Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (13 page)

 

 

 

 

I floored the gas pedal, concerned only with leaving. It wasn't for another few minutes, when the adrenaline wore off, that I realized my mistake. I had nowhere to go. I wasn't so sure I could make it anywhere either. The car still had half a tank, but I was running on fumes.

My entire left arm was stiff. Between Max's bo staff, a hexed snake, and a number of bullets, it had been pelted worse than a punching bag. My right arm was better off, but crusted with blood and dog spit. The hole in my chest? That was the doozy. A shallow wound (as far as gaping holes go) but the bleeding refused to stop. So much for resistant skin.

I couldn't keep going like this. I drove through the north end of Brickell, passing new storefronts left and right. After a major revitalization, I didn't recognize the area anymore. Luckily, there was one place that hadn't changed. A little tattoo parlor snuggled up to the Miami River. The joint looked exactly the same as it did ten years ago: run down and empty. Like me.

There were no spots so I parked illegally, halfway on the sidewalk. Tow me. See if I care.

It was still fairly early, but Kasper (the owner) wasn't exactly the paragon of business acumen. His hours aren't what I would call scheduled. Since he lives in the back of the shop, his workday consists of drinking and growling irritably at anyone who enters. The growling is worse some evenings and his regulars know when to stay away. Since all the lights inside were off save for the red neon, tonight looked like one of those nights.

Perfect, I thought, and went inside.

Kasper's shop is the opposite of impressive. It gives tattoo parlors a bad name. Etchings in color and black and white fill reams of paper, taped and stapled to the walls. Symbols and designs scrawl across the ceiling and doors. Buckets and supplies rest on chairs and counters instead of shelves and drawers. Most of the curtains are half disintegrated. Of course, since we're talking about a crazy, Norwegian biker, the walls are adorned with badass medieval implements too. A Viking helmet with protruding horns. A large hammer. A block of wood from a boat. Some things never change.

Kasper is an old friend, but that might be an overstatement. He's famous in the magical community for his ink. Not only is he a damn fine artist, but he's a grade-A scribe as well. Sigils and runes are a form of enchantment, a whole animist vocation unto itself. Most people see graffiti and tattoos as scribbles, and they're right often enough—but not always. In Kasper's tattoo parlor, you'll find sigils up the wazoo. The hum of their power delicately buzzed in the air, impressive to anyone familiar with magic.

"Kasper?" I announced, betting good odds he was in a respectable stupor already. I nodded to myself when he didn't answer. It was expected.

I went to the back office. "Guess who?" I pushed the door open and frowned at the empty sofa. I guess some things do change.

I wandered back to the main room, getting a bad feeling. The three tattoo stations appeared recently used. For all the clutter, the shop was a dump, but not abandoned. It was strange for no one to be around when—

The floor flashed red. Not the whole thing, just the bit that I stepped on. A red hexagon, like a stop sign, glowed on the dirty cement floor. It wasn't a circle of power—not really—but it sure froze me in place real good.

"Gotcha!" came a sharp voice behind me.

I tried to step aside but my feet were glued in place. There was movement behind me. I rotated my hips to spin around just in time to hear the clack-clack of a slide-action rifle.

I slipped into shadow, not even sure it would work. It did. A round blasted the floor where I'd been standing. I slid backwards and under, past the man with the gun.

Materializing right behind him was easy. Pulling the manifestation of shadow into my fist wasn't. It wasn't the low-lit, red neon lighting, it was me. I didn't have much strength left, so I had to make this one count.

I belted my attacker in the small of his back. A flash of blue smacked my hand away. He didn't budge a bit, and I suddenly realized who I was fighting.

"Wait," I said. "It's me! Cisco."

Kasper turned with determination. He wasn't what you'd call quick, but he knocked me on the head with the rifle just the same.

I fell on my back as my friend readied another round in the chamber. I kicked my foot up at the last second and jerked the rifle as it fired. The bullet ate into the ceiling and rained down chunks of tile dust.

Kasper came at me again, this time with a kick. Still vulnerable on the ground, I pulled my foot back and stomped him in the gut.

More blue flashed. Pain shot through my leg. I slid away to get a good look at the old man. My shadow sight revealed his face, haggard as always, with a white beard covering half his chest. He was skinny except for a round beer belly. A full bodysuit of tattoos covered his shirtless torso and arms. There were even some on his face. With my magical sight, the scrawls glowed an azure blue. The bastard was protected with tats that put mine to shame.

He swung the empty rifle down now, trying to crush my head. My forearm blocked the blow in my practiced fashion. Unfortunately, while the armor held, Kasper was stronger than me. Not for nothing, but that was saying something with his scrawny frame. With each end of his weapon in his grip, he forced the barrel down on my neck.

