Evil Spark (23 page)

The Hidden either watched or ignored the action, the Regulars the same. Only difference was the Regulars would see the imp as a rather red-faced drunkard of average height rather than an imp of a few inches.

Just another night in The Hidden Club.

I pushed through the "door" and went to find the Chemist.

Let me tell you about him, just so you are warned.

He's a ghoul, and as soon as you mention that it puts people off. But trust me, he's a funny guy. He's been hitting the clubs forever and he's good at what he does, both on and offstage. He lives for making people laugh. That, and what he does when not telling jokes or working on new material. Alchemy.

I heard that once he almost managed the elusive task of transmuting base metal into gold, but the dwarves got wind of it and put a stop to that nonsense—they live for the discovery and the hoarding, so they would never stand for their whole reason for existing being devalued.

Anyway, the Chemist began life as your regular ghoul, a demon that came to our world to feed on the flesh of dead humans and do the usual digging up of graves, robbing of crypts, scavenging battlefields, all that stuff. For reasons unknown, the Chemist took an interest in all things alchemic, maybe as a way to get rid of the hideously long and distorted arms, or the necrotic flesh, or maybe just as a hobby. Who knows? But after endless visits to our world and the ingesting or inhaling of more dangerous self made concoctions than is healthy even for an immortal fiend, he found himself stuck here.

Somewhere along the way, he discovered that he was quite an amusing chap—maybe eating rancid flesh makes you see the funny side of things?—and ever since his revelation he has earned his living via the rather bizarre combination of stand-up and the concocting of all manner of exciting, and often deadly, chemical cocktails.

He is not like Grandma. The Chemist doesn't make sweet and subtle potions, although he can, his is a more extreme approach. There's more of a kick to his stuff, and it doesn't come with a cup of tea afterward.

He has never managed to deal with his looks though, but for Regulars they just see a rather square-head type of guy. Balding and with a straggly ponytail and long arms—just another comedian on the circuit in other words.

I didn't want entertaining. Faz Pound, Talker About Himself in the Third Person for no Reason, wanted the Chemist's other skills.

More Favors

"Spark, long time no see. I hear Grandma's back. Great news." The Chemist pumped my hand enthusiastically. He's a nice guy; I like him. He wiped his oozing mouth on a handkerchief—yeah, it's an issue, but he is a ghoul.

"Sorry, you know how it is. That was a good set. Decent crowd."

"If you can call that sorry excuse for an audience a good crowd. Ugh, sometimes I wonder why I bother."

I knew the Chemist, he lived to entertain. "You'd be lost without the love of the crowd. You can't get enough if it."

"Haha, maybe. Now, what can I do for you? It's great to see you, but I'm beat. Time for me to rest up."

Ghouls don't really sleep, but ones like the Chemist like to at least lie down somewhere dark and fight the urge to go digging up bodies and munching away on soft, rotting human flesh.

"I've got a job for you."

He cleared away a few bits and pieces off a shelf in the dressing room-cum-cupboard, putting bottles of water and a few props into his bag. "I am assuming you don't mean of the jovial kind?"

"No. It's of the letting me sneak up on a vampire who is very old and very dangerous, kind. You up for it?"

"Depends." He rolled his thumb and forefinger together, the universal sign for money.

"I don't have cash on me, but Rikka is good for it."

"I heard Rikka was gone? How do I know... Ah, so he's back?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, but keep it to yourself. I only found out earlier myself. And, um, he's a new man."

"Ooh, intriguing. Well, if you say so, Spark. You know I trust you and I certainly trust Mage Rikka. Come, let's walk. You got wheels?"

"Sure do. One of Rikka's."

"Great. New car smell!" The Chemist beamed at me. He's a kindred spirit. I love me some new car smell. It's the best!

We waved goodbye to the few still coherent drinkers and waded through the cancer of smoke. Brewster Bunker grunted from behind the bar. Where he got the name from, I have no idea, but it's certainly the most inventive one I've come across. I can't tell you how many trolls I've met called Rock, or Boulder. It gets very confusing.

