Black Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 1) (10 page)

"Okay, I accept. Don't forget, you owe me twice for this. And I will collect."

"I know you will. Come on, let's get this over with."

Dancer smiled; I followed him inside.

*

One bonus of being in contact with the Empty is that you don't have to worry about signing in, paying for things, or freaking out about CCTV. Once you've done your apprenticeship—although it isn't made up of studying books and practicing on frogs, I can tell you that much—then you always have that little bit of magic bubbling away just below the surface.

It's part of you, a disguise like for the true Hidden, and normally it masks any magic use from Regular eyes. You know, apart from when you've had a run-in with a succubus. She must have worked me over good to have made my actions visible to all.

The magic that is always with you isn't enough to make you sick, or put a downer on your day-to-day life, just sufficient to allow you to blend into the background so people don't notice you unless you act like an idiot—like I did earlier on and then freaked and dyed my hair.

It's why so many involved in magic are what you would call unsavory elements. Or, to put it bluntly, criminals.

Imagine if you could walk into a bank, a nice jewelers, or a technology store and pick up what you wanted and walk out. Tempting, right? It's not just about magic either, it's the knowledge that it's there if you need it.

All the best thieves are the ones that hide in plain sight. The everyman. The person with enough confidence to walk into a place, pick up a 50" TV and just wander right on out like they have every right to.

Or the person who puts on a suit and a name tag, walks into a jewelers and starts writing on a clipboard and asking questions, and in minutes has the staff running into the back to get the books and call their boss while he walks out with a million in watches.

It's all about attitude. Add to that the ability to not be seen—you're there but not there—and it's easy to see why anyone who has touched that infinite and dangerous place becomes somewhat addicted to the rush and the power it gives.

Why am I telling you this? Just so you know that we didn't have to sign in, we didn't worry about CCTV, and we were perfectly relaxed as we pushed through the doors into the morgue after Stanley buzzed us into his place of work.

Now I was back to being me, and no longer seriously depleted from the terrible events of the morning, I hid in plain sight and had no need for a disguise. Lesson learned? Lie low. Don't panic, dye your hair, and cut it off in a tizz like a little kid.

"I guess I don't need to ask what you guys want," said Stanley before he turned back to the cadaver on the slab, scooped out a liver then plopped it onto a scales with a squelch. He licked his lips. I swear, he does it every time. He can't get enough of this kind of thing. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you two together. Not usually a team, are you?"

"Desperate times," I said, feeling weird as I was an Alone. I never worked with anyone else, and certainly not people like Dancer.

"Blondie here got himself into a mess and I'm helping him clear it up," said Dancer, smiling that thin-lipped smile of his that always makes me want to smack him across the head with something heavy and pull off his lips with a pair of rusty pliers.

"I heard." Stanley turned and looked at us both in that unnerving way of his—it gives you the creeps. "I like the hair. Suits you."

"Thanks." I put a hand through the hacked locks. It still felt weird, like I was missing half my head.

"So, what can I do for you fellas?" Stanley smiled, like he didn't already know the answer.

I hated it, hated it more than anything. Even just being in his presence makes you feel about as important as an ant. It's his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, the knowing nod and the sheer futility of it all.

Stanley is a seer, and not just any old seer. Stanley is what they called a nutter. Haha, joke, sort of. Stanley can not only see the future, he's stepped over the line, and there is never any going back. It's why, out of all the possible paths you can choose when you open yourself to the Empty, looking into the future is the worst possible choice you can make.

Go too far, which is easy to do, especially before you have decades of practice and know exactly what you are doing, and you're stuck with the lot. Yeah, all of it.

That's why there aren't many seers, not real ones. Most of them kill themselves because they push the limits and can't handle what they unlock. Stanley seems to enjoy it though, and that's what makes him so damn freaky and frightening.

I could see Dancer squirming and shifting from one leg to the other. He knew as well as I did that our whole being there was pointless and nothing but a little amusement for Stanley. Déjà vu of the worst kind, as he really had already seen it happen. More. He'd genuinely lived it, experienced every aspect of his own life until death, and he isn't phased in the slightest.

