Evil Spark (10 page)

"Dancer, please? Grandma is missing, and now Rikka. Don't you think you owe it to them to help if you can?" said Kate. She smiled at him, that perfect smile, then there was something more. She was holding his gaze, trying to glamor him, bend him to her will.

I grabbed her arm, maybe a little too sharply. She had a lot to learn. An awful lot.

"What?" she asked as I turned her away from Dancer. It was no use. Dancer was right up in her face, livid.

"Don't you ever, and I mean ever, do that again. Ever!" He whispered through a tight mouth, vicious and mean sounding—I didn't blame him one bit. "I'm not some Regular you can glamor and get your way with, Kate. I'm a goddamn necromancer. I deal with death and the netherworlds and angels and gods, and I will show you Hell itself and what eternity for the damned is like if you even so much as think about pulling a stunt like that again. Do I make myself clear? Do I?" Anyone else and I would have expected them to hit her, but Dancer isn't that kind of person, luckily for Kate.

Kate was shocked, and turned to me, as if I would defend her from Dancer's outburst. For once, maybe the first time ever, I was on his side.

There are some things you don't do, and what Kate did was one of them. Dancer had pulled something similar on me the previous week, trying to use his magic to make me do something, and I blasted his finger off for it. Kate was lucky he did nothing worse to her. He wasn't making an idle boast. He could use magic and creep into her mind, show her what he was capable of.

"You better say sorry, Kate. You never do that, not to your own. Not to friends, not to enemies either, unless you're certain you can go through with it. Understand?" I felt bad for her, but she had to learn. At that moment I realized she needed to spend more time with her own kind. She'd fought it so long, but there were things she had to know if she was to survive for more than a few years if she was lucky.

"I... I... gosh, I'm sorry, Dancer. I don't know what came over me. It's this damn thing inside of me. It makes me want to do things I don't want to." Kate fought a never-ending battle with what raged within, but still, there are boundaries.

"I get it, I do, but never again," said Dancer, calming down. "Okay, where's the potato head?" He looking around, as if he expected a two-day-dead gnome to suddenly appear.

"It's over there, in the wigwam," said Intus, pointing across the clearing, past a group of gnomes stood around a fire, at a tattered canvas wigwam.

"Fine, let's get this over with. I need to talk to them though, whoever is in charge."

Intus vanished for a minute then reappeared on Dancer's shoulder, making him jump. She said, "Follow me," to Dancer, who put a hand to his ear. We began to walk to the wigwam. "Not you," said Intus, "just Dancer and me. They'll tell me what we need to know once the meddler of the dead here has done it. Apparently this dead potato, um, I mean, gnome, had some information they need and they want him back, just for a bit."

"Not to say their goodbyes properly?" asked Kate.

We all stared at her. She really does have a lot to learn. "No, Kate," I said, "they're gnomes. When they die they chop each other up into tiny bits and all the creatures of the woods come and feast while the gnomes, the only time they do it, undress and dance around the fire."

She stared at me, smiling, ready to laugh. I kept my expression blank, and her smile turned to serious. "Oh, right. Okay."

I caught Intus' and Dancer's attention and winked. Served her right for trying to glamor one of her own. They just bury their dead, same as most other species do.

Kate and I got back into the car and watched as Dancer walked over to the wigwam. Gnomes gathered round as he entered; the flap closed behind him and Intus.

I turned up the air con and sighed as it blasted the humidity away, leaving me shivering and feeling almost alive again.

*

Fifteen minutes later, a very pale—paler than usual—Dancer emerged from the rotting canvas. There was a lot of shouting and commotion inside, and it grew louder as more gnomes filed in while Dancer pushed his way out.

Dancer stopped and breathed deeply, clearly shaken by whatever had happened. I can't imagine what the smell must have been like, and I almost felt sorry for him.

A gnome came up to him as Intus appeared on Dancer's shoulder. They had a brief conversation with the squat, even by their standards, gnome, then they both came back to the car. Dancer got in the back with a groan and some serious shaking of the head, as if trying and failing to dislodge whatever had happened. Intus popped into existence on the dashboard.

