Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1)

 

 

by Domino Finn

 

 

Copyright © 2015 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

 

Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

First Edition

 

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.

 

Cover Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

 

 

 

 

 

The last time I woke up this hung over, I was naked, soaking wet, and wrapped in a Cuban flag.

This time, at least, I had clothes on. I couldn't see them in the pitch black, but I could feel them. I could feel other things too. Raw pounding in my head. Enough tightness in my chest to make every breath a chore. I was in ten kinds of pain. Apparently that wasn't enough because my leg was asleep too.

There was more. Cold, wet, grimy more. Flies buzzed around my face, circling the stench of death. My arm was slimy. I shifted my weight and something crunched beneath me. My hands and feet pressed against the tight confines of a box.

Smell of death and decay. Check. Some kind of giant coffin. Check. I'm no mathematician but things were starting to add up.

Despite the evidence of my apparent death, I didn't panic. You see, I'm a necromancer (among other things) so I know a little about the subject. I couldn't tell you where I was or what happened the day before to get me here, but I had an inkling I was still alive. Even if just barely.

I tried to sit up. A stabbing pain pulsed through my body until I relaxed again. Request denied.

Okay, deep breath time. I focused inward to calm myself, then reopened my eyes. A thin sliver of light crept through the seam of my crypt overhead, but it was too weak to illuminate the interior.

Good thing I knew a trick or two.

I stared into the darkness, more deeply than before. Not into the box or any physical place, but into a place within me. The pupils of my eyes leaked and my green irises filled with black, and with a blink I could see.

And you thought the necromancer thing was all about wearing black and growing your hair long. I hate to burst your bubble but I'm not a walking death metal stereotype. I don't wear a trench coat and I have a crew cut. I live in Miami, for fuck's sake. It's hot and humid
in the winter
. No sense getting a heatstroke to appeal to northern sensibilities.

Not only that but Cisco Suarez (that's me) isn't just a necromancer. He's a shadow charmer too. That's the magic I just called on. The darkness all around me, it was still there—I could just see through it now.

The thin razorblade of light now stung my eyes. I avoided looking directly at it and checked the rest of the tomb. Crushed cardboard boxes. Stuffed plastic bags. My accommodations weren't as morbid as I'd feared. This wasn't a coffin but a dumpster.

Maybe I wasn't dead after all. Just down for a nap. A bed made of beer bottles. My pillow? A dead sewer rat.

That would've made most men jump, but remember: necromancer. I scrunched my nose and reached for it.

The simple act of limberness was a battle of pain. My muscles were sore. Dry and withered like the old husks of a toppled tree. My bones creaked and my joints were half-dried cement. I stirred up more dust than the Mummy. But I pushed through the agony until I dangled the dead rat by its tail.

It had been decapitated. A tribute. Sacrificial magic, and not mine. That spelled trouble.

I checked for other signs of ritual or binding. Charms. Runes. Burnt sacraments. Scanning the contents of the dumpster, I spied a couple of dark-red cowboy boots on my feet and literally hopped in place. (I almost knocked my head on the dumpster lid.) You see, the rat I could handle. My wearing a bona fide pair of alligator boots was unacceptable.

Don't get me wrong. There was nothing magic or cursed about them. It's just that the modern Cuban doesn't wear cowboy boots. Cisco Suarez doesn't wear cowboy boots.

That's me again, by the way. Shorter and catchier than Francisco, it always reminded me of a comic book name. What kid didn't want to be a superhero? I liked the sound of it so much I picked up referring to myself in the third person. Get used to it.

Enough about my name. Let's talk spellcraft. I'm what you call an animist: an everyday human who happens to tap into spirits for magical energy. Wild, huh?

I know what you're thinking: A cleric deals with gods and a wizard with books, right? Well, put the Player's Handbook away and forget everything you think you know. Gods and books have plenty of overlap. (The most famous book in all history is a notable example.)

Fact is, magic is a universal force in the world, pure energies known as the Intrinsics. They're the building blocks of all creation. People like you or me can only manipulate them through spirits. That makes us animists.

