Dark Wizard's Case Page 4

  He ascended the staircase and found himself back in the storefront, where he stole a glance at the Probationer. The latter backed away into the farthest and darkest corner of his fenced-off workplace, whining pitifully as he went.

  The bulletproof glass was no longer hissing and spitting up red-hot sparks. The melted gun had stuck to its surface like a steel crust.

  Alex took out a pack of cigarettes.

  “N-n-no smoking in here,” the pimpled boy mumbled.

  Alex froze and stared at him in astonishment.

  “The world is off its rocker,” he whispered as he walked out without lighting his cigarette.

  There was one more thing he had to do before heading to the apartment the state had provided him with.

  Chapter 6

  Alex hated buses. Of course, as a dark wizard, there were lots of things he hated. It would have been easier to list the things he liked, in fact. Number one on that list would have been magic, number two would have been beautiful women, and the third spot would have been split between fast transportation, adrenaline, alcohol (only in the form of whiskey with lemon), cigarettes, and good food.

  But buses were the mode of transportation he hated the most. Even taking the subway didn’t crush Alex’s spirit the way those bulky, clumsy, public four-wheelers did.

  High Garden only had one night bus. Honestly, Alex would have rather gotten where he was going by taking the number eleven, but the feds had only given him four hours to settle his personal affairs in his home district. After that, Alex wasn’t supposed to visit unless he absolutely had to.

  “Are they trying to cover up my release?” Alex grumbled. “Why visit baldy then?”

  He had no doubt the person Bromwoord had talked to was the same guy who’d shown up to meet him when he was released. But what was the point of the whole spectacle with the dwarf?

  “Damnation.” Alex clenched his fists. An even, dark violet glow flashed around them.

  The bus swerved, distracting Alex from his thoughts once again.

  “What the hell is going on?” Doom growled. The vehicle swerved from side to side again.

  He was sitting at the back. Twenty other human, troll, and even orc passengers crowded together at the opposite end, pressing up against the grate separating them from the driver’s seat. The driver, a fat, middle-aged male human, was sweating profusely as he muttered under his breath.

  Judging by the annoying itch spreading over Alex’s body, the driver was praying.

  “Ger… t… r… d… st… et.” The lisping, mechanical voice of the announcer was barely discernible.

  Tossing his cigar butt under his seat, Alex stepped out onto the street. The graffitied, iron-bound night bus with doors and windows covered in steel mesh started off so quickly that the tires spun and smoked before gripping the pavement and screeching away.

  Doom stood alone on a small street cloaked in predawn mist that ran parallel to the railroad bridge. The penetrating darkness was dispersed somewhat by several streetlamps.

  Occasional howls broke the silence—wolves, not dogs.

  Herbert Road was at the very edge of the city. Beyond it were the wild lands of Atlantis. And regardless of the effort the hunters put into clearing the approaches to the capital, some monsters still managed to slip in.

  The story went that even with everything the wizards used to do (they had guarded the borders between the mortal and magical worlds in keeping with the First Convention before the invention of the Magic Lens), the monsters would still sneak in and have fun in the mortal cities.

  Even in the age of internet and video surveillance, the wizards had managed to pass the incidents off as natural gas explosions, house fires, or even terrorist acts where there were too many victims.

  Alex lit another cigarette. It must have been his seventh since he’d left prison.

  Seven cigarettes in three hours was still way below the number he’d smoked before. As a rule, he went through two or three packs a day.

  It was a habit he’d indulged since he was little.

  Smoking was a great way to dull hunger pangs.

  “Well.” Cracking his neck, Alex trudged toward the underside of the bridge.

  There, sheltered from the biting wind and rain, lived the lowest classes of Myers City. Alex walked between the trash cans where the homeless were burning all the useless junk they could find. Never newspapers, though. They used newspapers as padding for their old vests, coats, and jackets to keep themselves warm.

  Alex had used to do the same once.

