Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (17 page)

 

 

 

 

Before you judge me, I didn't kill the boy. He was alive and I didn't intend to change that. Getting knocked out might just be the best thing that happened to him. He'd skip whatever trouble came next. I wished I had the same luxury.

Despite my prep work, I didn't have anything to tie him up with. Keeping him alive was a risk, but I figured things wouldn't stay quiet for long anyway.

I lit a beeswax candle with my 7-11 lighter. I pulled a few strands of straw from my mask, wet them with my tongue, and held them against the flame to work up a good smoke. Smoke was like shadow: evanescent, malleable, and without form. I let some wax drip to the concrete foundation of the shed and pressed the candle to it so it stood up on its own. I held the straw mask over my eyes and put the I-Heart-Miami cap on, brim forward and pulled low enough to hold the top of the mask to my face. Now it was a hands-free model.

I moved to the darkest corner of the shed and put my hands over my face, blocking the candlelight—creating shadow. Then I focused on the unconscious kid's face and became him.

I didn't change at all. Physically, mentally, it was still me. But to any observers, I would now look like the scout. They would see his body, his clothes, and all the other things they normally did. All I had to do was wear the mask.

There were some caveats. The illusion only lasted as long as the candle did. Fitted to the concrete floor with dried wax, within the confines of a shed, the flame was safe from going out. The magic would burn it off faster than usual, but I'd have more time than I needed. The bigger problem was that I had to keep the mask out of the sun.

Yes, you heard that right. In the middle of a bright Miami day, the mask had to remain within shadow. Failing that, it would burn away in a flash of fire and my guise would strip away.

To most people that would be a problematic feat, but to a shadow charmer like myself, well, let's just say I could bend the rules a bit. I knew where the sun was. I knew to avoid looking in that direction. The brim of my cap provided minimal shade. My spellcraft could thicken and stretch the shadow to encompass my face.

Before you ask, yes: in direct sunlight, this is difficult. And I can't enlarge shadows and then draw from a greater well of power. It doesn't work like that. The strength of the shadow doesn't increase, and the overall net effect is wasted energy on my part. In other words, this isn't a magical loophole that ignores the laws of physics, and it's not worth doing in most situations. This just happens to be a perfect counterpoint.

I strolled to the street and circled the block. As I approached the gate, I realized this would be difficult as I'd be facing the sun on the way in. Nothing to do about it but keep my head down.

The gate opened before me. "
Sak pase
, little player?"

Crap. All the shadow in the world couldn't help me with Creole. I opted for the universal lubricant. The fist bump.

"Same old,
nèg
," I said in the kid's voice. The Saint nodded and I passed without another word.

With my head and brim lowered, I couldn't see more than a few steps ahead of me. I also realized that I hadn't bothered to pay attention to where the kid walked once he'd been inside. One wrong turn could betray my ruse. I trusted in the mask and pressed forward, hoping the other bangers would forget about me.

Between the hat and the shadow, nobody could see my face. I closed my eyes and guided myself from above like a video game avatar.

I rounded a building to avoid the wandering guard with the Rottweiler. A dog was the last thing I needed, as my shadow did nothing to mask my scent. I reached the area with the parked limo and approached the building Namadi had entered. Several armed men huddled at the base of the steps. The bokor, Jean-Louis Chevalier, stood outside the open front door at the top.

I'd already had two run-ins with the bokor. His caution made up for his lack of power, and he'd likely be ready for my tricks. It would be best to avoid him.

Now that I hugged the wall of the building, I could look up. The sun was blocked here in a small strip of shadow. The new guard I approached wasn't a man at all. He was a zombie, and not a very good one. The half-rotted corpse stank of blood and sulfur. A thrall like this could only pass for alive from a distance.

I wasn't sure what it saw when it looked at me, to be honest, but I didn't give him a chance to react. I lightly blew my silver whistle and he froze in place.

Let's pause for a moment here and face facts. I know my limits. I was a damn good necromancer for twenty-four. Even at thirty-four I'm ahead of the curve. But this wasn't about my skill.

I work black magic in the voodoo capital of the United States. Other hot spots exist, of course. Pockets along the coast down to Key West. Hubs in Jacksonville and Savannah. Everyone knows New Orleans. It's a hotbed of hoodoo. And the
Santa Muerte
followers are gaining ground in the Southwest. But if you exclude the Caribbean and focus solely on the United States, no area manipulates the dead quite like the voodoo-centric Miami.

And here I was, not only in Little Haiti, but in the headquarters of the Bone Saints, whose officers all painted their faces like skulls.

So it should be apparent that I couldn't go around dispelling their dead without them taking notice. In a scrap, I'd do what needed to be done, but on the sly, I had to resort to other methods.

Standard zombies don't have brains like we do. Dogs have more intelligence. Probably squirrels too. We only begin to approach a match when we consider reptiles. Synapses, electrodes—circuits work to complete commands, but zombies function on muscle memory and instinct. Balance. Walk. React. Anything higher level requires a suggestion. Guard this passage. Kill this man. Protect me.

Knowing that, it's surprising what a functional zombie can accomplish on its own with just a simple goal. They're dumb all right, but a lifetime of physical experience has honed them into machines with problem-solving capabilities surpassing the smartest AI, with dexterity that shames the most functional robots.

For anything very specific, necromancers use direct connections to their creations. Whether driving or not, this is the best way to handle delicate tasks. Without this oversight, zombies are left on cruise control. But even in this state, the link between living and dead is always present. If I severed that link, only the most inexperienced bokors wouldn't notice.

All this means, to retain my cover, killing and freeing this zombie was out of the question. In anticipation of this, I had another trick up my sleeve, compliments of Opiyel. Whereas voodoo is crude and mechanical, the Shadow Dog enlightens and obfuscates.