Outside, the cool air of late night—or early morning, depending on how you look at it—felt refreshing and normal. Being in places like The Hidden Club transports you to a strange alternate universe where you get drawn in by its spell. It's only when you do something as basic as breathe the damp city air that you kind of get shocked awake and realize that isn't how everyone lives their lives.

It didn't matter that I was stood next to what looked to me like a burn victim that had gone rotten. With totally misshapen and stretched limbs, forearms thick like Popeye's, and a face like Freddy Krueger on a bad hair day, it still felt normal compared to inside the club. Hey, it's the best I can do most of the time, my company gets a lot weirder than the Chemist. The air was fresh, the streets were empty, even the clubbers had gone home. Who could ask for more?

"Come on, I'll give you a ride back to yours," I said to the Chemist.

"Boy, I'm beat." The Chemist rubbed at his balding head. I ignored the flaky bits that dropped into puddles like sad confetti. "I hope you didn't want anything too advanced."

"Nope. It can be as basic as you like, just as long as it does the job."

*

I said nothing as we entered the Chemist's home. Mainly because I was trying not to breathe, and speaking would have meant opening my mouth and risking inhaling who knew how many infectious diseases or mind and body-altering chemical cocktails.

Yes, I knew I would have to breathe, but you try walking into a ghoul's home who is also an alchemist and not at least attempt to limit the damage it does.

The Chemist is a long time self-experimenter, anything from plagues to transmutations—although why he bothers is anyone's guess. He's a demon, so isn't exactly the best subject for such things, what with the whole immortality thing and all, but at least he shows willing.

His place was as I remembered it. Namely, like someone had invited a group of goblins in and said, "Hey, party on, dudes. Don't worry about making a mess, and here's some dangerous chemicals and a few deadly viruses to play with in case you get bored. See you in a few years."

There was a stained mattress in a corner, and that was about it as far as home comforts. Everything else was to do with his work, and I don't mean stand-up.

The large room was all dodgy looking vats, cloudy jars of "things," cabinets full of neatly labeled and arranged powders—some things have to be ordered if you want to make potions work—and more chemical beakers, weird tubes, bottles with things bubbling away, and liquids flowing from one odd shaped jar to another than you would find in even a crazed chemist's lab with an unlimited budget.

He's had a long time to amass his equipment, and some of it dates back to the very first inventions of glass itself. Much of the lab is priceless, but he treats it all with the same offhand manner—it's just stuff to him, to help with his work.

"Fancy a drink, Spark?" The Chemist shook a fluted beaker and peered at it with interest. He took a sip and grimaced. Guess it tasted worse than it looked.

"Um, no thanks. Just had one."

"Ah, okay," he said brightly. "So, what's your poison?"

"Oh, um, I need to be unsmellable, preferably invisible too, if you can manage it."

"The no smell thing I can do, but I'm all out of sprite tears. They're so sneaky, you know. Trying to get them to cry is hard enough, but actually bottling the stuff... Ugh, does my head in. And it goes off so quick. It's like they don't want you to use it or something."

"Um, I guess. So, no invisibility then?"

"I can do you camouflage, how about that? Camouflage is good. Same thing really."

I didn't see how, but he had my interest. Anything to help me out would be worth it, although it is always a risk when the Chemist is involved. Sometimes things don't work as they are supposed to. "Tell me more," I said, knowing I was out of options, probably already out of time.

The Chemist rummaged around on the massive bench that ran half the length of the room down the center. How he found anything, I have no idea, but he bent to the task with all the focus of a faery on a plate of tagliatelle and held up two gleaming beakers triumphantly. He smiled his ghoulish smile at me, then the smile faded as focus took over.

To watch the Chemist work is a thing of beauty. It's not like when witches work, they seem to do it almost absentmindedly. The Chemist is different. For him it is almost a spiritual exercise. He becomes his art, deep immersion in what he sees as a religious experience as much as potion making.

And why didn't I just go to Grandma for help? Because certain Hidden have certain skills, and although Grandma could make what I wanted, I'm sure, it would still be different. This was aggressive magic that needed an edge, and the Chemist has that edge.