  They fried whatever food they could over those trash cans. Sometimes, they’d buy it with money they’d earned any way they could find. Others, they’d scrounge up something to eat at the dumps, or maybe even catch something running around.

  “Spare a cigarette, young man?” An old man in a torn, heavy overcoat, ragged knitted hat, and fingerless gloves stepped out from a group of homeless people.

  Alex handed him a cigarette.

  “Thank you, thank you so much.” The homeless man almost bowed. He returned to the “campfire” with the air of a primitive hunter who’d bagged a mammoth alone and was hauling meat back to the tribe.

  The six homeless people in his group, old and young alike, passed the cigarette from mouth to mouth. Nearby groups gazed at them enviously.

  It was a part of the magic city’s life that tourists never got to see.

  Passing by where the homeless spent their nights, Alex stopped in front of one of the pillars supporting the railroad bridge. It was separated from the next one by impassable heavy debris—a veritable wall. There would have been no point trying to clamber over it.

  “I hope my subscription didn’t run out this month.”

  Alex held out his palm and, using mental force, created a glowing, dark red pentagram that contained a code with his name and last payment date.

  At first, nothing happened. Doom was already starting to worry that his subscription had expired when, two seconds later, a magic symbol flashed on the pillar.

  With an unpleasant, metallic screech, part of the debris transformed into a conventional-looking metal door that opened to let Alex in.

  Once he crossed the threshold, the door closed behind him. He was in a fairly spacious hangar with stacks of shipping containers towering on either side.

  The containers were organized into three levels. The first was the most expensive, with the next two successively cheaper. The third level, which was accessed via a wobbly ladder, was used to store smaller items. The bottom level was for vehicles and other means of transportation.

  “Love it,” Alex drawled. “I wonder how much they pay the cops to protect this place.”

  The warehouse, unmarked on any map you could find, wasn’t cheap. The annual rent on a first-level container cost twenty thousand credits.

  Alex had made a mistake back then.

  He’d paid for four years in advance, using up almost all the cash he’d had. And his bank accounts, thanks to a particular bald dwarf’s betrayal, had been emptied out by the government, benefitting the corrupt official who had arranged for the absolutely illegal seizure.

  And as a dark wizard, Alex wasn’t in a position to report illegal activity.

  “B7,” Alex repeated to himself as he examined the writing on the containers. “You have to be around here somewhere.”

  Its complete automation meant that the warehouse was always empty. In all the years Alex had been using it, he’d never bumped into another client, although he’d heard that big shots like Felix Bertoni, from the Bertoni family, used it to keep their trinkets safe.

  “There you are.” Smiling broadly, Alex stopped at the container with B7 inscribed on it in white paint.

  Placing his palm on the lock, he sent a thin ray of energy through it—the authentic signature that served as his key.

  Noiselessly, the iron door of the container opened to let its owner in.

  “Untouched,” Alex said with a sigh of relief. “Hi,
baby. You got tired of waiting for me, didn’t you?”

  Chapter 7

  In the middle of the almost empty container stood Alex’s pride and joy. Spokes made of chrome-plated steel. A leather seat. A shiny glass windshield. Saddle bags decorated with leather in the back. A V8 engine. Individually adjusted front and rear suspension. The motorcycle had been custom-made for Alex.

  It was a classic Road King by Harley-Davidson. Assembled manually from all-natural components, with no faux leather or magic metal, the old girl was 100% authentic.

  There was no magic drive or crystals in place of the cylinders. Only gas.

  In the age of high-magic technology, the rarity in front of Alex had cost him a fortune. The price he’d paid was the entire Tkils gang.

  Doom had actually ordered the chopper custom made, but he’d used the crew’s shared funds and claimed he’d be giving the bike to the Tkils boss as a gift.

  But after terminating his membership in the gang, Alex had taken both the lives of its higher-ups and the bike.

  The exact price was so high that it wasn’t polite to say it out loud in decent company. Just the annual tax charged for a bike like that was higher than a middle manager’s salary.