It amuses him. There's nothing scarier than that.

So there we are, a necromancer and a dark magic enforcer, feeling like bugs as we stood staring at a smiling seer with a heart now in his hands and a faraway look in his eyes. He is always well dressed underneath his lab coat, is well fed, gets regular exercise, and looks like a white collar banker rather than a guy who spends his days up to the elbows in other people's goopy insides, living a life already lived.

People. Nothing weirder, right?

We snapped back to attention, both of us clearly thinking about the strange life of Stanley. "Um, can we borrow the chess player for a bit? Please?" I asked.

"Why, whatever makes you think I would be willing to hand him over to you two degenerates? You're a necromancer, Dancer, and you, Spark, well, I do like you my dear boy, but..."

"Okay," I sighed, "spill it. What do you want?"

"What makes you think I want anything?" he said, dropping the heart onto the scales, doing the lip-licking thing again.

"Because you always do."

"There is something you could do for me," he said cryptically.

"Okay." It wasn't going to be a request to be taken bowling.

You What!?

"No way. Out of the question. She's a sweet old lady and she doesn't do that kind of thing," I said, adamant.

"I'm not asking for you to arrange a night of debauchery with a selection of lubricants and rubberized paraphernalia," replied Stanley, looking hurt. I shuddered. "I'm asking if you'll put in a good word for me and arrange a date. Somewhere nice. I thought maybe Ginaro's. She likes Italian, doesn't she?"

"Well, yeah, she does. But goddammit, isn't there anything else you want?"

"Not really, no." Stanley smiled, and I shook like a spider was crawling toward my man bits, my hands tied behind my back, and I was being made to watch.

This was seriously bad news, I mean really bad.

Why would he ask if he knew it led nowhere? Was he asking because he knew he had to as it was his future, even if he got turned down? Or was he asking because he knew that somehow they did go on a date and then ended up living happily ever after?

He could become my step-granddad. It doesn't bear thinking about. Anything but that. Imagine, every time you saw him he'd know exactly what you were about to do or say, look at you with that all-seeing tilt of the head like he was bored yet amused at the same time.

"Fine. I'll ask Grandma if she will let you take her out on a date. But no funny business," I warned. "She's a sweet, innocent, gentle old lady and I won't have you taking advantage of my own flesh and blood."

"Heaven forbid, dear boy. I shall behave with the utmost respect. She is a fine specimen of womanhood, no doubt, and I will treat her as delicately as I treat my corpses." Stanley plopped a brain onto the scales. Respectfully, of course.

"That's what I'm worried about," I said under my breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Well, can we have the body?"

"It's over there." Stanley pointed to a drawer, so Dancer walked over and opened it. He's an old hand at this type of thing.

"Brr. Cold in here."

All three of us jumped, even Stanley. I looked at him suspiciously, but he just shrugged, and smiled, as if to say he'd done it the first time so he had to do it again. I don't know what's freakier, that, or vampires appearing from nowhere while you're in the morgue.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

Oliver smiled and replied, "Keeping an eye on you."

"I thought you'd gone." I wished he had.

"No, Spark. Not until you clean up your mess. I've been following you, making sure you do as you're told."

"Do as I'm told! You've got a bloody cheek, you lackey for—"

"Now, now, that's enough please, gentleman," interrupted Stanley. "Oliver, I would appreciate you coming into my place of work by normal means in the future, if you don't mind."

"I apologize," said Oliver. Even vampires are nice to Stanley, he creeps them out too.

"Accepted. Now, where were we?"

"I was about to take a look at the chess guy," said Dancer, ignoring Oliver. He hates him as much as I do—we bond over it and call him names behind his back. Well, to his face, usually.

"Let's get this done," I sighed.

I joined Dancer, and Stanley came too. So did Oliver, looking keen to witness the event he clearly knew was coming. He's annoying, but not stupid, so probably guessed what we had planned.