This is alchemy of ingredients but also alchemy of the mind and body, like how Grandma works but with more of a punch. Her skill is usually subtle. More mental. This had to be physical and it had to be robust. Plus, to be honest, I didn't want her involved. She would also try to slip in something that would have other effects—she can't help herself—and there was no way I wanted my mind altered.

Her work is always top notch and what she does for clients always delivers, but I didn't want things done to me that she thought best. I like my decisions to be my own, and after the business with Stanley I couldn't face any more thought of alternate futures or what-might-have-beens.

All I wanted was the potions. Drink it, it works, no subtle side-effects—the Chemist doesn't do subtle, that's for sure.

Ten minutes later, he set down the two beakers. They were grubby, covered in fingerprints, colored powder clung to the rims, and the contents were as murky as a goblin's bathwater. "Here we go, Spark. You have to drink all I give you for it to work. Don't leave any or you won't get the full effect."

"How long will they both last?" I shook the beakers. The cloudy liquid looked like it could jump out at any moment and grow legs. There were bits in it!

"Smell will last maybe an hour, could be longer." The Chemist shrugged. "Camouflage will be half an hour tops, if you're lucky. They will work as soon as you drink them, but drink it all, Spark."

"Okay, you said."

"Because it's important."

"Right. Thanks for this, Chemist. I appreciate it."

"My pleasure. I'll send the bill to Rikka. Glad he's back. Things have been rather crazy at the club. You can see everyone getting antsy; more fights than usual."

"I bet. Right, things to do, people to see, stuff to kill. The usual. I'll see you again soon, come watch your show."

"Good. I could do with a few new faces. Some of those guys have seen me every week for decades now. You'd think they would get bored."

"What, of you? Never."

The Chemist poured the two beakers into test tubes and stoppered the ends. He printed the contents in spidery handwriting on the labels and passed them to me.

"Go get 'em, Spark."

"I intend to." I stepped over the carnage of contents and left.

Time to go have a chat with some vampires.

Into the Vampire's Den

Carefully arranging the vials in the cup holder, and stuffing paper around them so they didn't break, I headed to the only place I knew Yrjo and maybe his remaining goon would have gone—back to Taavi's.

Yes, I know what you are thinking. What kind of idiot voluntarily goes to the vampire den when it's dark and they will be at their strongest? Why not wait until morning when they will be asleep and kill them while they dream their dark dreams?

Well, I would have loved to do that, but it would solve nothing. It wouldn't put things back to how they were. No, I needed to speak to Taavi while he was at his peak, and I needed Yrjo dealt with one way or another too.

This should be vampire business, and I'm sure Rikka would have wanted nothing to do with it, or wouldn't have interfered at any rate, if it had just been a vampire coup, much as he wouldn't have wanted a new face to deal with. But Oliver had been under Yrjo, had taken sides, and Yrjo had wanted Rikka gone, which were the actions of a fool.

Yrjo would have loved for me and Rikka to be dead, so he could deal with someone less effective. Chances are, it would be someone appointed by the Dark Council, usually an interim Head. Yrjo would have walked all over them, or ignored them, taken charge, and dared them to take the UK from him—that seemed like his style. This had to be dealt with.

Rikka gave me the job because Yrjo had come after me, and him. I'm one of his top enforcers, actually, his best, and if the new guy was intent on becoming Head and dared attempt murder of the UK Head of two Councils, well, that was outright war.

Houses do not mess with each other's business, let alone Council Heads. It isn't how we do things. You are declaring war on a whole series of species with such acts. Yrjo had overstepped the boundaries.

That saying, better the devil you know, it applied. If Yrjo wanted to become Head of the Vampire Council then he would have us to face for what he had done and tried to do. Okay, me anyway.

Already there was a tinge to the sky. True daylight was still hours away, but it was coming. By now the vampires would be back at Taavi's. I wondered what tales there would be concerning Oliver. Would Yrjo say anything, or merely assume we would leave him be to make his move against Taavi as he saw fit? Probably. Vampires are arrogant like that.

I put it all out of my mind. I had an enforcer job to do, under Rikka's orders. He was back, in charge, and I would do as I was told.