Faery Dust (Wildcat Wizard Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  A Bad Night

  No Peace

  Dangerous Daughters

  Grumpy Death

  The Fallen

  George

  Complications

  Apologies and Insights

  Trippy Drive

  A Father's Wrath

  No Remorse

  A Trip Back Home

  To Business

  The Note

  Ræth Næg

  Begin Again

  Getting Personal

  Very Ghetto

  Off on the Wrong Foot

  A Lesson

  Quick Refresh

  Cerberus Again

  A Master

  A Lead

  Some Drama

  Life's Tough

  A Strange Bedfellow

  The Inner Nerd

  Like Normal People

  Loading Up

  Nice Shoes

  The Best Bit

  A Little Thievery

  So Close

  Ugh

  More Hassle

  Could've Been Worse

  Sore Head

  The Games We Play

  Things Get Crazy

  Cleaning Up

  The Most Valuable Lesson

  Breakfast

  Don't Panic

  Some Me Time

  Too Much Mayo

  Back to the Grime

  A New Friend

  A Coffee

  Sneaky Sidekick

  Vicky Goes Nuts

  A Few Questions

  Thanks and Goodbye

  Should've Stayed at Home

  A Visitor

  More Visitors

  To the Batcave

  A Long Walk

  An Introduction

  To the Undeath

  Bad Time to Rest

  Confusion

  More Trouble

  Drinking Magic Juice

  Some Juice Left

  Faery Dust

  A Bit Crowded

  A Quick Cuppa

  Nathan Again

  What a Job

  Looks Nice

  Faery Dust

  Wildcat Wizard Book 2

  Al K. Line

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  Copyright © 2017, Al K. Line. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A Bad Night

  The mini-death eluded me as it had so many nights before and would so many nights to come. I lay on my bed, wrapped up tight against the chill of the room and terrors of my own making, trying to find comfort in the soft blankets. Some kind of intimacy, an emotionless embrace that was my only companion through the long dark hours.

  My bones ached, my thoughts were jumbled and endless, never stilling, never giving me the oblivion I so desperately craved.

  Nightmarish visions clamored for attention in my already crowded mind. The revenge of the dead. Their only way to haunt me in these waking dreams. Calling, accusing, forcing me to watch their demise over and over again. Same as always.

  I huddled deeper into the blankets, willing sleep to devour my consciousness and allow me to find rest if only for a few hours. But the dawn had broken, the birds frantic in their early morning activity. I glanced at my watch. Four in the bloody morning. Didn't the little bleeders know this was too early? That inside the farmhouse was an insomniac wizard battling with his demons, and losing, once again? They didn't know, they certainly didn't care.

  I buried my face in the clammy pillow, damp from my sweat, maybe from my tears, and squeezed my eyes shut so tight my face hurt.

  Once again I was mocked and shamed by images from my past, the dead and the damned floating by with such clarity I felt I could reach out and touch them. They were waiting for me on the other side, but I couldn't even sleep let alone die.

  I don't know how many people I've killed in my life, and that's a fucked up thing to admit. Each and every person you have harmed should be the most vivid memory you have, but I'd hurt more than I'd killed, and boy had I killed a lot.

  Several I even felt guilty about, maybe, but most deserved it, or at least had given me little choice. I chose this life of a criminal, picked the path that led through the twisted woods of corruption and wild magic so far removed from the world of citizens, and I had few regrets. I had lived one hell of a wild life, done plenty of crazy things, and found it impossible to do what others did. Behave.

  But the deaths? So many. Untold killing in ways too numerous to mention. They paraded before me, stealing my sleep, forcing me to look. I watched as if my life were made into a movie, edited down to the gruesome highlights. Here a cut throat, blood spurting high and with such force you wonder how the human body doesn't just explode under such pressure. There a severed wrist, sliced from palm to elbow, me making sure there was no comeback for my enemy, an instant death too good for them. An image of me jabbing out hard and fast with my wand, one of my favorite moves, stabbing into eyes that popped, spitting fat blobs of jelly over my face like death porn.

  Crushed skulls and melted limbs. Amputated feet, and fingers sliced clean off with a whip of the wand and some serious magical control.

  And on it went. Me losing the plot in the wild days, letting the magic consume me, uncaring about the damage or the consequences. Eviscerating the gangsters and especially the drug dealers that dared to talk back or underestimate The Hat. The terrible things I did to the people traffickers, the violence never enough to satiate my anger, my utter despair at the depths to which humanity could sink.

  Broken bones, melted clothes, arcs of magic crackling, destroying, obliterating. Dancing sigils singing for joy as their contained energy was released, given free rein. Spinning wildly with joy and ferocity as I reveled in the power. And then the regret. Always the regret, the shame, the despair. The tears and the humiliation, the sickness, the doubling with pain as my guts churned and I felt remorse for what I'd done. But that always passed, and I felt justified. Confusion followed, questioning why I didn't feel bad about taking the lives. Because they were scum, or they would do me harm, and we all knew the score, that was why.