Stanley assumed a suitably inquisitive facial expression, as if not wanting to miss out on the action, and wondering how it would work. See, how could you live like that? He already knew what would happen, so why bother? I guess maybe some people enjoy their life so much they don't mind repeating it. I tried not to think of Grandma. Poor, innocent, sweet Grandma.

"Can you do it?" I asked Dancer.

He stared at me like I was an idiot. "Duh."

"Okay, I know you can do it. Can you do it so it seems genuine?"

"It will be genuine. I'm not an amateur you know. I take my work seriously."

"Don't we all," agreed Stanley.

"You're not a pathologist, Stanley. You're a mortuary technician and this is the morgue. Why are you always taking bits out of people?" Stanley went to answer, but I'd heard it all before. He doesn't trust the pathologists, and sometimes he just has a feeling about certain corpses. The annoying thing is he is always right—of course. "Okay, how long will it last, Dancer?"

"I can give you a few days at most, but that should be enough, right?"

"More than enough. I just need him up and about to stop all this from getting out of hand and to get me off the hook. You can do that?" I left it at that, but truth is I felt terrible and thought a few days of life was the least I could do. I felt bad for the medical staff involved, but if it avoided a vampire uprising, well, it was worth it.

"They'll still be looking for you though, won't they? For blasting him with your, you know?"

"Nobody sees us, do they? They won't find me. It's a precaution so nobody thinks the guy was killed by magic, that it was a mistake."

"Fine, whatever. You owe me though. Twice."

"Yeah, yeah, just do it."

"Okay, give me some room."

"Stanley, are you cool with this? Will you do some of that acting you are so famous for and pretend he was banging on the drawer and you let him out?"

"I'd love to, dear boy, but I'm afraid my shift ends in ten minutes and then it's over to Elaine."

"Ah, okay. That might work out better." Elaine is a Regular. No magic, just a technician, same as Stanley. If we could get the Grandmaster up and about before she turned up then it would be perfect.

"Okay, Dancer, do your ju-ju." He gave me the daggers—I knew that annoyed the hell out of him.

We moved away, but we all watched. You never tire of seeing somebody brought back from the dead—it's as close as we get to a true miracle, and fascinating in its morbidity.

As the cool air continued to escape from the drawer, Dancer removed the shroud from the man's body and draped it over the metal rail of the examination table.

Already I could feel the magic build and the sickness spread out like it was a black smoke drifting across the floor and creeping up my legs, entering my mouth, clawing into my lungs like glass and infecting my brain with its poison.

Sickness enveloped us all, and I watched through a fog of clawing demon limbs scratching at the surface of reality as the darkness became real. I tried to stay upright but ended up sat on the floor surrounded by the half-formed dream lives of trapped miscreants in the nether worlds.

I wasn't surprised to see Stanley beside me. Only difference was he looked like he was enjoying the show. Second time round I guess, makes all the difference.

Oliver joined us, more used to the dying than the actual dead. He wasn't coping any better than me, but still had that smackable sneer he wore like a mask of superiority that fooled nobody.

Dancer stood over the corpse, teeth clenched, face ashen, a blue vein throbbing at his temple like a worm trying to escape. He muttered whatever necromancers mutter to call forth the power to bring a person back from the dead.

You may think this is all going to result in some kind of zombie but the reality is different. This is proper magic, not anything half-arsed, certainly no magic-based virus. Dancer may be annoying and really slimy, but he knows his business. This was to be full-on resurrection. For a bit.

He waved his arms about, did well to fight back the souls trying to take advantage of the gaps in reality that such deep immersion in the Empty creates, and took in dark magic he could channel into the traces of what was once a living human being.

It was only four hours since the old guy had met his untimely demise, so he should be able to bring him back to full sentience, for a while, but these things aren't an exact science and there is no telling how it will work out until they sit upright, gasp, and begin to freak out.

Which is exactly what happened.

Dancer took a step back and silence descended. The demons disappeared, the sickness lifted—leaving its foul impression on reality behind—and I got up and pulled Stanley to his feet. I left Oliver where he was.