a spasming line as it backed away from me, longer and longer, fragile as it pulled away down the tunnel, becoming weaker and more ethereal the tauter it grew.

  It was inside me now, bits and pieces of misery and anguish. Fragments of their souls, their lives, their loss and pain. Hate and humiliation all surging into my magical core.

  Quickly, I released the breath and with it the twisted energy. It shot into the room and through the tear. Again, I breathed deep with more confidence this time, and here it came, a bunched up mess of twisted, rotten torment that smashed into my sys
tem almost bowling me over again.

  For a terrible moment I was these pathetic creatures, taking on their essence as always happens when I remove the magic of Hidden. It was an ungodly hurt that threatened to tear my sanity away like a vicious wax job, but I spat it out and repeated the process over and over. Each lungful was easier than the last, until the souls split into fragmented shards of each individual and I shifted in all directions, sucking them up like a vacuum cleaner. Devouring them easily now they were but whispers of what they had once been.

  It was terrible, for at their core these things were merely lost, driven slowly mad, and nothing like their original selves. They had gone the wrong way in their afterlives and became lost to themselves, stripped of their humanity and identity to become nothing but desperate echoes of a past they clung to even though it was forever out of reach.

  Nonetheless, I spat them back out and they all hurtled into the room. They were gone. A final absolution, never to return, never to want or wait, just nothing. It was all I could offer. Final peace. Everlasting rest.

  Breathing ragged, I spat out the remaining wisps and memories of the lost souls and fought barbed pains in my chest as I tried to breathe properly but got nothing but fetid, malodorous air for my efforts. Half crouched, I edged forward shining the light with a shaking hand as I searched for a way out.

  It didn't take long. There was a modern looking ladder up ahead and rather than resting to gather my energy I gripped the rungs immediately and climbed, so slow I thought I'd never reach the end.

  Lactic acid turning my limbs to pure fire, drenched in sweat, but resolute, I hit the top. With a weak blast of magic I shot the manhole cover easily thirty feet into the air. Must have been the mood I was in.

  Fresh air rushed into the tunnel and I gulped even though my lungs burned worse than my shoulders and my throat was on fire. Then I poked my head out the top, only to find myself peering into a misty wasteland. I clutched at loose stones and ancient, broken concrete and somehow dragged myself out, managed to stand, staggered sideways, and promptly collapsed.

  My time underground had gone quite well I thought. All things considered.

  But First...

  Being a mindful citizen, I hunted around in the haze, weak light from far overhead only just reaching me. I finally found the manhole resting amongst a pile of mangled metal, no damage done. In all kinds of hurt, I still wheeled it back into place and then took stock of my surroundings.

  I was lost.

  By the looks of it I wasn't in the best part of the city. Weak spots of light overhead turned out to be streetlights, and there was an almost deafening humming. Glancing up, I followed the rise of a huge concrete pillar covered in graffiti, pale and gray in the thick air. My guess was I was under a bridge, and roads criss-crossed above, skirting this area of Paris for whatever reason. No matter, I didn't plan on staying here long.

  Checking the time, I was surprised to discover it was two in the morning. Hopefully I had plenty of time, but to be sure I messaged Kate and got a reply saying Morag was becoming frantic and acting more irrational than ever. Her body was weak and her magic had waned a little. Another day at least, though, said Kate, so all was far from lost.

  I typed with gross smelling fingers I had to rub against my jacket to dry off, and replied that I had the soul and would be there in an hour or two. And that I was sorry I'd left her alone there and I loved her.

  Time to get this settled.

  Exhausted, soaking wet, stinking of Paris' foulness, and mind haunted by the souls of the damned and the despised, I stumbled away from this strange place, unable to make sense of it with vision clouded by echoes of ghosts and the mist. Maybe I was near the Seine, that would make sense. Or a body of water anyway, that would explain the mist.

  A glow in the distance caught my attention and I walked slowly toward it, mindful of my steps, aware I was far from in top form. As I got close I heard voices, and before I realized it I was passing makeshift homes of cardboard and scraps of plastic, a hideaway for the homeless of the city.

  Wary faces peered out from the tiny shelters, other people scrambled to hide. A group of wild looking men paused their conversation as I passed where they sat huddled around a small fire, watching me with distrusting scared eyes, trying to look brave in case I meant them harm. I nodded but didn't pause, walked with my back straight and my eyes focused on the future. I wasn't a threat and they soon returned to their stories of better days.

  In a few minutes I left behind the rough ground and the noise and found myself on the streets, winklepickers on freshly laid asphalt the only sound. Such a disparity between the unwanted and the constant improvements where the citizens with homes lived their busy lives, same as every other city in the world.