  Alex patted the accelerator handle. Then he checked to see if the saddle bags were firmly affixed, the suspension was still tight, and the spokes were straight.

  The bike was in perfect condition.

  That’s a custom-made Harley for you.

  “Your wait is over,” Alex whispered almost lovingly.

  As though in response, the chrome stand reflected the light cast by the bulb swinging above them on the ceiling. Alex clapped his old metal friend on the seat and stepped over to get the second item he’d stored in his half-empty container.

  Hanging on a wardrobe rack was his suit, encased to keep anything from happening to it. It was a simple, fitted, two-piece suit with two buttons and sleeves that barely reached his wrists. The shoulders were raised a bit, the white stitches visible.

  The creased pants looked more like chinos than proper dress pants. They were perfect, making for exactly the kind of suit Alex loved.

  Back in the day, he’d had a different suit for every day of the week, but right then…

  [Item: ArmaniMagico Suit

  Item rank: B

  Maximum mana absorption: 1025.7

  Physical resistance: 24.5%

  Magic resistance (general): 7.8%

  Magic resistance (specific): Fire 12.5%, Water 3%, Energy 15%, Nature 1%

  Additional powers: Self-cleaning, Ventilation, Nonwrinkle]

  “Nonwrinkle,” Alex snorted. “There should be a dash there.”

  Changing into the suit and white shirt (plain silk, without any enchantments), he finally felt like a man again.

  He also slipped a pair of patent leather shoes onto his bare feet, black and cinnamon brogues by the same brand.

  ArmaniMagico was one of the best magic clothing makers out there. They offered fantastic pieces with unusual attributes.

  After all, fire and energy were the magic elements most commonly used by the cops.

  “It doesn’t hold a candle to bespoke suits,” Alex said as he adjusted the jacket’s collar, “but it’s good enough for a rainy day.”

  [Item: ArmaniMagico Shoes

  Item rank: C

  Maximum mana absorption: 84

  Special powers: Levitation (4 sec), Leap (20 m)]

  Alex had no idea when he would possibly need the built-in levitation spell or 20-meter leap. He just liked the way they looked.

  Even dark wizards have their quirks.

  Alexander Dumsky, an orphaned kid who’d never had any personal belongings, compensated for his childhood complexes with stylish and expensive clothes.

  He looked good in them, after all.

  “Move over, buddy.” Grabbing the handlebar, Alex shoved the heavy bike aside.

  Then he squatted to run his palm, now with a different sort of pentagram flashing on it, over the container floor. The steel hissed, boiling and melting to reveal a small hollow in the hangar’s cement floor.

  Groping around in the hollow, Alex found a small item wrapped in a rag. It was about the size and shape of the flash drives so prevalent a century before.

  It was his digital wallet.

  Quite the convenient little thing to keep e-cash in.

  After pulling it out, Alex unwrapped and inspected it.

  “Cash in,” he said. “Code: 17B72221.”

  The transaction was soon complete. Alex saw his wallet balance in the lower left corner of his vision: 17,147 credits. It was a tidy little sum, if nothing compared to what he owed the Syndicate. The suit hadn’t mentioned anything about his salary, either. Damnation.

  But all his thoughts and worries disappeared the moment he placed the second item from his cache onto his finger: a simple black ring engraved with magical runes.

  There was nothing special about it, only…

  “Let’s go.” Alex jumped onto the bike, kicked the stand up, turned the key, and yanked back on the throttle.

  The engine roared to life like a rearing mustang. Without a single spin of the tires, the steel horse burst out of the container and hurtled through the hangar. Alex ducked beneath the rising gate, which also looked like a pile of trash, and raced off down the street.

  The wind tousled his curly, overgrown black hair. The slim black tie flapped around behind him like the end of a rope.

  Alex had no idea what lay in store for him, though there was one thing he did know for sure: anyone trying to pull one over on a dark wizard might just as well have pulled the same stunt with the devil himself.