Everything else is just a title. Wizard. Cleric. Learned men like to use mage (it's more sophisticated). You see shaman or witch doctor applied to primitive peoples. Or if you wanna vilify animists, call them witches and warlocks. You get the idea. I'm sure some academic somewhere compiled a list of unofficial "official" definitions—but you'd have a hard time running into that terminology on the street. And the street is where the real stuff happens.

Case in point: the dumpster I was lying in.

Some alarm in my head screamed that I was hurt. Maybe fatally. The thing was, besides stiffness, there wasn't anything wrong with me. I wasn't dying, anyway. I kinda felt like a homeless vampire more than anything else. Which would be a lot funnier if I didn't know vampires actually existed. After all, right now I had a hangover from hell—maybe hell was where I came from.

You're probably bored by now, right? Sorry. I think too much. It's a problem I'm trying to address.

With a strained kick of an alligator boot, the lid of the dumpster flew open. Blinding light engulfed me and seared my senses. I literally hissed and uselessly threw my hands up in defense. Maybe I was a vampire after all.

But I didn't burst into flames. After I took another second to get my head on straight, I realized I was still drawing upon my shadow sight. I drained the darkness from my eyes, my lids pushing out black tears, until it was safe to look.

A blue sky. Fluffy clouds. Palm trees.

I was in South Beach.

Not the pretty coastline with white sand they show on TV during football games. That was never far in Miami Beach, of course, but the back alleys were far less picturesque. I was just off Washington Avenue somewhere, outside a dive bar. The alley was empty. I heaved myself over the dumpster wall and landed on the concrete with a thud. I wouldn't win any vaulting medals but it got the job done. Standing and walking involved entirely new kinds of pain, but either it was wearing off or I was getting used to it.

Normally I'd assume this predicament was my doing—it wouldn't be me if I didn't go big—but the dead rat was a bit much. It was also a dead giveaway that someone else was involved.

I padded at my jean pockets. I had a cell phone but no wallet. Was I robbed? It seemed unlikely given the evidence of spellcraft. A beatdown, then?

I frowned. I'd annoyed people, sure. I'd had minor run-ins with gang tough guys and stirred up the local talent, but that was life as a small-time hustler. I was too young for real enemies. No reason anyone should wish me dead.

The preternatural fog in my head wasn't going away. I couldn't think clearly. No amount of head-scratching helped.

With my head on a swivel for danger, I staggered to the pink sidewalk. (Miami Beach, remember?) I was ready for anything. What I didn't expect was to be ignored.

Small groups of shoppers strolled up and down Washington Avenue. Horns honked and cars inched forward and came to a stop at the light. I got a few odd looks but nobody confronted me or threw any blood curses my way. It was just your average whatever-day-it-was in South Beach.

A man strolled by and held his hand out to me. While trying (and failing) to make eye contact, I accepted his offering. A nickel and two pennies. He avoided my puzzled expression and continued on his way.

That was random, but I couldn't be accountable for the South Beach crazies. Cisco Suarez needed to stay on task. Since everything appeared normal outside, I considered pumping the bar employees for information.

The car that was stopped on the road in front of me clicked its doors locked. I looked and the woman in the passenger seat averted her eyes. Bitch. Then I got a glimpse of myself in the window reflection.

I would've locked the doors too.

Besides my healthy tan, nothing of my disheveled appearance was recognizable. My usually close-cropped hair hung over my shoulders in a wild mane. My eyes were permanently frantic, sporting the raised-by-wolves look. The full-on homeless beard didn't help. And my clothes. Besides my jeans and red cowboy boots, of all things I wore a yellowed and bloodied tank top.

Tank tops were never really my look but, to my surprise, I actually filled this one out. My chest strained against the thin fabric and my bare arms looked carved from marble. Still in disbelief, I flexed a bicep at my reflection. Maybe the car windows were made from magic fun-house mirrors.

