Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (10 page)

"I looked, man. You wouldn't believe the depths I went looking." Evan paused and held a far-away stare. "It cost me a lot."

I didn't care about his departmental reprimands. I was his best friend, damn it. My voice softened. "How could you turn up empty, Evan?"

He shook his head sadly. "I never had enough gas in the tank."

We both stared at his desk. A little stand had an outward-facing stack of business cards. Lieutenant Evan Cross. DROP Team Coordinator. Maybe I was riding him a little hard. I couldn't guess what the days and years after my death were like. He'd probably gone through it with me and then all over again with my family. He hadn't been friends with Seleste, but my parents had cooked him meals and encouraged his education. I'm sure he remembered them fondly.

Of course Evan would have done what he could for me and mine. That wasn't in question. But he said it himself: he was outclassed here. I couldn't blame him for not being an animist.

He saw the determination on my face. I saw his worry. Maybe he hadn't yet realized things could never be the same, but I knew. I was way ahead of him.

After a minute, Evan relented, as I knew he would. "I don't have the case files," he said.

I didn't miss a beat. "You need to get them to me. There might be a clue. Something that would be missed by the police. Something that only an animist would see."

"They don't just loan these files out."

"You're not a scrub anymore, Evan. Use your political connections. No one needs to know the files will leave your hands."

He bit his lip but nodded.

I took to my feet before he could change his mind. My head spun. I was drained from the heavy conversation. From just being alive.

He scrambled to stand before I left. "We should catch up more," he said, snatching a business card and jotting his address on the back. "Why don't you come by the house for dinner tonight? Eight o'clock. You can see Emily." He paused awkwardly. We both did. "You should talk to her. She needs to know."

"Yeah," I muttered, taking the card. "Maybe." But we both knew that wasn't happening.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes life punches you in the gut. A couple times, if you're unlucky. Once in a while it goes so far as to kick you when you're down and curb-stomp your head for good measure. Since I'd already been dead once, I figured fate was just trying to cover the spread.

But that's okay. I can deal with adversity. I get back up. There's nothing magic about that. As a kid I was a scrapper. Now, with my magic and my muscles, I could certainly manage.

The walk back to Little Havana would take a while, and the sun was getting low in the sky. I needed to hitch a ride. I considered my options and checked the streets just in time to see a Haitian round the corner a couple blocks back.

I hurried into an alley and masked myself with shadow. I didn't know for a fact that I was being followed, but this was twice in one day that I'd gotten the itch. Maybe parading around town on foot was a bad idea. Wheels. I needed a taxi or something.

I gave the man time to pass me but he never did. Eventually I peeked out and didn't see him. My nerves must have been acting up. When I noticed how fast the sun was falling, I cursed. It was getting late. My gut told me to wait. Play it safe. But I only had one chance at this today. I was desperate, and I needed to beat the sun.

Screw it. The coast was clear. I continued briskly down the sidewalk. Have I mentioned I was desperate?

As I hiked down the street, a 1970s Monte Carlo with peeling brown paint pulled alongside the curb and parked. An old Cuban man got out and waddled to a crowded cafe window without bothering to close the door or kill the engine. He must have really wanted a
café con leche
.

I understood the impulse but had higher priorities now. As I passed his car, I checked my six again. No Haitians in sight. Without missing a beat, I slipped into the Monte Carlo and gassed it. I didn't peel out or cut off traffic. No, the trick is to look like you own it. Like you belong. So I used my blinker and waited for a car to pass and waved at an old lady crossing the street. And before you knew it, I was a mile away.

The new wheels were slick. I like big cars and it's hard to beat anything the seventies put out. I returned to Little Havana and recovered the large jar of dirt I'd stashed in an alley. By the time I parked and approached the iron gates of Saint Martin's Cemetery, the sun was just readying to set.

Here I was, the dead visiting the dead. Was it irony or a homecoming? There's a reason cemeteries close before sunset, and it doesn't take a necromancer to explain why. The main office was locked up. The gates were shut. No doubt the staff took the permanent residents here seriously. That meant it was just me. And just in time for visiting hours.

I circled the perimeter to a spot where a large tree cast a shadow over the gate. Phasing in was a simple matter. Finding my family's graves was more difficult. I wandered as the minutes passed. The sun dropped below the horizon. That officially kicked off twilight.