  I kept going, determined and refusing to let my body rest, and walked down the edge of a street until I found a signpost. With French so poor I took three attempts to give the street name to the taxi company I called, I nonetheless was soon being driven to the hotel after one hell of a surcharge for my stinking condition.

  You may think it strange I didn't head straight to Morag's, but these things are always delicate situations, and I had a reputation to uphold. Going in there looking like I'd barely escaped with my life, looking exhausted and ready to collapse, would not put me in a favorable position. I had to look the part as well as act it, and that meant being as smart as if the whole job was a breeze and it was her failing, not mine, that had made her call in the Brit to clean up her mess since she was unable to do it herself.

  It was with a lightness in my step that I closed the door to the suite. I wasted no time in stripping, bagging up my clothes, and depositing them outside the door. I ran the shower until it was hot enough to melt flesh and stepped in with a sigh. Oh, how good it felt. As the waste of the city sluiced away, and the water pummeled my aching scalp and shoulders, I relaxed a little. Everything hurt, everything was bruised, and exhaustion wasn't far away.

  I was a different kind of wizard these days, if I was a wizard at all, with deep control of the Empty and my innate power, but I wasn't infallible. Although I paid no price for my thievery, no overwhelming hurt, I was still done for. But I had no time to wallow in self-pity, this was far from over.

  So I used the expensive shampoo in its little bottle until it was empty, rubbed my skin raw with the tiny soaps I kept dropping, until I eventually felt partially alive again. Soon I was dry, dressed in my last clean suit, wearing a crisp white shirt. Hopefully the omen was a good one, and I wouldn't be getting any blood on my swanky new outfit.

  With the orbuculum in a small satchel I slung over a shoulder, my resolve hardened, and my anticipation at what was to come growing, I closed the door and headed back out into the balmy night air of Paris.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  A Struggle

  The night was warm but I didn't feel it. I'm not sure I felt much of anything. I shut down, just walked. One foot in front of the other, that's all I had to do. Keep going, each step taking me closer to the end.

  I didn't call for a cab, wanted to do something physical. Needed to. However much I hurt, and longed for this night to be over, I knew I had to be mobile, to have a focus as I went to greet my fate. The movement energized me, as if I was being recharged while my arms and legs pumped and I strode purposefully through the empty night.

  Clean and smart, I felt almost reborn, emerging from the city's sewers as a new man. Maybe not wiser, probably more jaded if anything, but I'd made it through and beaten down the terrors that lurk on the other side. That glimpse into realms best avoided made me appreciate how wondrous it was to be alive, to have the chance of happiness and to feel the air on my face, the earth beneath my feet. Or maybe I'm just too stubborn to let the bastards ever put me down. Who knows? But I knew I wasn't beaten, that I had what was asked of me, and I intended to collect.

  I ate up the distance, walking in a trance, thoughts banished, just focusing on the movement and the sense of being
alive. Of breathing deeply and having the stars above me. The tunnels had affected me more than I'd realized, and it wasn't until I was myself once more and walking through the streets that it all finally hit home. God it felt great to be alive.

  The dark depths beneath the city were like a purgatory in their own right, as if I'd been in limbo along with the tormented whispers and broken fragments of human beings. Now I was whole and alive again, on a mission, heading toward who knew what without a plan, same as always. Some things never change and I guess they never will.

  I took comfort in that, for it meant I was myself. That I was still Faz Pound and acting as irrationally as ever. Should I have a plan? A way to get what I wanted without giving Morag what she maybe deserved? This was a problem, a large one, as although I had her soul it was damaged goods and she couldn't take it back. It would be worse than dying soulless, much worse, and then what? What would her response be? Would she refuse us our prize even as she took her last breath, staring at the contained essence in the crystal that was her but not her?

  There was only one way to find out. I had no answers, so I walked and thought of nothing. Listened to my breathing, the background hum of the city. Things were still messed up in my head and my body, however much I tried to deny it, and I tasted foreign smells on my tongue which made no sense but was enjoyable nonetheless.

  Soon enough I was at my final destination. The house was quiet; no parties tonight. I was surprised by the lack of security. Had they abandoned her as she lay slowly dying? Had she dismissed her staff? Or were they hiding, waiting for unsuspecting callers in the middle of the night?

  Eager to see Kate, I pushed through the gate, a spark of magic unlocking it with ease, and marched up the drive to the front door of the house where my future and my wife awaited me.

  A Sentry

  Quiet is nice. Silence allows me to gather my thoughts and enjoy the moment. Revel in being alive and with only a few chunks out of me. When there is peace I can access the Empty with ease, draw magic inside as if I'm gulping water greedily right from a running tap.