Dark Wizard's Case

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 b.u.t.t 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?"