"It's me," I repeated, before the rifle pressed against my larynx and squeezed me to the floor.

Kasper's face was inches from mine as he hefted his full weight on me. The same old man I knew, except his eyes were wild with rage.

I'd seen those eyes once, in the reflection in a car window. My eyes when I had first woken up this morning. It wasn't rage he was feeling. It was fear.

I pushed weakly against the barrel of the weapon, unable to free my airway. It was a struggle I was losing. My knuckles went white, my face red. My blackened left arm was almost entirely numb now, and the scabs on my right had reopened. I was a mess.

I fought. I fought as hard as I could. I grew light-headed. About to pass out. Then the rifle snapped into three pieces.

Kasper stumbled forward and righted himself. I drew in air and recovered my senses. We looked at each other, both confused by what happened.

My metallurgy had never cracked anything that strong before.

The biker jumped to his feet and ran for the back hallway. Most people would figure he was bailing, but I knew Kasper would never surrender his parlor. Down the hallway, I spied his true goal: a honking-big battle-axe hanging on the wall.

I wasn't gonna try an encore performance of my metal trick. I was pretty tapped so I went for something easy. I slid into the shadow again and beat Kasper to his prize, solidifying between him and the weapon, ready for his next attack.

It was an interesting one. The old man stopped short and flicked the light switch on the wall. There went my shadows.

I shook the black tears from my eyes and held up my arm. "Kasper! Would you fucking cut it out, you dumb redneck? It's me!"

My friend flinched, indecision taking over. He stood wired, in a stance of readiness, but in moments he relaxed. Kasper scratched his beard in contemplation. "Cisco?"

"Yes!" I screamed. I stumbled against the wall for support.

"Oh, why didn't you just say so?"

 

 

 

 

"
Coño tú madre
," I muttered under my breath.

"No, no," lectured Kasper, wrapping my arm over his shoulder. "Don't you start with that Spanish nonsense. And I'm not a redneck. I'm from Norway." The biker effortlessly dragged me to an ink station. He swept the junk off his chair and laid me down. When he pulled up his stool, I suddenly felt like I was about to get a root canal.

"What do you expect?" I complained. "We're buddies and you tried to kill me."

He shrugged. "Don't sweat the details, Cisco. Hell, I thought you were trying to kill
me
." Kasper surveyed the damage to his shop and shook his head. "That ceiling's gonna leak."

I snapped my fingers weakly in his face. "Focus, old man. I'm the one doing the leaking."

Kasper studied me carefully. "You weren't followed, were you?"

"Just me."

The scribe moved to the wall and dug through his cabinets. So he did use those things.

"I realize I was a zombie for ten years," I said.

"Was?"

"Yes, as in past tense. But even if I still was, why the ambush? Why'd you think I would kill you?"

He frowned as he collected supplies. "You weren't just any zombie, broham. You were a hitter. A one-man death squad. An undead who used magic. Do you know how fucking rare that is?"

My brow furrowed. "Actually, I do. I'm a necromancer, remember?"

Kasper returned to the chair and shoved a bunch of gauze in my chest wound. The height of medical science. "You built a scary rep over the years, broham. Nobody wants to fuck with you. And I mean
nobody
."

"Tell that to the Bone Saints."

"That's different. You've been in open war with them. You killed their leader. The new one's kinda pissed at you."

"Baptiste," I said, still digesting the news. "His brother. I've met him."

"And you're still alive? I hear he's one bad SOB."

I shrugged. "I could've iced him. At least, I got that impression. But he's always surrounded by help." I frowned. "At least that explains the animosity." Kasper laughed as if I'd made a joke.

I closed my eyes. A zombie hit man with black magic. Slip into the shadows, sneak up on a target, and take him out. A year ago I'd done that to Laurent Baptiste's brother. He'd never forgive me for it. After hunting me for months he'd finally cornered me in South Beach and somehow got to me. Except, that wasn't me. My body, sure, but not my mind. I was a thrall. And for some reason, the real me returned. Only now I was a notorious killer. Hated and feared in equal measure.

I always said I wanted to be famous.

"Laurent was telling the truth then," I mused. "He said he wasn't the one who turned me. He said he had no knowledge of my death ten years ago."

Kasper fished around for metal tools and I kept my eyes closed. Baptiste wasn't important. The bigger picture was the story of my servitude. Asan and the Horn.

"So Baptiste's just another victim," I reasoned. "He doesn't know who my master was. He can't help me. But if I was hitting the Haitians, finding whoever turned me is as simple as finding their enemies."

