Kill Baxter (3 page)

‘Armmerghh,’ I mutter. A moment of nausea rises as my vision adjusts to the sudden switch.

‘I see you’re your usual eloquent self when we do anything magical,’ Ronin says. ‘You’d think you’d be used to it by now.’

The truth is, I’m not. It still hurts to use my fledgling Siener ability and I’ve tried to avoid it as much as possible. But my general perception of reality has definitely shifted and I now have a sort of general anxiety about the world. After the whole battling giant Crows and mutants experience, I find myself gloomily wondering whether there are even worse things out there.

We push our way through the throng. The Freak Quarter is part market, part festival, part shopping district. I see bearded dwarven kids getting rides on grumpy-looking unicorns. A Tokoloshe wearing an American flag bandanna trying to hustle a trio of heavily made up elven women in stilettos. An anthropomorphic snake in a Mexican poncho busks with a battered guitar and a harmonica.

A dirty-looking dwarf approaches us with a handful of jewellery. ‘Looking for real dwarven gold?’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll make you a special deal because I like the look of your faces.’

‘Ah, very nice,’ Ronin says, turning over a gold ring in his fingers.

The guy grins, showing a mouthful of brown teeth. ‘Only the best.’

Ronin draws a shape over the handful of shiny jewellery with his finger. It shimmers like ice cream melting in the sun, revealing a small pile of rusted bolts and screws.

‘I think we’ll pass,’ he says.

‘Fokken poes,’
the dwarf hisses as he scuttles away.

‘Street conjurors used to be all over the place,’ Ronin says. ‘But they were successfully regulated in the Hidden community. Now they tend to stick to working for banks and for medical insurance companies.’

‘Boys?’ a bright voice calls.

I turn around. ‘Pat?’

‘Baxter!’ she says and gives me a hug, inadvertently spiking me in the cheek with a sharp crystal earring. She holds my shoulders and looks at me with her kindly eyes, her curly white hair bouncing up and down.

Pat runs the Haven, a shelter for the strange things that exist in the realm of the Hidden. She was the first one to explain something of this world that I found myself thrust into. Basically, entire races of weird creatures exist in the dark and shadowy corners of life and MK6 spends all their time making sure the majority of people don’t find out. By any means necessary.

‘How lovely to see you!’ Before I can reply, she turns away. ‘Adopt a sprite. Save a life!’ She shoves a pamphlet into the hand of an old dwarf, who tries desperately not to take it. Pat persists and eventually he gives up, grunts and shoves it into his pocket.

‘The little darlings need good homes.’

‘You’re too fussy, Pat,’ Ronin says good-naturedly. ‘If people want to adopt, just let them have one of the little bastards.’

Pat’s bright face turns instantly stormy. ‘Jackson Ronin, I will not have one of my babies in an unfit home!’

‘He’s just winding you up,’ I say. ‘Ignore him.’

Pat glares at Ronin and then gives me a big smile. ‘Tone says you’re going to Hexpoort.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Oh, you’ll love the Draken there. Beautiful creatures,’ she says. ‘Such charming natures.’

Ronin makes a noise like he’s choking on a chicken bone.

‘Well, we’d better get going,’ he says. ‘Got a lot to do.’

‘Have fun, Baxter,’ Pat says. ‘I know you’ll love it there. I just know it.’

‘Adopt a sprite,’ she says to a man with a scaled face in a suit as we walk away. ‘Make a difference!’

We jostle our way back through the market towards a set of iron steps that lead to the second floor. A crowd of the Hidden has gathered in the market’s central area, where a stage made out of plastic crates has been set up. The hippie that stands on it has a brown and black snout and a set of powerful jaws.

‘Is that an anthropomorphic hyena dressed in tie-dye and yoga pants?’ I ask.

‘Kholomodumo,’ Ronin says. ‘Real mean bastards.’

‘How long do we have to put up with this?’ it shouts as it shuffles up and down on the crates. ‘Project Staal is taking our children, destroying our families.’

A guy with wild hair, no front teeth and a non-standard approach to personal hygiene shoves a pamphlet into my hand. Ronin grunts as he grabs the guy by the collar and propels him forcefully out of our way.

The pamphlet is typeset in a garish bright green font. ‘Manifesto of the Bone Kraal,’ I read out loud.

‘Put that down,’ Ronin says, trying to grab it from me.

‘Um, why?’ I say, jerking it out of reach.

‘Because that kind of shit can land you in an MK6 interrogation room, and you don’t want to be there, trust me.’

