Neon Spark (Dark Magic Enforcer Book 5) (17 page)

"You need to get some sun," I said conversationally, like we were just off up to visit an old friend.

"I live in Cardiff, how's that gonna work?"

"Dunno, maybe take a vacation?"

"A vacation? Don't know when I've ever had one of those. Oh, there was that time back... No, that was work, and I don't like sand. Sticks in your bits, never seems to get out."

Staring at Dancer in the mirror, I asked, "Dancer, exactly how old are you? We've never talked much about your past and to be honest I don't know anything about you."

"You never asked."

"Well, I'm asking now."

"Another time," he said, as the door opened with a
ding
and a huge wolf came hurtling down an expensive carpet before leaping up at us.

Have I said that I hate Tokyo yet?

Nice Doggie

We both ducked as the massive beast, bristling gray fur and teeth a vampire would die for, sailed over our heads. My eyes were dark and my intentions darker, but Dancer just tapped me on the shoulder as I turned to fight in the cramped space. He held up a wicked looking knife.

I did a double-take from him to the beast and back again, noticing the pool of spreading blood and the incision along it's belly.

As we watched, it morphed from wolf to human, a man in his forties all stringy muscle and insides hanging out. Dancer bent and dispatched him quickly with a puncture to the neck then stepped out into the corridor.

"You coming?" he asked casually.

"Um, yeah." What a turn up for the books. Sometimes magic isn't the best answer, quick wits and lightning reflexes are. "You're a dark horse, you know that, right?"

Dancer shrugged and the knife disappeared, hidden beneath his simple black suit, lines perfect. Where the hell did he keep it?

"Dancer?" He turned and raised an eyebrow. "You and me need to have a serious chat soon."

"Sure, Spark. Come on, vampires to kill, and all that good stuff."

All of a sudden I felt like I was the one tagging along. Who was this guy?

We got to the door without any more surprises, and that made me nervous. This was clearly an important place for Kimiko, otherwise why all the security? I half expected the floor to open and us get eaten by something nasty or for something to explode, but nothing happened.

We stood either side of the door, like we were in a cop show and one of us would kick it down and we'd storm in, shouting, "Freeze, it's the UK wizards," or something, but that's TV, not real life. I knew she wasn't here, anyway. Yes, the security was decent, but if she was present there would've been goons at the door and it wouldn't have been such youngsters down in the lobby.

She was more than capable of dealing with most issues alone, but she didn't seem the type to bother getting her hands dirty now unless absolutely necessary. Meaning, there would be proper security, something ancient and malevolent guarding her while she rested during the day. I had to get her during daylight hours, I wasn't so cocky as to not need the advantage.

Not knowing what else to do, I put a finger to the lock while keeping my back against the wall, nodding to Dancer as I let the magic flow until I heard the satisfying sound of bolts receding—maybe when I got home I'd open up a business as an emergency locksmith, help people that locked themselves out of their homes. I'd make a killing.

I turned the handle on the apartment door and it swung open silently, revealing...

"Damn, what the hell?"

Dancer frowned at me then stepped in front of the door to get a look inside. "It's just another corridor. Weird."

"Yeah, and not good weird, but bad, and there are going to be lots of surprises, weird." We were looking at a simple corridor like a repeat of the one we were in, with another door at the end. Just the one. Same carpet, same style of door, same bad feeling about the whole enterprise.

"I think we should go," I said. "She isn't here. We're just wasting our time."

"What if the books are here, though?" mused Dancer. "Maybe she stores them here. We have to take a look, just in case."

He was right, of course. It was easy to forget, but this wasn't just about me, it was also about the power she held because of her library. These were things she was not meant to have, and they had to be taken away, put somewhere safe. Why the Japanese Council hadn't come down on her, or the Worldwide Council for that matter, was a sign of just how powerful she was, but it still didn't make sense. Surely they could deal with her? Or maybe they'd tried, and failed?

