by Domino Finn
"Holy shit, Cisco. I don't want to know about that."
"Forget it then. It's dead. But it makes me wonder how the Haitians are connected to the Old World."
My friend looked at me like I was stupid. He leaned forward and whispered, "They're black."
I shook my head dismissively. "Thanks, jackass. I was hoping for something a little more concrete."
"Hey," he said, shrugging. "You're the expert, but voodoo, Santería, all that saint stuff came over from Africa with the slave trade. It's all the same crap."
"Maybe to the uninitiated," I said. "Think about how different Los Angeles and New York are, and they're in the same country. Africa's a gigantic continent."
"Whatever," he said. "You're the expert."
He said it sarcastically, as if I'd made a mistake and was backtracking with an unnecessary explanation. I didn't bother getting into it with him and moved on.
"What about me? How'd I die?"
Evan paused, going circumspect on me. "You really don't know?"
"I don't remember my death or the days leading up to it. I don't remember getting mixed up in anything, or even being scared. It's like, yesterday was a random day, only today's ten years later, and all I've got to show for it is a bad hangover."
"You are the worst material witness ever, you know that?" Evan shook his head and grew solemn. "We found your blood, man. Buckets of the stuff. Even though your body was never recovered, there was too much blood loss for survival. Everybody said it was impossible. Zero percent chance. And since the crime scene was on Star Island, we figured you were dumped into the Bay or the Atlantic."
The body of water between the island of Miami Beach and mainland Miami is called Biscayne Bay. Some islands lie off the MacArthur Causeway in between. Star Island is one of them. It's billed as the home of the stars. Puff Daddy, Shaq, Gloria Estefan. Real swank places.
"What was I doing there?"
Evan shrugged. "We don't know. The homeowners at the time were on extended vacation in Germany. They were cleared. We couldn't place anybody else at the residence. The property was on the market and a sign was out front, but the economy's been in the shitter since you've been gone. No one was buying or watching the house. We think squatters were involved."
I sighed. More like DROP the ball. Evan noticed my lack of satisfaction and became defensive.
"Listen, Cisco. The room was a mess. A pentagram was drawn on the floor with your blood. Judging by the smears, your body was once in the center of it. There were candles and dust and—"
"What kind of dust?"
"I don't know. I'm sure it was analyzed, but it didn't lead anywhere. The point is, we're out of our depth with this occult stuff."
I nodded in agreement. It was going to be the hard way then. "I need access to the property."
"Cisco, the evidence is long gone."
Forensics are one thing, black magic's another. After ten years, detecting trace Intrinsics wouldn't be a walk in the park, but given enough time and channeling, I could find something. I had to find something.
"I want the address," I said, leaving no room in my tone for debate.
"I don't have it. I don't remember addresses from years ago."
"Then get me the file."
Evan rubbed the heels of his palms on his forehead. I could see him working through the logistics of getting me the case file. Going against procedure, asking favors, sticking his neck out.
"You owe me this, Evan. You can't sit on your ass forever."
He snorted. "No one sat on their ass. This was out of my hands. I say 'we' only to refer to the City of Miami, but I wasn't allowed anywhere near your case. I tried in the early days and got reprimanded for it. It was over by that point. I couldn't do anything for you." He was angry, but it didn't look like it was at me. He put his head on the desk. "I wish I'd known you were alive, man. Damn it. I wish I'd known you were alive."
I shifted uncomfortably. Wondered what this was like for the people whose lives I was interrupting. Maybe everything was silky smooth before ol' Cisco came back to town. Maybe the only thing I would do is scratch and tear and burn everything I touched.
I kinda liked the sound of that.
With a lull in the conversation, I re-examined the absurdity of my predicament. The police couldn't help me, Martine was dead, Em wasn't around to give me a pep talk. For maybe the first time in my life, I was on my own.
"What about my family?" I finally asked. "Tell me you have something there."
The same lost look continued to plaster his face. "I don't know what to tell you. There was a lot of blood, but the murders were years apart from yours. The scene was different. A massacre. No signs of ritual. The murders aren't officially linked."
I frowned. The desperation hurt. It physically hurt. Being dead was painless, being alive torture. The absence of information, the futility of the police investigations, the lost time—they were all needles biting into me, twisting deeper.
"What if they're not dead?" I asked.
Evan's face hardened. "Cisco..."
"I'm serious. Everybody thought I was done for. We both know damn well that the killings are related."
"We don't know that."
"Bullshit we don't. If I came back, maybe they did too."
My friend's forehead knotted. He was trying to be patient, but it came across as condescending. "Cisco, they were butchered. Hacked into pieces."
"You saw the bodies?"
His lips tightened and he nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, man. It was them. I don't know shit about magic, but nothing could bring what I saw back."
I nearly convulsed. Hope was important, even when it was hopeless. Holding on to that faint, stupid glimmer of a chance that my family was still alive gave me something to fight for. Maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe I should have stayed dead.
"What open leads do you have?" I asked stubbornly.
"You tell me," snapped Evan, losing his cool. "You come in here after ten years and make me feel like shit when you were the one mixed up in it."
"I didn't do anything. Don't put it on me like that."
He raised his voice. "Who had it in for you? Who wanted to destroy everyone you loved?" I grumbled and turned away, but that only emboldened him. "I told you not to mess with black magic, man. You never listened. Not then. Not now."
"Now?" I returned. "What other option do I have now?"
"How about being happy you're still alive? I want you to move on and figure out how to stay alive. Your family's been dead eight years. Digging them up won't do you any good."
"Oh, the hell with this," I spat. "You think I can walk away from this? Whoever killed me killed my family. Solving any of the murders gets me one step closer to ripping that bastard's heart out."
"You're living again, Cisco. Don't you see that? You're living, and you can't live for revenge."
I laughed coldly. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do. But it's not only about vengeance. Martine was murdered today. Who's next? I need to stop them. I'm the only one who can. If it's not me, then who?"
Evan squirmed in frustration but didn't have an answer for me. "So you're gonna go messing with black magic again. That's a great idea, Einstein. See how many more people get killed."
"It's not the magic," I said. "It's the people. Somebody needs to pay. My family's gone, Evan. You can throw me and Martine under the bus if you want, but my family didn't deserve what happened. No one ever brought them justice."
My friend could be a self-righteous bastard when he wanted to, but he knew how to pick his battles. He kept his mouth shut while I fumed.
I shook my head. Words couldn't help anyway. Nothing could.
I let out all my steam in a great big exhalation. "Unbelievable," I said, smiling because there was nothing else to do. "My family and I were murdered, years ago, and everyone else went right on living."
Evan grimaced weakly. "That's what people do, Cisco."
No. Not when Cisco Suarez was dead. I locked eyes
with him. "And what did you do, Evan? Besides 'take care' of my girlfriend?" It was a low blow, but I took the shot I had.
"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.
Chapter 17
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.
Francisco Suarez. He walks alone but always has a home.
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 bef
ore 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.
Chapter 18
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.
