by Domino Finn
My arrival became a cautious search of the house. The living room and Florida room were clear. I winced as I climbed the creaky wooden stairs, but no one heard the noise. I didn't get jumped by a Haitian voodoo gang. Martine and my friends didn't surprise me with a welcome-back-to-life party. The whole house was empty. She wasn't here.
Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her Volvo outside. She must have stepped out for hamburger buns or something. I wiped my brow in relief, wondering why I'd gotten myself so worked up. I returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and popped a Corona. A Tupperware container full of rice gave me a great idea.
"Screw hamburgers," I decided aloud. I could start my own welcome-back-to-life party, and I was gonna do it with some of my trademark Cuban cooking. I grabbed a small paring knife and chopped onions, green peppers, and garlic. Then I heated some oil in a pan and tossed the veggies in. For a while I leaned against the counter and waited, enjoying my beer. Just as the sofrito was starting to smell good, I got a bad feeling.
I hadn't searched the whole place yet. The house, yes, but not the property. I glanced out the window to the cookhouse and wondered. Something told me not to go out there. To just walk away, forget about Martine, forget about voodoo, and just move on for good. But I didn't listen to that voice. I never did.
I shook up the pan to stir the base and headed outside with my beer, not bothering to close the door behind me. I tried the oversized door to the cookhouse, but it was locked as expected. Locked from the inside. I knew I needed to get in there. For others, with the wards and fortifications, that might be difficult. Not so much for me.
The shed was shaped like a barn, complete with a double-wide door that swung outward. There was about an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor to allow the door to swing over the ground freely. It wasn't much, but it was enough space for me to get through. At least as long as the tree overhead cast its shadow on the entrance.
I stepped on the shadow and phased within it, as I'd done before with the wall in the alley. This time I slipped down into the ground and slid forward.
This kind of movement is limited. It only works along short lengths of shadow and doesn't let me actually go through anything. Not really. But the space I need for passage becomes minimal. Me and my possessions, even the beer in my hand, slid under the door and were inside.
When I phased out again, the faint smell was the first thing to confirm my suspicions. It wasn't strong, but a necromancer gets used to these kinds of things. My boot cracked a piece of glass. It was too dark inside to see, so I let the black seep into my eyes. Dried animals and fish oils weren't all that greeted me. Multiple body parts in varying states of decay were scattered across the cookhouse. Research, I hoped. I mean, a guy's luck needs to kick in at some point, right?
Wrong. In the middle of the cookhouse, splayed out beside an overturned table, was the body of my friend, Martine.
Chapter 11
The shed was a scene from a horror movie.
Multiple bodies were clustered along the walls where they'd been thrown aside. The wood floor was splintered, the furniture toppled. The scattered limbs and heads struck my psyche like daggers. All I could think about was my dead family. Had they been found like this?
The stench of decay was surprisingly weak, but present. I could tell immediately that most of the bodies had been magically preserved. All but one.
Martine rested awkwardly in the center of the cookhouse, her hips caught on the overturned wooden table that was the centerpiece of the workspace. Her shoulder braced against the floor, awash in red. It was a lot of blood, and easily explained: half the girl's neck was missing, like it had just been ripped out.
And Martine—she hadn't been a girl anymore. Ten years older, I reminded myself. Ten years different. I approached hesitantly, afraid to have this new image of her burned into my subconscious. But I needed to see.
I turned her head and grimaced. It was bad. Her mouth was frozen mid-scream. Her eyes were wide and vacant, literally: her eyeballs had been removed.
I turned away. This was done recently, as in hours ago. Her body hadn't started to visually decompose. Barely a smell. The other corpses were another story, but normal. A scene only familiar to a necromancer.
The bodies were Martine's minions. Zombies. And no huckster magic either. They would've been strong, which meant whatever ripped them apart was stronger.
This all but confirmed my suspicions about black magic being at the heart of this mess. Me, my family, Martine—it had gotten us all killed. And now my best lead was gone.