"Let's get out of here."

I looked at him in the rearview, then at Intus. Intus nodded. She was serious for a moment, then smiled at me and twisted a bony, clawed finger by her head, as if to say it may have sent Dancer a little loopy being stuck in the wigwam then entering gnome afterlife.

I started up the SUV and turned in a sweeping circle before heading out of the woods as fast as I possibly could.

It better have been worth it. Dancer looked like he'd gone off necromancy, and he lives for that stuff.

Back to the Gym

"Well?" I asked, looking at Dancer in the rearview.

He leaned between the seats and said, "I hate gnomes."

"Okay, apart from hating humorous vegetable-shaped, short and dirty creatures, what else?"

"They stink and they are rude and they are so smug and—"

"Dancer!"

"Okay, okay. Well, I brought the dead one back, and I can tell you now I am never doing that again. That tent stank, too. And it was so hot! Like a sauna full of fetid socks."

"Did someone say socks?" asked Intus, suddenly perking up and showing interest. Dancer ignored her.

"What was it like? And it was a wigwam," said Kate, keen to broaden her knowledge of all things Hidden.

"Whatever. Who cares? Getting that gnome back was like being buried under a mountain of worms and having someone prod you with blunt carrots in your eyes."

"That bad, eh?" I chuckled.

"Worse," he moaned. Dancer rubbed at his face, spreading drying sweat and gnome grease across his forehead, stretching the skin under his eyes, revealing red flesh on his drawn features.

Dancer always wears a plain suit with a white shirt. I think he believes it makes him look smart and official, but he just looks like a funeral director—maybe that's the point. He scowled at his clothes, noticing the smears and the mud.

"That gnome was not a good gnome, not that any of them are. But he was in gnome limbo, not quite gone to the other side, and he, it was a he, wasn't happy about it. He was even less happy about me turning up. Stupid thing was happy being unhappy. They live, um, die, whatever, for that stuff. Seems that as limbo was so bad he was quite content to be there, being grumpy and generally moaning about the state of the afterlife. Ugh."

"But you brought him back," I prompted.

"Did you see any gnome demons?" asked Intus with interest.

"No. Like I said, it was limbo, all wailing gnomes and loads of them moaning and bitching. What is wrong with them? Anyway, I rose it from the dead, and do you know what the other gnomes wanted to know? What was so important that they wanted one of their own resurrected?" Dancer rubbed manically at his face, like he could wash away the dirt and the experience if he moved his hands fast enough.

"Okay, I'll bite. What?" Sometimes Dancer talks too much, even when he's half dead after using so much dark magic. He looked truly terrible. Cheeks sunken, eyes haunted, and he was used to this stuff. He does it for a living. But the sickness takes us all, there's no avoiding it, and he was on a serious comedown.

"They wanted to know where he'd buried the map. A treasure map. Can you believe it?"

"Ooh, I love treasure maps. What had it buried? Was it gold? The dwarves love gold, we could swap it for Marmite. Or, ooh, ooh, for a mountain of odd socks. And we could go into people's houses and have a great time putting loads of new odd socks and—"

"Intus, please." They really love their sock meddling.

"What? That's a good idea that is. Gold is great for buying socks with. You can get loads."

We ignored her and Dancer continued.

"This map, this oh-so-important map, it told the gnomes where another map was buried."

"Eh? What, a map that led to another map?"

"Yeah," sighed Dancer. "And guess what
that
map led to?"

"No, seriously?"

"What? What was it?" asked Intus. Sometimes imps are a little slow on the uptake.

"Another map. Ugh, I've got a major headache. I gave up after about the fifth damn explanation. They seem to just keep burying maps to tell them where other maps are."

"Told you they like clues and finding stuff," said Intus cheerily.

"Well, what did they say about Grandma and Rikka?" asked Kate.

"Okay, but you won't like it."

"Just tell us," I said.

"They said to look in the bushes. That clues are always in the bushes."

"That's it? All this hassle and time away from finding out what the hell is going on and they said look in the bushes?"