  Magic is volatile, and it took me many years to get a proper hold on it, to stop it taking over and driving me forward when I should have run away. But I got good at running, and a lot better at magic, yet remained bad at sleeping. That's when my past came back to lay claim, spiking my sleep and my mind until I was almost willing to join the ghosts.

  But I couldn't, and I wouldn't, because I am, was, and forever shall be, Arthur "The Hat" Salzman. Gangster. Wizard. Screwed again. I had a daughter, I had a life, and I'd be damned if memories of the past would dictate my future.

  A commotion outside my room meant my torment was over and I sat up and glanced at the clock again. Somehow hours had passed and the world was awake and about its business while I cowered under the covers.

  I regretted none of it. The bright light of day seared the dead from my mind, allowed me to put things into perspective. I would face the new day and I would beat it, same as I always had.

  Then Vicky barged into my bedroom and I reconsidered. Maybe death would be favorable to a manic Stepford mom. Nobody should look that chirpy in the morning, it ain't natural.

  No Peace

  Sometimes
, make that usually, I felt there were way too many women in my life. Not women who found me attractive in a rugged yet stylish way and wanted to see what was underneath my brown shirt, and maybe even underneath my hat. No, women who nagged me, bossed me about, and thought they knew better than me.

  Just because they often did know better didn't make it right. I was—still am—a man and had my pig-headed pride no matter who was in the right or wrong. Problem being, usually I was in the wrong and they weren't afraid to tell me. Actually, they insisted. With glee, and a twinkle in their eyes.

  Guess this was just the result of having a teenage witch-in-training for a daughter, a manic, annoyingly upbeat, way too chirpy housewife for a sidekick, and a glamorous faery godmother who delighted in appearing when I was in the midst of doing something dangerous or stupid, often both simultaneously. Sasha thought she owned me just because she gave me multiple lives which, admittedly, had come in handy, what with me having died five times already. She forgot I'd saved her from incarceration, preferring to focus on all that was lacking rather than the myriad positives I undoubtedly had—at least in my own sleep-deprived mind.

  Still, a bloke has his pride, and I was at tipping point. Scrap that, I was beyond it. I was going nuts and couldn't stand it a moment longer.

  So, it was with a heavy heart and a terrible sense of foreboding that the truly chilling words Vicky uttered with unabashed glee, "I've got a week off, what we going to do?" filtered through my mental blocks and my exhaustion after the worst night I'd experienced since the one before sank like stones in the pit of my stomach. Where they festered and squirmed, forming maleficent ulcers of the most despicable kind.

  "Ugh, I need to go use the bathroom." I ran into my well-appointed en-suite and wondered if Vicky would go away if I ignored her for long enough.

  Half an hour later, with her incessant knocking at the door and saying, "Are you done yet? We should go somewhere nice," repeatedly, I reluctantly opened the door and peered out at my perky new sidekick suspiciously.

  I say sidekick, she hadn't actually been on a job with me since I inadvertently handed over the original vampire to his teeth-endowed descendants. It was a stressful time and I may have promised Vicky, mother of two, feisty, happy, always smiling, damn annoying Vicky that she could replace my previous sidekick who happened to now be dead.

  In the week since the promise had been made she'd pestered me multiple times a day to get a job and take her along for the adventure.

  "Well?" asked Vicky, hands on hips, head cocked to the side, damn perky ponytail swishing gleefully.

  "Well, what? I can't just magic jobs out of thin air. And how have you got a week off? What about the kids? And what the hell are you doing here, in my bedroom? This is my room!"

  Vicky ignored most of my questions, as usual, and answered what she wanted to answer. "They've gone to Germany with a school trip. I knew I should have taught them German." If nothing else, Vicky was a conscientious mother who believed one daughter would be president of the world and the other would invent a cure for every ailment in existence and transcend to godhood.

  "What about the Slug?" After some thought I'd upgraded him to capital S, it only seemed right.

  "Arthur!"

  "Okay, what about your loving husband?"

  "What about him?"

  "Fair enough."

  "He's away, too." Vicky smiled wickedly, and a lesser man would have been suspicious that maybe she'd planned this so she could get up to no good without family obligations. I didn't ask, I wasn't in the mood for being lied to.

  Vicky's husband was hardly ever home anyway, and if he was he had his phone glued to his ear or was moaning about work. He loved his job, the weirdo, but felt he had to whine about it to validate the fact he was providing for his family. How about being there, you dick. Not that I'm an example of the best father, but we're still allowed to judge, right?

  "Dad?" interrupted George, my daughter of seventeen going on seventy going on seven.

  "What?" I snapped, pulling on clothes hastily, realizing me standing there in my boxers might give George the wrong idea. Probably not, she must have let Vicky in, after all.

  "Well, if you're gonna be like that." She turned to storm off so I swallowed my manly pride and apologized.

  "Sorry, sorry, Vicky's driving me nuts. Didn't mean to take it out on you." I turned to Vicky. "How did you get here?"

  "I let her in," said George.

  "Ugh, okay. Now, what is it, honey?"

  "There's a bloke at the door. Says he wants a word?"