Gone but not forgotten. That's what people say, anyway. In this case, they were right, but I had my own saying. Fight necromancy with necromancy.
The missing eyes were a problem. Somebody had removed them for a reason: so people like me couldn't snoop. I kicked some body parts aside and scanned the floor. Objects were scattered about like Miami had its very first magnitude five. I searched the walls and corners. I picked up a large glass jar of dirt with holes in the lid, shook it up, and examined the contents. I would need it. In fact, the shed was filled with tributes, offerings to aid in black rituals. It would do me some good to stock up.
But first thing was first. I needed to find me some eyeballs.
I know that sounds gross. It is, in a way. But keep in mind, blood magic isn't inherently evil. Death is morbid, but necessary. Some cultures leave their dead out in plain sight and parade them through the streets. My art involves dead things, but that doesn't mean I seek or cause death. Are coroners feared for performing autopsies? No. They get a hit TV show called CSI. I'm a forensic investigator of sorts as well. I just use... alternate methods.
The barn door was shut tight. It budged and jiggled but didn't push open, which was strange because I didn't see anything physically preventing access. No matter. I phased under the door again and adjusted my eyes to the brightness outside.
The crow was still around, except now it was on the far fencepost. For a second I wondered if I was being watched, then the bird dropped to the ground and rustled its beak in the dirt, pecking for food.
I turned to the grass myself, checking for signs of blood, signs that the precious eyes were cast aside. I searched nearby bushes and the path to the street. On my way back, I set down the jar of dirt and checked the garbage cans. They were full and I didn't want to spend a lot of time so I flipped them over.
When I upturned the contents of the second, a large spider scattered from behind the can. I recoiled and let out a sissy yell, slamming my back against the chain-link fence. It was large and furry like a tarantula. Eew.
Yes, I don't bat an eye at dead bodies, but things with more than four legs gross me out.
After the waking nightmare scurried off, I inhaled deeply and regained my feet. Using my alligator boot, I continued searching through the trash. It was no use. Whoever had taken the eyes had probably flung them far aside, not placed them neatly in the garbage. Next to a murder rap, I doubt littering even registered.
I strode back to the shed, working my jaw, pondering how best to navigate this setback, when I noticed the crow pecking at its feet again. Something dangled from its beak, halfway down its throat.
"You've got to be shitting me," I muttered.
I stomped toward the black bird, hooting and waving my arms like a madman. It spooked and fluttered to the fence, leaving an eyeball in the grass. The other was still in its mouth.
I lunged at the crow. It took to the air but, in its haste, dropped its meal. I caught the slimy eye and breathed a sigh of relief, but the crow swooped down and caught the hanging optic nerve in its beak. Wings flapped hectically near my ear but I held tight and waved the bird off.
With an angry caw, the crow took to the air, circled a few times, then flew away.
"And stay out," I said. I plucked the second eyeball from the ground and returned to Martine's body.
The fleshy orbs were in bad shape—squished, picked at, half eaten—but they would do.
As long as they were fresh, not much else mattered. I popped them back into Martine's empty sockets. She somehow looked worse than she did without them.
I dug around the floor till I found a shattered change jar. I plucked up two quarters and placed them over her mutilated eyes. These weren't normal quarters: they were pre-1965, heavy in silver. You hang around necromancers long enough, you'll find they often work with silver. It's a conduit. The most conductive of all the metals. Scientists like to frame that in terms of electricity and heat, but animists never forget about spirits.
Next, I ripped a strip off the bottom of her blouse and balled it into her open neck cavity. The white fabric drank the blood in. As I waited, I rested my hand on Martine's. I tried to smile, to think of good things, good times, but I couldn't. My mind was all about the investigation. A decent friend of mine, a colleague, was nothing more than evidence to me.