"Yeah, look in the bushes." Dancer leaned back and squirmed like he was still in gnome limbo.

Poor guy, he really did look bad. I turned up the air con to blast cold air and get rid of his stink. The car smelled like a damn morgue with his natural odor heightened like it always is after he's risen the dead.

"Stupid gnomes," I mumbled.

Kate put a hand on my leg. I liked it. "Faz, but what if they're right? Has anyone actually looked in the bushes?"

That made it worse. Of course we hadn't looked in the bushes. Why would we?

*

Most Hidden had gone from the gym, off to continue their day, or do what they could to find Rikka.

It meant only one thing. Trouble. Humans would be sure it was vampires. The attackers may have looked like goblins but everyone knew goblins would never do something like that. They are too interested in money, and Rikka is the Head of the Hidden Council, and has always kept many of them employed and well-paid.

From what I'd gathered earlier, it was obvious the attackers were magically disguised anyway—Hidden can smell it a mile off—and knew that whoever it was, they certainly weren't goblins. It's not their style. They are meaner and more sneaky than that, plus they simply do not have that kind of magical ability.

Trolls would just go around accusing anyone or anything, banging heads and not caring. Shifters would be on the scent, ghosts would be completely ineffective, dwarves would be counting their gold and wondering what to do, and all of them would be thinking about how to get Rikka's place on one Council or another, depending on their species.

There has to be someone in charge. This is a cutthroat world and at least a semblance of order, with a powerful figurehead, is the only thing that stops our world falling apart entirely. Rikka takes no nonsense, and without him to control the never-ending bickering and infighting, things would collapse rapidly.

We waded through burning air around the exterior, and I walked up to the small thicket of bushes off to the side at the rear of the gym. A neat border clipped short with various plants giving a little color to the landscape. Rikka has always kept the place in top condition at all times, as the fitness empire is big business and used more by Regulars than Hidden.

Knowing I had to look, I walked onto the bone-dry soil and parted the wilting bushes.

Down deep, tucked beneath the fresh growth of summer, were three goblin masks, practically brimming with magic even though it was clear it had faded since the disguises were abandoned. Dancer and Kate joined me and we peered at the lifelike masks.

"Guess maybe it wasn't the damn goblins after all," said Dancer.

"It's not their style. They can't use magic like this anyway. Well, the gnomes were right. We really should have looked in the bushes."

"Guess so."

Kate reached in to grab the masks. I just about managed to catch her hand before she touched them, shocking her. "No, don't touch them. Let me do it. Dancer, take Kate back up the grass a little."

"Why, what's the problem?" asked Kate, confused by the rather abrupt way I'd cut her off from doing something she didn't understand was stupid and dangerous.

"Kate, it's dark magic. You are a vampire, not a witch, and this stuff is dangerous. Okay?" She nodded, trusting I was keeping her safe. Dancer led her away, shaking his head at me and rolling his eyes. It was understandable. It's easy to forget that those new to our world really don't understand how it works.

Vampires may be infused with blood magic from feeding and their initial infection, but they aren't often keen on the study involved in learning how to use magic in the way people like me and Dancer can. They are happy to rely on the abilities given to them from sustained feeding, and it means they can get themselves into a lot of trouble.

Making sure they were well away, I focused on my tattoos, writhing on my sweaty arms like a box of fat worms as the ink sucked up dark magic and the sickness rose.

I adjusted my mental state to one all about defense, not wanting to get caught by surprise with anything nasty that may have been left behind in the masks. I pictured a silver barrier between my fingers and the masks that looked exactly like a translucent glove, and retched as the vision became real.

Blackness clouded my vision as the familiar black sparks crackled off my fingers, distorting the barrier of silver matching the flecks in my eyes that ached and scratched at my mind. I reached in and picked up the masks in a bunched fist, then held them at arm's length like a soiled diaper as I let my magic build, enveloping what felt like rough flesh, limp and stretching like molten rubber.

There was power in them all right, magic and darkness that hinted at minds intent on chaos, but no more than that. There was no sudden insight into who had worn them, just the knowledge they were from creatures or humans strong in the Empty, and confident.