In the wake of the sun, I was left in a bright afterglow of fading atmosphere. Even though the sun was below the horizon, rays of light reflected around the curvature of the Earth. The lack of a direct light source, however, meant the shadows all around me disappeared. In case it's not obvious, my shadow magic is weakest during these moments. Fortunately, this strange marriage of night and day has the reverse effect on necromancy.

Soon enough I saw the winding oak tree Milena had mentioned. At this time of day, it was beautiful. I approached the grouping of rectangular headstones laid flat on the ground. Oscar, Lydia, Seleste, and Francisco. The Suarez family. The perfect subject of an
Unsolved Mysteries
knockoff.

I dropped to my knees, placing the jar of dirt with holes in the lid beside me. I should say something. Pray maybe. Anything to get over the emptiness I felt. My parents and my sister were buried here, but seeing my own name etched in stone was the real mindfuck.

I dropped my head. Sounded like my mother, the poet. I'd always been the black sheep of the family. Walking alone was a reference to me branching out, and probably to my spirit in the afterlife as well. But why ignore the literal interpretation? Here I was. Alone.

As far as a home, well, always is a long time. Home's forever gone. Even this grave, my resting place, had an empty coffin (if they even bothered to put one down there at all).

The story with the rest of my family was tragic too. My parents had purchased this family plot when I was killed. They cried, prayed, and buried my memory. No one could say the same for them. There were no epitaphs below their names in stone. I wondered why Milena or someone else from the neighborhood hadn't taken the initiative, but I couldn't blame them. It was the responsibility of family.

Twilight doesn't last long. Just till the remaining light from the sun fades and everything goes dark. Thirty minutes maybe. With that in mind, I got to work. I dug into the grass with my hands.

I know it's morbid, but that's what I do. Besides, I was supposed to be dead and buried here too. If I was alive, there was a chance my family was as well. Even if Evan wouldn't believe me. I needed closure and all that.

But I wasn't doing what you think I was. People dig graves in movies all the time, but I guaran-fucking-tee you the scene skips over the actual digging. Can you imagine clearing out six feet of dirt with a shovel? I can't. Here's a fact: the cemetery staff does it with machines. If you ever wondered why murder victims get discovered in shallow graves, it's because digging sucks. Luckily, I had a different aim.

With only a cup-sized hole over each grave, I unscrewed the lid of the jar. The dirt in here was softer and much easier to claw through. I pulled out a clump, shook it off, and held a squirming earthworm between my fingers.

The little guy was casually active, like he'd just had his whole world ripped away but was thinking about a nap. I placed him on the ground before me and collected three of his friends. Then I withdrew the ceremonial knife, wishing I'd bothered to sterilize it since its last use, and pricked the tip of my finger.

From top to bottom, I traced a line of blood across the center of my lips. Then I picked up a single worm, cupped it to my mouth, and whispered. He went in door number one, topped with loose soil from the jar. I repeated the ritual for the other graves.

This is what I mean about necromancy requiring patience and ritual. This spell takes a day to complete and only works during twilight. What I had done with Martine's body was a quick hit. An opportunistic spell on a fresh corpse to glimpse a window of death. The spellcraft I now worked needed time because I was after something much older.

Yes, this was much easier than digging—more low key as well—but it would take a day for the worms to do their work. I would have to return tomorrow. Which meant one more day of hiding before I could take action. One more day of shadows.

A raspy caw scraped the air. I glanced up and saw a crow pass overhead. A low growl behind me warned that I wouldn't be hiding after all. I wasn't alone in Saint Martin's anymore.

 

 

 

 

Still on my knees, I turned and saw the zombie pit bull from South Beach scampering my way. I gripped Martine's belt buckle and established a link to the dog. When I made eye contact, the zombie slowed and became less aggressive. Something prevented me from gaining full control, though. That should've been a piece of cake with the skull fetish.

Regardless, the dog wasn't the problem. I could keep it from attacking me easily enough. What had me worried was who the dog had led to me.

You see, I'd been outplayed. When I'd taken the dog's collar in the morning, it licked me. If the pet was attuned to tracking, I'd be pretty easy to find as long as I was in the neighborhood. It likely took the bokor some time to track down his pet and prep it to tail me. Good thing I'd left South Beach shortly after, but it was only a matter of time before the Bone Saints caught up with me somewhere else in Miami. Chances are that Haitian had clocked me downtown, called the cavalry, and tracked me here. All because of a lick.

Hey, cut me some slack. I'm still a little rusty.