Kasper grunted. "Good luck. The voodoo gangs all take bites from each other. Then you got the street dealers that don't know magic, although I guess you can rule them out. Still, there's a lot of bad blood between the Biscayne gangs. Especially lately. Now you have Nigerians and Puerto Ricans in the mix too. The area's a grab bag of criminals."

"Except no one wants to be grabbed." I grew solemn and tried to puzzle out my situation. The more I thought about it, the bigger the problem became.

Kasper must have been doing the same. He scoffed. "You're not supposed to be back, broham. That's why I attacked you. No one has the kind of voodoo power to live through what happened to you." He cocked his head slightly. "I mean, besides you, maybe."

I laughed and opened my eyes to a small pair of tweezers. "I was a quick study, Kasper, but let's not kid ourselves." We were talking withered-old-man-studying-in-an-ancient-tower kind of powerful. Movies. Fiction. Not real life.

I grunted as Kasper dug the bullet from my chest. "This slug lodged into your rib bone," he said. "Lucky son of a—" The biker frowned and examined the bullet. He went over to the sink and washed it off.

"What about Martine?" I asked. "How powerful was she?"

Kasper returned with a needle and thread. "You mean that black girly you used to hawk potions with? I haven't heard a peep from her in ages."

"She's dead."

He paused with the needle above my chest and stared at me.

"It wasn't me," I assured him.

The old man nodded and then, without warning, went to work with the needle. It wasn't my skin he started with, but the torn flesh inside. I ground my jaw tight, suddenly not in the mood for conversation.

Kasper was a field medic in the final years of Vietnam. That puts him in his mid-sixties now, though he could pass for younger. Always handy with needles and knives and flesh, when the war ended he turned his skills to more artistic endeavors. He knows his stuff, and not just the medical part. After I was stitched up, he traced a rune over the wound with a gold paint pen.

"That should keep it sealed and clean," he said. "Though I'm not really sure you need it."

It was exhausting to speak so I settled for a quizzical look.

He tapped my stomach. "It looks like you're no stranger to being shot. You've got grazes and bruising along your arm too. Except it looks like you've been playing with paintballs instead of bullets. What kind of healing you running?"

"Don't know." I tried to sit up but Kasper pushed me down. Just as well since I was still in pain. "I was gonna ask you," I continued. I opened my left palm to display the tattoo. "You know who inked these?"

Kasper traced the arrow on my arm with his finger, then studied the snowflake on my hand. "Excellent shading," he said. "Strong lines. Must be a good-looking guy."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You know," he said. "A suave motherfucker. A badass who knows his shit."

I pulled my hand away. "
You
did these?"

He shrugged and flashed a guilty face.

"First of all: Good looking? Suave? Have you checked a mirror lately? Secondly, what the fricking heck?"

"How the hell you think I knew about you?" he asked. "Becoming a zombie hit man wasn't in your obituary. You came in with a guy five, ten years ago. It was you only it wasn't. No jokes. No beer. You were the blandest dude ever. Speaking of which, you want a beer?"

"No," I snapped. "I mean, yes. But we need to focus."

"I know, I know." Kasper disappeared into his office and returned with two brown bottles.

"You got a Corona?"

"I don't drink that piss anymore. This is a stout. You'll like it. Tastes like Cuban coffee." He flipped the caps off and handed me one. I took a chug. Much thicker than I was used to. In my state, it was hard to down.

"You sure you don't have a Corona?"

"Hey, broham. Beer's changed a lot in ten years. Everyone's doing microbrew now. Even in this town."

"Fine," I said, taking another swig and sitting up in the chair. "Tell me what you know. From the beginning."

Old Kasper nodded resolutely and organized his tattoo equipment. He pulled a table over and stacked it with ink, a needle, sanitary wipes, and his beer. Then he plunked onto a stool and examined his handiwork on my palm.

"This is the Helm of Awe, an old Viking symbol of protection. A simplified one, anyway. It's hard to ink. Even harder to use." He studied the tattoo from different angles. "It looks like shit now."

"It's worse than that. The shield shattered completely."

He nodded and produced the bullet he'd pulled from my chest. "Two things. First is this."

He dropped the slug in my free hand. It wasn't a silver bullet or anything, just a regular round nose. It was slightly disfigured from hitting the bone but still intact. The etchings were clear, tiny inscriptions along the bullet. The Bone Saints were using magic bullets against me.

"You do these too?" I asked snidely.

"No way, Jose. I'm strictly a defense contractor, broham. If a lone operator like me got into the weapons game, somebody would smoke my white ass. I stick to the big D and everybody's friendly. It's not as profitable but I live to spend my money."

"Or drink it."