  "Does he look dark and mysterious and like he has a terrible secret?" asked Vicky, squinting weirdly.

  "What's wrong with your eyes?" I wondered if she was getting allergies.

  "I'm being tough," she said stomping her foot, so little weight to it that it didn't even make the dodgy floorboards creak.

  "Vicky, you can't look tough wearing striped Lycra jogging bottoms, neon trainers, and a matching sweater." Her fashion sense was about as current as her taste in music, which consisted of Wham and Spandau Ballet. "And you have a scrunchie in your hair. And you're carrying around those damn pink vinyl weights. I told you, they're pointless."

  "They're working," she protested. "See?" Vicky struck a double biceps pose; her arms were still scrawny and as flat as I wished my heartbeat was.

  "Whatever, just thought you'd want to know," said George, completing her huff and storming out of my bedroom.

  See what I mean about them bullying me? All I wanted to be was an honest criminal, not a henpecked father and boss.

  "George, wait! Please come back, this could be serious."

  George scowled but reluctantly clomped back in. "What?"

  "Who is it? You know we don't get visitors, not to see me anyway." Our home was well away from my criminal activities, so far away in fact that you had to use a magic portal to get to it unless you wanted one hell of a long drive.

  "Bet he's someone dastardly," said Vicky rubbing her hands together then deftly picking up her neoprene dumbbells and practicing her quick draw.

  I stared at her suspiciously, thinking she'd said what she did, but sure she couldn't have, not really.

  "Did you just say dastardly? What is this, the prohibition era? I'm sorry, I didn't realize we'd stepped into an audition for Bugsy Malone."

  "Shut up, Arthur," scowled Vicky before returning to her pointless dumbbell curls.

  It isn't just me, is it? I was being tortured by tiny women, right?

  Dangerous Daughters

  George sighed and stared at us both like we'd finally lost the plot. We probably had. My daughter with her smart black pencil skirt, a coral blouse, and her rich, long and wavy auburn hair was the opposite of a rebellious teenager by appearance, but that was her ruse, her cunning plan. I kept forgetting she was no mature adult, but was sent by a demonic entity to try my patience and had come in the disguise of a sweet looking girl fast approaching womanhood.

  "Did he say who he was? What's he look like?"

  George shrugged in a way unique to teenagers, and said, "Tall, very tall. Funny clothes, and I think he's got a dog. He kept telling it to sit but he left it at the gate. Oh, and he's got an awesome hat. It's huge."

  I got a bad feeling, and panicked. "You didn't let him in did you? Didn't let the wards down?"

  "Of course not! I told him to wait and I'd see if you were available. I'm not stupid."

  "Okay, bunker time. You too, Vicky."

  "No way."

  "Fat chance."

  The bunker, okay, the basement, was safe, the reason I built it. "Please, for me?" I tried to smile and win them over, but the stubble, the intense eyes, and the hollow cheeks and bumpy jawline made my face more suitable for scowling and shouting than smiling and whispering. With neither of them showing any sign of moving, I continued, "Fine, wait here. Do not," I warned, "come downstairs."

  Muttering about people stealing my look and wearing a hat just because I did, I nonetheless put m
y own hat on, left the room, and headed down to the front door. It took both of them about half a second before they followed.

  I checked the wards were still in place, humming away angrily at the presence of magic they sensed at the front door—fortified by me and awaiting Sasha to beef them up again—then opened up gingerly. The terrible tormentors both pushed against my back and peered out from behind me at the man standing there. Seven feet three—without the hat—skinny as a rake after someone had got carried away on finding nothing else to practice whittling on, and dressed like he'd bought his clothes a few centuries ago, the visitor was even more of an intimidating presence than I'd remembered.

  "Nice hat," I said sarcastically, scowling in disapproval at the large Abe Lincoln monstrosity atop his head. Perfectly straight, and dark as pitch hair cascaded down his shoulders like an evil waterfall.

  "You too," said Elion. "It's called Morte."

  I nodded in approval, unable to help myself, as all hats should have a name. Mine's called Grace. I said nothing about the choice of name, he knew it meant death. He also knew he never used to wear a hat until he met me, and why he wore something that made him look about a gazillion feet tall was beyond me.

  I shoved back at the two women as they strained against me to get a better look, and warned, "She better not be eating my chickens."

  There was a squawk from the cobbled yard that fronted my farmhouse and then silence. Elion turned slowly and peered at something out of sight. "Um, too late. Caesar, come here. Bad girl."

  George and Vicky gasped as a very strange looking, and very large creature padded softly up to Elion Kelric, looked at him with adoration, then gave us an evil glare. She sat and wiped a large paw across her mouth, spitting feathers.

  "I see you've still got the mutt."

  "We're partners." Elion patted her head lovingly.

  "What can I do for you? I'm busy."

  "That's no way to greet old friends. Not going to invite us in?"

  "Not unless I know what you want first."

  "I've got a job for you," said Elion peering at me quizzically from under pencil-thin eyebrows, smiling weakly, the smile never reaching his pale, hypnotizing eyes.