This warrants an explanation. I may be a little cocky and reckless at times, but one thing I'm not is a gym rat. I was always that scrappy skinny kid who was too stupid to stay down. Yes, that means I lost a lot of fights. I wanted to be a superhero but lacked the dedication. What animist would spend time working out anyway? The power of the world at your fingertips, wasted by repeatedly picking up and putting down heavy things.

No, I was never out of shape, but I was supposed to be thin. Now I suddenly felt like Peter Parker after running into that radioactive spider. I was straight buff, is what I'm saying.

My jaw glued to the floor, I stared like a lunatic. The driver floored the gas at his first opportunity. In their place, a matte-black jeep slammed on its brakes. Which was weird since the light was green and the cars behind it honked. I snapped out of my shock as the group of Haitians in the jeep focused on me, anger in their eyes.

They yelled, "Dead man!" and dismounted, brandishing light automatic weapons.

I threw seven cents at them.

 

 

 

 

Let's get something straight before we start. I can't shoot lightning from my fingers. Magic is often more subtle than that, but not always. (Heck, who am I kidding? I don't do subtle.) The point is, magic is most powerful with preparation, thought, and patience. Getting jumped right after waking up dazed in a dumpster? I was a little behind the eight ball here. If I fought, either I died or they did, and I didn't like my chances.

I chose door number three: run like hell.

I scurried back down the alley and cursed how empty it was. As the Haitian gangbangers lifted their guns, I knew I couldn't make it to cover in time. The dumpster was too far away.

On some mysterious impulse—call it instinct—I lifted my left hand behind me and felt my palm tingle. The firearms erupted into repeated bursts just as a blue glow sprang from my hand and formed a partial sphere (think Captain America's shield.) Bullets deflected into the concrete floor and stucco walls until I slipped safely behind the trash bin.

As the energy rushed away, a symbol on my palm glowed faintly, then faded into a normal tattoo. The ink resembled a snowflake. Another tat ran along the outside of my forearm, a line forming a rough arrow. I didn't remember getting tattoos, but the runes were Germanic and related to Norse gods.

Okay, necromancy, shadow magic, Norse runes... Slow down, right? I wish I could. But I'll break it down for you.

Like I said, spellcraft involves channeling spirit power. That means all magic is shamanistic in nature. But don't make assumptions. It's not dancing around a fire.

Magic, real historical magic, based on the knowledge of every culture since the dawn of time, has always been spirit-based. You don't go to prep school or study tomes. You aren't born with it or without. Magic is spiritual. Not religious. Not enlightened. But
of the spirit
.

Spirits are energy. They live in an alternate world, a dead place, with free access to the Intrinsics. For numerous reasons, countless civilizations have become exposed to spirits throughout time, and you'd better believe people turned it to their benefit. The Egyptians did this with their gods. The Native Americans prayed to the sun and the moon and the hunt. Consider these spirits anything from supreme deity to lowly trickster. They're called patrons, and without them there'd be no spellcraft.

Nobody really knows what the patrons are or where they come from. I don't even know that they're real, sentient beings. My take is that, if enough people believe in something, that's a kind of power in itself. Magic boils down to the mind tapping into spiritual energy, so it makes sense that enough belief can create it.

The tattoo on the palm of my hand, the rune magic, is a shortcut to a symbol of power. I can't even tell you what patron it represents. For some reason, despite never seeing it before, I was well-practiced in the flow of its energy. With little conscious thought, I had adeptly defended myself.

Speaking of which, said defense was still ongoing.

I peeked out from behind the steel dumpster and zeroed in on my opponents. Four Haitians. Three of them held machine pistols in plain sight, their jeep left straddling the sidewalk. For some reason they weren't concerned with making a public spectacle.

The fourth man had white lines drawn on his face. This was Miami Beach, but that wasn't sunblock. It identified them as members of a street gang called the Bone Saints. The ones with the guns were flunkies, unimportant goons who mostly hustled street corners, but the one with the face paint was different. He was a bokor.