Or, and this was most likely, they left her alone as they had no right to interfere. After all, our world was not exactly on the right side of the law, and as long as she stayed within certain guidelines they had no obligation to get involved. She was violent and vicious, but also smart and savvy, so they would have to let her be. There is always backstabbing and death, but that's just part of our world, nothing that could get you into trouble with our own rather warped Laws.

Sad truth was, she was probably exactly what the vampires were looking for in a Head, and the Councils no doubt felt the same way.

"Spark, you okay?" Dancer looked at me, questioning. I must have been off in a daze, thinking about this damn woman.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Come on, let's do this then move on. You wait here, I'll go in first. Wait until I get the other door open then follow me, okay?"

"Sure, you're the boss," he said looking like he meant it.

"For how much longer, though?" I stepped into the corridor, senses alert, magic swelling my ink, weird sensations like I was going to bang my head on the ceiling—the giant magic would take some getting used to.

Nothing happened as I walked silently down the corridor, and I got to the far end without incident. I turned and Dancer nodded that he was fine, so put my hand to the lock, finding it hard to remain calm and confident.

Again, bolts retreated so I turned the handle, pushing it open. Edging around the frame, I peeked inside.

"Wow!" I glanced back at Dancer and he'd seen inside, too. He hurried down the corridor and was at my side in a moment, eyes bright, eager to check out the room.

We stepped in cautiously, transfixed by the display at the far end of the very bare room.

"Metal," I said.

"Huh?"

"This is the fourth element. Metal. The swords," I said, indicating the weapons.

"I know they're made of metal. What are you on about?"

"Never mind, just be ready."

"For what?" he asked, searching the room nervously.

"For anything." But there was nothing inside, nothing that could attack us. Although, there sure as hell were plenty of weapons if something did decide it wanted us gone.

The room's interior was nothing like you would expect from a swanky, prime location apartment, all the more impressive because it was so unexpected. The floor was expertly laid with a very expensive porcelain tile, gleaming orange and burnt umber striations through milky white. The walls were painted a dusky gray, shade perfect. A few plain wooden benches were aligned around the room, a number of statues of ancient warriors full of Imperial pride—samurai complete with real armor—and a seating area with deep leather sofas and even a modest flat screen TV on the wall.

There were a few doors, which I assumed led to bedrooms, and at the far end of the open plan room was a kitchen that looked like it had just been installed, gleaming black and silver, expensive as hell. I checked out the other rooms quickly; the place was empty.

When I got back into the main room, Dancer was standing in front of the display that ran the length of the longest wall, three tiers of shelving painted dark red, like dry blood. But it was what the shelves held that was the real draw, and I couldn't even imagine what the cost would have been.

"This is worth millions and millions," said Dancer, gaping at the swords on their individual stands, each in a scabbard a work of art in its own right.

You didn't even need to pull out the swords to know they were of the absolute finest craftsmanship, you could tell by the handles and the scabbards they were the real deal—forged since the very beginning of the art form in Japan, examples from every era. Beautiful, priceless, and deadly as all hell.

"It's amazing." I was lost for words as we both stood in front of the swords, soaking up the history they exemplified. With magic upon us both, it was an otherworldly experience. You could practically feel the power they contained.

These were made by masters of their art, perfection in folded steel. The tales such weapons could tell. The life of the samurai, of honor, and yes, of cruelty. Of life and death and the history of a race of people. Of tradition and of loyalty, of strength and of fighting with honor for your opponent and the knowledge you wielded a weapon due utter respect.

The power danced in the air like silver death, the swords shimmering with cold auras that declared their names and that of their makers. You could taste the metal tang in the air, the blood and the lives of the men that had owned them, feel the inherent magic in the blades because of their purity and their deadliness.

"That's the bloody Honjo Masamune, the greatest sword in the history of swords!" croaked Dancer with awe. I knew the name. Masamune was a man of legend who created masterpieces in the thirteenth century. Dancer stepped forward, hand almost to the Honjo, but was so awed he thought better of it. Rather, he picked another and carefully lifted the scabbard off the stand.