Martine had never outgrown the showy, skulls-and-crossbones phase like I had. Her belt buckle was made of pewter, an oversized disc with a pentacle on top, swimming in a sea of black lacquer. Dominating the center of the five-pointed star was a large skull, angry teeth lacking a bottom jaw. It was my friend's fetish, and I was in need of one. I unclipped her belt and put it on.
It would make my magic stronger, and I absolutely needed to get this next part right.
I pulled the strip of cloth, now saturated with blood, and wrapped it around my head like a blindfold. I rubbed some blood in a grip on the belt buckle and rested my other hand on my friend.
"Here goes nothing, Baron," I said, channeling the voodoo patron Martine had introduced me to.
Seeing the last moments of somebody's life is unnerving, especially through their eyes. All their struggles and fears become a part of you. For a few moments, you are them. For a few moments, it is you who dies. But it was the best way to get the answers we both deserved.
The moments were silent. My jaw was set.
"Okay, Martine. I'm ready. Tell me what you see."
Then I clamped my hand over her mouth like I was suffocating her.
Chapter 12
I scrape the mallet against the wooden bowl, grinding the delicate orange powder to dust. I'm an expert at this, only I'm not Cisco. I'm Martine, vodoun priestess, speaker for the dead.
The light bathes the room in a warm glow. Hanging oil lamps that Cisco didn't see before. The room is whole now, disorganized but not in disarray. Dried animal husks hang on the walls. Jars of oils and ointments sit on shelves. I am alone with my work, and I see them coming before they know it.
Outside my cookhouse are the brute and his fellow trickster. They should not be here. They are not supposed to come to me.
But I am at home, within my seat of power. I am ready.
I draw the wards away when the man stops at my door. "You may come in," I announce, and the door swings open. "But the anansi is not welcome inside."
The large man at the threshold wears a long jacket with a hood drawn, obscuring his face in shadow. He has the build of an ogre, a football player, a mountain in his own right. He stands as still as the earth as well, facing me, considering my motives.
"Have it your way," he announces in a deep, confident voice. He isn't scared of me, but he should be.
The man steps inside and scans the walls. He takes his time to aggravate me. To set me on edge. I do not disappoint him. "Why are you here?"
He shrugs casually. "We need to talk."
"We do not need to speak in person."
"Oh yes," he says, stepping closer, "we do." The darkness in his hood betrays a glint from the lantern flame.
I peek through the half-open door, seeing the shadow of the pacing trickster. Its unnatural gait sets me on edge, but it obeys and remains outside. "Get on with it, then."
The ogre nods. "We are displeased with you."
"I have done everything you've asked."
"Where is the Horn?" questions the large man.
"The Horn?"
"The Horn of Subjugation," he barks. "Do not play coy any longer. You have been deceiving us. Working with the shadow witch. Subverting our efforts from the beginning."
"Cisco?" I tremble at the name, one I haven't heard in a long time. But he was my only partner. I have no one else now. "What does Cisco have to do with this?"
"He's alive!" booms the man, raining his fist upon the table's wooden surface. The orange powder spills. It could be dangerous but I ignore it. The possibility of a living Francisco Suarez is much more dangerous.
"Impossible."
"It's not," he counters. "Not with powerful black magic. Not with your help."
I desperately search for the man's eyes under the blackness of his hood. I know now what he is here for. "Resurrection? Such power is beyond me."
The ogre grunts. It sounds like a broken laugh, the noise of a monster. "Not with the Horn."
I shake my head. "The artifact was lost to me. You know this."
The brute doesn't move.
"You must believe me, Asan."
The man in shadow paces across the small cookhouse before turning to face me again. "I did. Once."
Something scurries outside the cookhouse. I ball my hand into a fist and the barn door closes. The man's head turns, but only for a moment. He looks to me again. I know he's smiling, but I can only see a glint of firelight.
"Do not act rashly," I urge. "You are surrounded by allies. Do not turn them into enemies."
"Allies?" he questions. "If I cannot trust you, and you will not help me, then you are a liability. Now more than ever, since he lives."