  And while Satan wasn’t someone Alex knew personally, rumors have a way of spreading.

  “This is going to be interesting.” He almost laughed, pressing down on the gas and skidding around a turn that took him toward downtown Myers City.

  ***

  Much as he may have denied it, Alex still had a bit of sentimentality to him. He attributed it to the same thing responsible for his taste in clothes: his early years spent on the streets and at the orphanage.

  Before leaving High Garden for the foreseeable future, he decided to pay back the last debt he owed to his small but unforgettable homeland.

  Stopping by a 24/7 shop, Doom parked his bike and calmly walked in. He wasn’t at all worried that someone might try to hijack or scratch his steel horse.

  Life in High Garden had a way of quickly teaching one to understand the limits of their power.

  A small bell tinkled over Alex’s head, the sound melodious and entirely unlike the one at Bromwoord’s. Behind a counter stacked high with chocolate bars and cookies, a nice-looking girl appeared.

  “Good evening,” she said.

  She was about sixteen, with long red hair flowing down behind her slim neck. Her firm breasts and protruding collarbones were conspicuous even in her baggy uniform. And her long, slender legs and sexy buttocks, reflected in the glass door of the drink fridge, were accentuated by the short skirt she was wearing.

  “A pack of Kents, please.”

  The girl slid back the aluminum lid of the cigarette case and, after finding what he was looking for, placed it on the counter.

  “That’ll be two credits and five cents.”

  “Sure.” Alex nodded and ran his fingers through the air. Perceiving his command, his lenses transferred the exact amount to the store account.

  “Thank you for your purchase, and—"

  Before the girl could finish her spiel, Alex flashed her his most disarming smile, one he’d practiced over years spent as a panhandler. It had filled his “pan” with money when he was little; it had started landing girls in his bed when he got a little older.

  “The tip of your nose is insanely beautiful,” he said. “I’ve honestly never seen one like it.”

  “That’s a very strange compliment,” the girl said with a smile.

  “Trivial, you mean?”

&nbs
p; “Maybe,” she replied evasively.

  “Maybe you’ll agree to…”

  Alex hadn’t yet decided what he was going to ask the red-haired girl to agree to, but he knew she was going to say yes.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t get to finish his question.

  The reflection in the same fridge he’d noticed before told him that three youngsters were pawing at his bike, wriggling around on it like strippers on a pole and taking pictures on their cheap smartphones.

  “Damn,” he spat. “What a shitty day this has been.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, dear. Maybe next time.”

  Leaving ten credits as a tip, Alex walked out of the shop, slamming the door shut behind him.

  Chapter 8

  It was your typical trio of little bitches looking for the kind of street cred that would get them into a gang, even a small one. First, there was the big alpha male, wearing a leather jacket and steel-toed boots. He was a meathead whose face showed off his miserable IQ.

  Next was the skinny ringleader with the cruel, beady eyes and thinning hair.

  To round it off, they had the ever-hesitant wimp who was just there to tell the morons they should’ve quit when they were ahead.

  Revoltingly stereotypical.

  Alex had seen more “gangsters” like them than he had rats, and that was despite the fact that there were more rats in each square foot of High Garden than there were doves in a pigeon coop.

  “Get on it, Miles.” The ringleader was hovering around the bike with his phone in hand. “Don’t be a jackass.”

  “Hurry, Miles,” the big guy echoed from his spot off to the side. He’d presumably taken his picture already. “The subway opens soon, and I want to take the first train home.”

  He wants to take the first train, does he?

  Standing behind Rat and Muscle (Alex had a weird penchant for giving everyone nicknames based on their most conspicuous traits, even when they sounded odd), he crossed his arms and frowned.

  Alex was no scrawny nerd. Almost six feet tall and weighing 176 pounds, he just looked like a regular guy. Not athletic, not sinewy, and far from having the impressive physique Muscle sported.