He gripped the handle and it was as if the blade came to life. I could see the aura it had change, morphing from cold silver of silent waiting to a glow of warm orange. Of contentment, of anticipation of a fight, to do what it was made for. To cut off limbs and slice through flesh, to be fed with the blood of its owner's enemies.

Dancer unsheathed the blade, steel gleaming as if it was fresh from the forge and just polished. The red pommel on the hilt shone bright against the dark handle and the pale hand of Dancer as he admired the steel, swishing it back and forth in impressive arcs, as if he were a master swordsman.

Was he? Maybe he was.

"Dancer, do you know how to use a sword?"

He turned to me, quizzical expression on his face. "Of course, don't you?"

"Um, no. How would I?"

He shrugged, showing off his moves, sword a blur as he swung it left to right, changing stances, thrusting and practicing blocking moves. "I just assumed you would have learned how to use weapons over the years. I learned, gosh, must have been four, no, five hundred years ago, back when swords were proper swords."

"What, in England? Did we even have proper swords then?" I hadn't even realized I was doing it, but I'd picked up a sword myself, unsheathed it, and was thrusting and generally waving it about as we spoke. I felt powerful, kept getting hints of the things it had done, the men who had owned it, the lives it had taken.

"Not like this, no, but I traveled, went to China for a spell, then on to... It doesn't matter, it was a long time ago now."

"You're a mysterious guy, aren't you? Come on, how old are you? How come you ended up working for Rikka if you were a traveler?"

"Wait, watch this." Dancer held the sword out in front of him, perfectly aligned, and disappeared.

"Whoa! How did you do that?" I looked at my own weapons suspiciously, wondering if I could do it too.

He reappeared as he moved the sword slightly, manic grin on his face. "This is a real beauty, although I don't know who the maker is. But these old swords, the absolute best they are so perfect, are so damn sharp and straight they actually bend light, make it go around the sword, so you are kind of invisible. Cool, eh?"

"You bet. Ugh, where was I?" The show had me losing my train of thought. "Ah, my question. How come you ended up with Rikka if you were a traveler?"

"I wasn't a traveler, I was, am, a Gypsy. From Romania, many, many years ago. We roamed the world, Spark, went on long voyages before the Americas were even found. All across Asia, the Middle East, the Far East, Africa, everywhere."

"What!? And you ended up in Cardiff?"

"Everyone is always somewhere, it's an unavoidable consequence of being alive."

I got the sneaking suspicion that for all the years I had known Dancer he was playing some kind of game. Acting in a certain way that had little to do with the man he truly was. Lying low, doing stupid stuff, hiding his true identity.

"You've been lying to me, haven't you?" I accused. "You aren't some necromancer who says daft things and is happy to just take orders, you're something else. Someone else."

"Maybe, maybe not," he said with a sly twist of the mouth. "I have been many things, and had many roles. This is just one of them." He smiled, a proper smile, and he looked like a different person.

"Why? Why the pretense?" I had to know. He was my friend, but who was he?

"Because life is hard, Faz, and sometimes it's nice to just go with the flow and feel comfortable, relaxed. Let life pass by without stressing about every little thing. I like Cardiff, I liked Rikka, the son-of-a-bitch, and now that's over. Good times are ahead, exciting times. Interesting times."

"I don't get it." I really didn't.

"My people are scattered, what few remain, but I'm nothing special, just old. A little weary, I guess. I needed a few hundred years to take things easy, recharge my batteries. Oh, what a great age this is to be alive. The best."

"How old are you? Come on, I keep asking."

Dancer stopped his sword practice and turned to face me, holding my gaze, showing a very different man to the one I'd known. He looked strong, confident, in charge and unflappable. "Faz, I am nine hundred years old."

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiit." It was hard to imagine living a life that long, a life that you experienced. Not like the very ancient vamps who slept through the centuries, popping up now and then for a snapshot of how things were before retreating back to their crypts until they awoke again in a new age.

"Haha, you could say that. Come on, let's go."