I pulled out a pair of knock-off sunglasses and placed them on the undead thrall.

The shades weren't enchanted themselves, but they served as more than just stylish flair. While not a fetish, they were an anchor for my magic, a physical item to enhance my spell and ground it in place. In this case, it gave me a link to the zombie after I moved away, and it gave me the darkness I needed to literally pull a shade over the dead man's eyes.

I might not have been able to quietly get inside the thrall's brain, but I could sure as hell control what images got fed to its eyes.

With that done, and the rest of the back stairway clear, I climbed up and opened the door of the apartment neighboring my objective.

The interior of Saints headquarters wasn't exactly what I expected. Three teenagers, younger than any so far, huddled on a normal couch in a normal living room and played a normal video game. A first-person shooter in this case. Except maybe the game wasn't so normal. I realized I'd been gone for a while, but the graphical advancements in that time astounded me. The three boys turned to me and all I could do was gawk at the screen.

"Watch out for the grenade," I warned.

They faced the TV again. Here I was, prepared for a fight, and I was instead greeted with casual apathy. Score more points for the straw mask.

I moved to the screen door and happily confirmed that the balcony was entirely in shadow. The platform stretched across half the building, leaving a three foot gap between it and the next one. That next balcony was my objective.

"What you doing?" asked one of the kids as I opened the sliding glass door. He looked barely fifteen.

"Don't worry about it," I barked.

He stuck his lip out but didn't protest. I didn't know who he was, but it didn't matter. He was a scrub. It wasn't a stretch that I was legitimately securing the room adjoining an important meeting. And it was an easy guess that the kid with the gun that I'd knocked out had seniority over this punk.

I grunted and he turned away from me. Then I watched the screen again, amazed at the lifelike military simulation playing out. In what felt like a few days ago, I would've thought a game like that was the coolest thing ever. Now, I wouldn't even have a place to keep a flat screen and game system. It's funny how murderous plots can shift your priorities.

Before I could leave, the kid glanced my way again. This time his eyes widened. When the others turned to look, I felt it. The heat.

I jerked my head to the side. The cap and mask flung away from my face, the latter bursting into flame and dissolving in the span of seconds. Embers fluttered toward the kids on the breeze from the open door. Quiet time was over.

"Dead man!" they yelled.

"Shit," I said, pulling my gun. I rushed onto the balcony and slid the glass door closed to muffle their screams of warning. I hadn't exposed the straw to the sun. Something else was going on. I closed my eyes.

"Should've tied him up," I muttered. Whether intentional or accidental, the boy must've extinguished the candle. No flame, no shadow mask.

Around the corner, I heard the front door open. The three kids screamed for attention. I turned to the other balcony and saw a zombie guard standing there. This was getting claustrophobic real fast.

I took a few steps back and then ran at him, leaping over the small gap between balconies. My alligator boots crashed into his chest and we toppled to the floor. The zombie brushed me away but I whistled him to stop. Again, I placed a pair of sunglasses on him. It might've been too late for stealth, but a hidden ace always came in handy.

A gunshot rang out. I ducked behind the thick, concrete balcony walls.

They couldn't hit me for shit at this angle, but that wasn't the worst of it. Screaming people were one thing, but nothing gets everyone's attention quite like a gunshot. Everyone on the property was now aware of impending danger.

I dashed to the glass door. Another gunshot rang out. This time, the wall beside me chipped into dust. One of the next-door kids fired at me from his balcony. I opened the door and jumped inside.

Two topless women wearing G-strings cowered against the far wall. Beside them, a heavyset man slammed a metal door closed. It was the type of security door you see on front porches, but this was inside the apartment, leading somewhere deeper. It was a safe room. And one of the thugs had just locked it.

I caught a flash of movement behind the sofa. A guard peeked out with a gun. I jumped to the side as he fired, throwing up my shield. I aimed at his position, behind the couch, and he ducked away. I emptied half the magazine anyway—right through the fabric, and the wood, and the stuffing. He slumped out of cover with a broken curse.

The other guy didn't have a weapon, but he wasn't done. He went for another door, a second one that covered the metal gate. This one was just plain wood, but to me it looked like a bank vault. Runes had been carved along its length with bloody knives. Wards. This door took longer to close, but it was Baptiste's main defense. The thug chanted as fast as he could, unable to close the door until he activated the wards with the right chant.

"Stop," I ordered, pointing my gun at him. He ignored me. "Stop!" I warned, but the bastard was loyal if nothing else.

The front door, meanwhile, had been open the whole time. Reinforcements finally arrived. The yelling outside must have distracted them until they heard the gunfire.

I pulled the trigger at the first person who entered. Unfortunately, it was a zombie, and those things don't go down from isolated flesh lacerations. The undead don't need to worry about things like blood loss or failing internal organs. After one round penetrated its chest, I adjusted my aim to who followed. Chevalier. The bokor was quickly becoming a thorn in my side.

I fired a couple shots his way, but he predictably used his pet as a body shield. The damn thing didn't even notice. At the same time, the zombie on the balcony crashed through the glass (even though the door two feet to his left was wide open). What did I tell you? Lizard brains.

The fat man finished chanting and shoved the door. I didn't have a lot of bullets left, I was surrounded, and I needed to get inside.

I pointed the pistol at the ceiling fan above my head and fired, popping the single exposed bulb. The entire room darkened and I lunged for the door. The wards began to glow. I could feel the gap in the door filling with charged energy, the Intrinsics solidifying. But it hadn't fully shut yet. With a foot of space, I slid into the shadow and phased forward. Between the door. Between the bars of the gate. And inside the safe room.