"And you are sure of this? You are sure he again walks with the living?"
"There is no question. The Bone Saints are tracking him."
I scoff. It is unbelievable. But...
The ogre cocks his head. "Where is the Horn, necromancer? It is your only chance at life."
I step away from the table. His mind is set. I can only hope the trickster runs. "The crow flies true," I say, "ever and only concerned with birdfeed."
The large man grunts again. "Your magicks cannot help you now."
I grip the skull amulet at my waist. We will see about that.
The wooden floor beneath his feet erupts in a shower of splinters. An undead hand clamps onto each foot. The man pulls away but the grip is strong. He is trapped, a piece of meat waiting to be eaten.
The walls shimmer. Bodies, once unseen, stir to life. My horde. They will have a feast.
The ogre reaches down and grabs both hands. With a powerful tug, he pulls the zombie from the ground. My petite is thin but bolstered by blood. He screams and pulls but cannot get free.
The brute strains and rips his arm off. He throws it at the oncoming horde, then crushes my petite's head with a free hand. The mob closes in on both sides, but the monster is free again.
He strikes like lightning.
Limbs rip asunder. Heads roll. In quick flashes of movement, the ogre takes blows but he withstands them. There is something evil about him. Foreign. Not meant for this land.
I use the commotion to flee, but he sees me and slams me into the table. I tumble to the ground. It takes only a minute for him to cut down my mob and subdue me.
I cough out blood. I'm slow to rise. But I am not done.
The man lumbers my way. I let him grab me, pull me close. He grunts again, but the eerie sound is cut short.
Black liquid dribbles over my hand, cold to the touch. The blade in my fingers is colder still, buried in his belly.
The ogre drops his head, startled by the wound. The hood falls lower over his face. But he is still so strong. "Silver," he muses. "I will use it to inscribe your headstone."
I reach desperately for the orange powder, but it is out of my reach, knocked from the table.
"I will tell you how to get the Horn," I plead quickly. "Let me go, and you will have it. I swear."
He pushes forward into me. I can smell his breath.
"You have told the same lies for a decade. I
am sick of them." He pushes closer still. "And I am so thirsty."
I press away but he holds firm and leans in. The hood falls away and I see a flash of metal teeth, shining in the weak light. They sink into me, tearing away my flesh. Devouring me.
My struggles stop. My thoughts slow. He drinks my essence, and I know that I'm slipping away.
Chapter 13
I ripped the blood-caked blindfold from my face and rasped on the floor, too weak to stand. I had expected someone powerful, but not like that. Martine had been a decent bokor, with ten more years of skill than I'd seen before. She'd even learned a bit of glamour. All that, and that thing had just cut her down like an afterthought.
Here's the thing about necromancers: they're not very durable. Death magic is about insight and control. A straight-up fight with a bruiser was better had at a distance. With an army in between.
Asan, this thing—whatever it was—had magic in its bones. It moved too fast to be human. The black blood hinted at a Nether creature. A fae. But it was unfamiliar to me. Incredibly stout. Incredibly ruthless.
And it was looking for me.
Good money he was the one who'd called at the Versace Mansion. This creature was on the hunt, and it knew about the cookhouse. It wasn't safe here.
I used the table to help myself up, stomping the fatigue from my wobbly legs. Experiencing Martine's death was a shock to my system. It wouldn't have any lasting physical effects but I had some funk to shake off. The bigger picture had more troubling repercussions.
According to their exchange, Martine and I had found something ten years ago. An artifact called the Horn of Subjugation. (Yeah, scary things have scary names.) The fog of my death blocked it from memory, but Martine had known about it.
I shook my head and gave my friend one last glance. She'd been working with them. At some point, anyway. In over her head. Maybe I'd played a part, but more likely I'd been played. And when, ostensibly, the proverbial shit had hit the fan, I was a liability because I was a free agent.