Kasper smiled and chugged his beer. "Life's about experiences, not things."

I knew he wasn't having a joke at my expense, but his friendly advice didn't help. I didn't have experiences
or
things. Just a large void where my life was supposed to be.

Kasper killed off his bottle of stout and let out a deep burp. "Whatever healing or armor you're working is great against bullets. Not invincible, of course. Nothing is. But a hell of a lot better than the average bear. These enchanted rounds are gonna give you trouble. They're magic-piercing. They'll take a toll on you, but the Helm should've held out. Mind if I have your beer?"

Kasper was going for it before I shook my head. When he put the bottle down, he picked up his needle. "You really shouldn't have alcohol right now anyway."

The biker stuck the needle in my palm, again without warning. This time I was ready for it. Believe me, a tattoo on the palm is nothing compared to a bullet in the chest. I listened as Kasper continued.

"You should recolor every five years or so. These are the originals I drew way back when. Just like a muscle or your mind, you need to keep it in shape. You've been hitting the gym but ignoring your ink."

I nodded, admiring his handiwork. "Which you're supposed to be telling me about."

He laughed. "Yeah. You'll have to excuse me. I get... philosophical when I drink." Kasper cleared his throat and spoke in his grumbly voice, sounding both captivating and aggravated at the same time. "So when was it? Nine years ago? Ten? I don't know, but you were taken out by then. I even stuck my neck out and asked around. KIA, broham. That's what the street said. Now, in your line of work, a missing corpse is a curious thing, but I figured they burned you."

I clenched my jaw. "They should have."

He nodded. "Looks that way. Anyhow, sometime later, you came in with a scary fella. Big. African. Looked real familiar with wetwork. He didn't talk much and I was fine with that. You didn't either and that creeped me out."

"Was he Haitian?"

"I don't think so. I'd bet a beer he was from the motherland. Something about him was too foreign, like he didn't fit in here."

"Animist?"

"I couldn't tell, but he made my skin crawl."

"Sounds like the one who killed Martine. Goes by Asan, I think, but I guess you didn't get his name."

"You're guessing right. That's not how I operate."

A full name or background would help since I hadn't seen his face. But Kasper had. He'd seen him up close and personal and didn't think he was Haitian. Couple that with the anansi back at the cookhouse and the African front made a lot of sense. Competition for the Bone Saints, probably. More black on black crime. Except I'd been the trigger man.

Now that Kasper was on a roll, he kept going. "The big man gave me the specs and enough money to keep it quiet. I did my thing. Slowly. You know how long these took to ink? Months of weekly sessions. He wanted a lot of power in them, and you could handle it." Kasper sighed and shook his head. "You know, I tried talking to you when he went out back. You weren't having it. I knew you were in trouble, but I thought it was a new circle you rolled in. I thought maybe you were doing me a favor by keeping me at arm's length. It wasn't until another couple of years that I realized how bad you got it."

Bad was right. I was taken to the shop to get a tweaked engine. A shiny, late-model zombie, with all the bells and whistles. The pride of someone's stable.

"I can't remember it," was all I said.

Kasper finished the recolor in silence. He moved on to the line along my forearm, strengthening the edges, sharpening the tips of the arrow. His work looked cleaner and meaner than before. Maybe it was what I needed.

At some point I dozed off, but it couldn't have been long. A beer's worth. Maybe three in Kasper's case. Waking up again felt wrong, like my body belonged to a screaming toddler who wasn't having it. I tried to ignore Kasper but he was insistent.

"I can't have you dying in my shop, Cisco." Friends.

I yawned and checked his work. "If you believe it, I actually feel better somehow."

He shook his head. "No healing magic, my ass. You figure out what they did to you, you stand to make a lot of money."

"All for ten easy payments of your immortal soul."

He tried to smile but held off laughing. Kasper was serious now. An awkward silence filled the shop. He wanted to say something but didn't know how, and I wanted to say something but didn't know what. Kasper had been a borderline friend back in the day. Maybe I couldn't even call him that much today. The pre-nap joviality was gone. Now Kasper was all business. Tying up loose ends. Nothing more.

He stood. "Listen, uh, you got a place to stay, broham?"

And there it was. We were done here. There'd be no crashing on his couch. No hiding out in his tattoo parlor. No more Cuban coffee stouts. The old man had done me a solid, but it was time to move on.

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "Anything would be an improvement after waking up in a dumpster."

He nodded but didn't ask questions. I could tell he didn't want any more answers. He already knew enough to be in danger.

My feet were wobbly when I first got up but they found their strength. I stretched my tank top back over my head; it was a torn, bloody, stained mess. The seconds ticked away, and I had to think fast.