I checked the sky but didn't see the crow anywhere. The graveyard was otherwise empty until the pit bull's master turned the corner of the office building with two flunkies carrying automatic pistols.

The group looked different from this morning. More prepared, maybe. More determined. Or maybe it was just their makeover. All three had pulled their nice duds from the closet. Jet-black cargo pants and shiny, patent-leather boots. The two gunmen wore tight camouflage shirts. The bokor had some kind of tan ceremonial robe that looped around his arms and left much of his chest exposed, more tattoo than skin. The etchings glowed a pale green in the dying light.

All three men had white skulls painted on their faces, eyes and nose left as hollow, black cavities. The bokor had a silver hoop through his nostrils, a stud through his upper nose, and long hanging earrings. Matching silver gauntlets armored his fingers, more ornate than protective.

I guess they were bringing out the big guns tonight.

Still, this wasn't nearly the same fight it had been in the morning. I wasn't the same confused fawn. I had my fetishes now. I'd learned a few things. And I was ten orders more pissed off.

I grabbed a handful of the dirt I'd exhumed from the graves and slowly stood, realizing my momentary disadvantage. It was still twilight, which meant some of my stronger shadow magic was neutralized. Judging by the light left in the sky, that problem would be resolved in a few minutes. I just needed to buy time.

"I don't like being followed," I growled, trying to hold them at bay with my temper. The pit bull cowered but the men continued their approach. The two gunmen split out to my flanks. They watched me with practiced precision, if not knowing what I was capable of, at least familiar with the unpredictability of magic. With their faces painted, maybe they knew a little themselves.

Blood. Without shadow, I needed blood to fight this gang off. With a fist of dirt in one hand, I reached for my knife with the other.

The bokor snapped his silver fingers at me and the pit bull yelped. It charged me, ignoring my attempts to pacify it. I readied my shield but didn't need it; the gunmen were content to watch. They were, however, enough to distract me. The dog was on me in no time. Too fast for me to draw my knife.

The zombie lunged, snapping powerful jaws on my extended right hand and clamping down. Some of its dog collar, now on my wrist, helped armor my arm. It wasn't enough. I grunted as the teeth pierced my skin. This was no love bite.

My natural instinct was to pull away. Doing so ripped my flesh even more and didn't get me any less stuck. The men laughed as they watched me struggle with the animal. That pissed me off. Cisco Suarez wasn't a sideshow. I fought the panic away, then improvised.

I hooked my left arm around the pit bull in a head lock, pressing my body close to keep it from yanking my wrist back and forth like a chew toy. The dog opened its jaw to bite my face. Instead, I shoved my right hand deeper into its mouth, forcing it to bite down or choke. New scrapes opened on my wrist. The ball of dirt in my fist was now dripping with my blood.

Blood that I needed for my spell.

I released as much of the graveyard soil as I could, right down the pit bull's throat. It gagged on the blood and dirt but, let's face it, zombies don't need to breathe. As the dog grappled violently, I leaned in and whispered in its ear.

"Shhh," I soothed.

And then the dog went to sleep.

The mirth on the bokor's face immediately vanished when his pet slumped to the ground. You know how they say you can sleep when you're dead? It's true. Sleep for the dead is permanent. Whatever magic animated the animal's corpse was dispelled.

"Sidney!" screamed the bokor, and—I shit you not—there was sentiment in his voice.

Some necromancers grow attached to their loyal minions. I've never had that much fondness for them. Death to me is clear-cut. A corpse is an empty husk without a soul. After death, there's nothing left to treasure, but don't tell the fine staff of Saint Martin's.

The bokor obviously didn't see things my way. He thrust both armored hands above his head to ready an attack. Then a piercing whistle cut through the twilight.

"That will be enough," boomed a voice from across the cemetery.

Two figures approached from the far end of the lawn. They strolled with the patience of lovers in the park. The man wore a tuxedo and top hat. As he passed several headstones he nodded as if acquainted with the occupants. His escort was a woman as tall as he was, with ropey and muscled arms. The gunman nearest them slung his weapon over his shoulder as they passed and smiled.

During the long silence, darkness fell and encompassed the cemetery. The shadow washed over me like a comfortable fur cloak.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" I demanded in a gruff voice.

Skulls shone in the night. Two sets of exposed teeth grinned wide, one painted on his lips, and the other yellowed from the cigar clamped between them.

"Don't you recognize me,
blanc
?" he asked, amused. "I'm the man who killed you."