Once again, more titles. Magic is as varied as the societies that practice it. Haitian voodoo practitioners are called bokors. I'm a bokor to some because I know a little voodoo on the side. Even though this Bone Saint was only dressed in a track suit and wore very little of the makeup and flair, I could see him for a bokor a mile away.

The gang fired on me again. I threw up my shield and took stock of my enemies. I had no idea why they wanted me dead, but they were adamant about it. Odds were good they'd left me in the dumpster in the first place.

The closer they drew, the less cover I had. Normally I would go on the offensive with a shadow manifestation, but that kind of spellcraft was too difficult in direct sunlight. Even though we were in an alley, it was midday. The sun bore down from almost directly above, and the surroundings were well lit.

Don't ask me why a shadow charmer lives in the Sunshine State. What can I say? Life's boring without challenges.

Another volley of bullets screamed my way and I raised the shield again. Blue sparks exploded under the onslaught but the energy held. I may have been near death, but my magic was still strong.

In the corner of my eye, the bokor jerked an arm. It took an extra second to realize he wasn't casting, and that slowed me down. I saw the flying knife too late. My shield was raised but the heavy knife clanged right through it, not unscathed but not deflected nearly enough. The blade gashed my shoulder. On instinct I knew the shield was meant for small projectiles only. Luckily, the trajectory was altered enough or it would've stuck my neck. I winced in pain as the knife clanged off the alley wall, now spattered with my blood.

With my hand jarred and my shield lowered, a bullet cut into my gut. I buckled backward against the stucco building. The street thugs converged on me, removing my cover from the equation. I feebly pressed closer to the grimy dumpster.

They saw their opening and opened fire.

The only shadow in the entire alley was cast by the dumpster, just a sliver of darkness immediately adjacent. It was no accident I was now huddled within it.

I phased backward into the wall, slipping into the shadow. I became slightly embedded, a part of the wall, visible as a protruding darkness. The bullets whizzed through me and shattered the stucco in a hailstorm of dust.

I wasn't fully ethereal. Not really. Shadows are all about blurring the lines between dark and light, between the known and unknown. I was still there, only I wasn't, and I watched as the Haitians emptied their magazines in frustration.

I couldn't stay like this long. While physical attacks would prove useless, the bokor was coming up at the rear, chanting in response. Against magic, my fortified position was a straw house.

I slipped forward and solidified, smiling as the gang reloaded. It was the perfect chance for a counterattack, but I was still reeling from the gut shot (and whatever had left me half dead in the dumpster). I snatched the bokor's knife and strategically bolted for the other end of the alley.

Before I got there, more gunfire came my way. The shield held strong. Well, except for the one bullet low enough to graze my thigh, but who's keeping score? I tumbled to the cement as the barrage whizzed over my head. Rolling over, I lay low and parallel with the alley, like a surfer paddling on his board. With my shield up, the position provided full cover. The energy at my palm didn't feel as strong as it should have, but it held as another round of mags was spent.

My leg complained about getting tagged, though. That's the weakness of my patchwork Norse protection. No one ever asks how Captain America blocks incoming bullets with his relatively small shield, but trust me, it's difficult.

The Bone Saints began approaching but the bokor called them off. I squinted and watched him step aside. My eyes followed his to his feet.

A snarling pit bull raced from behind him and headed straight for me. To him I must've looked like a giant ham hock. I scrambled to my feet and burst out to the next street like nobody's business.

This road was much less busy than Washington. I easily avoided the one car in my way while crossing the street. I had a decent head start on the Haitians, but that dog was quickly gaining on me. Who sics dogs on animists anyhow?

I cut into a small produce market. The glass door jangled against the chimes and closed with a satisfying click. I turned and took a breath as the pit bull silently reached the sidewalk and stopped short of crashing into the glass. I plucked a mango from a box for defense but I didn't throw it. The dog didn't come inside. It didn't bark. It just stared at me with cold, dead eyes.

Oh wait. I got it suddenly. A bokor? Siccing a dog on another practitioner? I may be slow but I ain't stupid. This was no normal attack dog.

It was a zombie pit bull.