‘MK6 is scared of these clowns?’ I scan the page. ‘Blah, blah, oppression, transparency, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘Not exactly scared,’ Ronin says, scratching his beard. ‘But those clowns are on the MK shit list.’

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘This is my world now too. I should know about this stuff.’

‘Your world?’ Ronin chuckles and shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t be getting all possessive about it, sparky. But OK. The Bone Kraal are agitators. They want transparency, accountability, democracy in the way the Hidden are treated.’

‘Sounds, you know, righteous and noble,’ I say.

Ronin raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, the naivety of the young and stupid. It’s not righteous and noble when you’re part of a black ops government agency that is conspiring to hide the fact that monsters and magic are real. Then it’s terrorism. THAT is your world.’

‘Right,’ I say. But I shove the pamphlet into my pocket. Fuck the Man.

We skirt the crowd and make our way up the old iron staircase in the corner of the factory to the second floor, which is a maze of shops and stalls. Ronin leads me to a huge corrugated-iron shop that occupies a quarter of the floor space. DEMENTERTAINMENT says a sign in lurid pink neon, and the entrance is flanked by huge wooden speakers blasting weird disjointed seventies psychedelic rock.

‘Everything we need is in here,’ Ronin says with a grin.

I look doubtfully at the skulls, crystals, feathers, rock posters, herbs, incense and old vinyl. Easing my way past a stuffed cat wearing battle armour, I follow Ronin inside.

‘Edred Blackheath, scumbag sorcerer, former grave-robber and collector of all things magical,’ he calls out as we approach the counter. The guy behind it is leaning on his elbows and flicking through a magazine. He has long grey-streaked black hair, and is wearing a dirty pink Hello Kitty T-shirt, a leather waistcoat and a tacky turquoise faux Native American choker around his neck. A tattoo of a waterfall flows from his left eye down his cheekbone to his chin, and two large gold hoop earrings hang from his ears.

‘Jackie Ronin,’ Edred says. ‘Just plain scumbag.’

‘C’mon, Ed.’ Ronin leans forward and grips the man’s hand. ‘Be nice.’

‘When was I ever nice?’ Edred says and pulls Ronin into a gruff hug. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Baxter Zevcenko,’ I say.

‘This is Zevcenko?’ Edred raises an eyebrow. ‘This is the tyke that took on Basson? Well, well, I must admit I thought he’d be more … impressive.’

‘You and me both,’ Ronin says with a grin, grabbing a stool and sitting down in front of the counter.

I give them a sarcastic smile and then raise both my middle fingers.

Edred laughs. ‘That’s the spirit, my boy.’

‘How’s things, Ed?’ Ronin asks.

‘Well, I’ve been attending so many funerals lately, you’d think I was living in a fucking old-age home.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been hearing things,’ Ronin says.

‘More agents dead, their teeth taken for Muti.’ Ed shakes his head. ‘MK6 agents being hunted like dogs. Never thought I’d see the day.’

‘Come on, you don’t believe this Muti Man urban legend, do you?’

Ed looks at Ronin. ‘Well, someone or something is killing those agents,’ he says. ‘And the Blood Kraal are doing fuck all to find out who.’

‘There are enough things out there that want to do that without inventing some bogeyman.’

Ed shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. If you want to stick your head in the sand, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘C’mon …’ Ronin says.

Ed raises a hand. ‘Conversation closed. I know what Ronin’s here for, but what can I do for you, young Master Zevcenko?’

‘I need whatever’s on the Hexpoort curriculum for this year,’ I say.

‘Ah, a Poort initiate, eh?’ He smiles at me with tobacco-stained teeth. ‘They get younger every year.’ He pulls a fat brown folder from beneath the counter. ‘Hexpoort, Hexpoort,’ he says as he flicks through it. ‘Perhaps not the most prestigious occult educator out there, but certainly still one of the best. Here we go, the Hexpoort first-year curriculum.’ He sucks his teeth. ‘This is going to cost you.’

‘I have to buy textbooks?’ I say. ‘MK6 are a government agency, aren’t they, like, government-sponsored?’

‘The government can’t even get enough textbooks for basic education. You really think they’re going to spring for a couple of hundred copies of Crowley’s
Magick Without Tears
every year?’

‘I’m guessing no?’

‘You guess right. Some of the stuff you can find online for free, but the rarer things you have to get from me.’

‘OK, so what else is going on there? I’m gonna need what, a wand and a spellbook or something?’

Ed sighs and slams his hand down on the counter. ‘Popular culture has ruined magic. Utterly ruined it.’

‘Here we go,’ Ronin mutters and pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

‘All wands and fucking “you shall not pass” and “wingardium fucking leviosa”. Students become fixated on that shit and never progress. They never take the time to investigate the real bones, the real blood of magic. You’re not gonna be Hendrix if all you listen to is Bieber, you know what I’m saying?’

‘I think so,’ I reply, not having a clue what he’s going on about.

‘Magic is just a tool,’ he says. ‘A spade. You’re not going to dig a good hole if you don’t put your back into it.’

‘Last time I was here, magic was a spanner,’ Ronin says. ‘And before that it was a hammer. Pick a metaphor and stick with it, Ed, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Well I’m not wrong, am I? Props, Ronin, it has all become about props. I preferred magic when it wasn’t so mainstream.’

His rant continues as he browses the bookshelves, unceremoniously pulling out books and dumping them into a plastic supermarket basket. ‘You know what I heard the other day? You can get a degree in magic online. ONLINE! If ever there were a recipe for disaster …’

He eventually hands me the basket. ‘I’m adding one of my own essential magical texts free of charge,’ he says as he shows me a vaguely recognisable picture of a crazy-looking old guy with a beard.

‘What’s this?’

‘A picture of Alan Moore’s face,’ Ed says.

‘A picture of Alan Moore’s face is on my curriculum?’

Edred gives me the crazy eye. ‘No, but sometimes it’s all you need.’

‘OK, OK,’ Ronin says. ‘The kid’s got what he came for. Now do you have what I want?’ He licks his lips in anticipation.

‘Hmmm, what was it you were looking for again? My memory isn’t what it used to be.’ Ed taps his chin with the tips of his fingers.

‘Don’t fuck with me, Ed,’ Ronin says, his eyes all wide like a junkie’s. ‘You said you had it.’

‘Easy, calm down.’ Ed grins and holds up his hands. ‘Just messing with you. I’ve got it.’ He retrieves a battered wooden case from underneath a pile of books. ‘The Blackfish,’ he says, opening the case.

The gun inside is about the size of an Uzi, squat and a metallic grey-black, like it’s made from hematite. The muzzle is shaped like the mouth of some kind of prehistoric fish, with huge teeth that protrude like tusks.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Ronin whispers. This is as close to religious as I’ve ever seen him.

‘One of a kind,’ Edred agrees, hefting it to his shoulder and sighting down the odd barrel. ‘A worthy successor to Warchild.’

Ronin holds out his hands pleadingly. ‘Let me see it, Ed.’

‘I’m not sure you can afford it,’ Edred says. ‘Last I heard, you weren’t exactly in the black.’

‘We can make a plan, can’t we?’ Ronin is like a kid begging for candyfloss. ‘I can pay it off.’

‘Not this time.’ Ed replaces the weapon carefully in the case. ‘Sorry, buddy, but business is business.’

‘Surely there’s something I can do?’ Ronin says. ‘C’mon, man.’

Ed steeples his fingers. ‘Well, there is … no, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.’

‘What?’ Ronin says. ‘You can ask me, man.’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Seriously, Ed, just ask.’

‘Well, it’s just that Norrd is putting pressure on me, forcing me to pay protection money,’ Ed says. ‘He’s really muscled in on the Freak Quarter and your lot at MK aren’t stopping him.’

Ronin shrugs. ‘No need to interfere when the Hidden are regulating themselves is the dominant philosophy over at HQ.’

‘Yeah, except when it interferes with government turning a profit,’ Ed replies.

‘That’s the way it’s always been and you know it. But why do you need me? You can handle yourself.’

Ed nods. ‘Sure, maybe once or twice when they come knocking. But you know Norrd. He’s got serious muscle. He’ll just keep coming after me until I pay him, or I’m dead.’

‘Yeah, Norrd’s a bastard all right.’

‘So hypothetically, what if you were to pay Norrd a visit? Off the books,’ Ed says. ‘Tell him to back off?’

Ronin grimaces and tugs at his beard braid. ‘I don’t know, Ed. Doing stuff off the books can land me in shit. MK doesn’t exactly encourage us to fuck with power-players for our own personal gain.’

‘Give me a break. Half the stuff you do is off the books. The Dwarven Legion hates Norrd, so they won’t give a shit. And the way I hear it, the Legion is calling a lot of the shots in MK these days.’

‘I’m not your enforcer, Ed. If he decides to come after you, I can’t stop him.’

‘And I’m not your personal armourer, Ronin,’ Ed says. ‘Want that terrible naked feeling you get when you don’t have a custom weapon under that filthy coat of yours to disappear?’

Ronin’s eyes narrow. ‘If I do this, you’ll give me the Blackfish?’