by Domino Finn
Still, it had been a spectacle. Crunched glass and metal. Or cheap fiberglass anyway. Any bystander or driver could've already called the police. I couldn't exactly stick around and file a police report, but I did need to check things out. That meant I had to hurry. I rubbed the spikes of the dog collar around my wrist, ready to invoke destructive shadow magic, and approached the wayward car.
On the way, I found the logo that had cracked off its hood. A Dodge Neon. What did I say about inconspicuous?
The windshield of the car hung limply, half-attached but still in one piece. The roof was crushed in to the point that I couldn't see into the cabin.
"You okay in there?" I asked, unsure why I was disguising my voice in baritone. When no one answered, I decided to right the crumpled vehicle. It was pretty small and at a slight lean, so it only needed minimal force on the roof to tip over and settle on its tires. I rounded to the front door and threw up my left hand in case I needed a quick shield.
The car was empty.
I scanned the vicinity. It was quiet out here. Clear enough that the driver couldn't have run without me noticing. I mean, I don't like to brag—well, maybe I do—but I recovered pretty damn fast after the accident. I'd watched the Neon as it still tumbled, so there was no chance for anyone inside to escape.
I checked the car again, but there wasn't anything to miss. It was a tiny hatchback coupe, made tinier by the collapsed roof. The trunk was locked and the driver's door was dented beyond use. I managed to open the passenger door fine. I tilted the seat forward and pulled the cover for the back trunk. No one there either.
I scratched my neck again, feeling the soreness come on. The car had slammed into me pretty good. I reset the seat back and sat inside, ducking under the lowered roof. No objects were lodged over the gas pedal. Nothing appeared odd. The car was still in drive, the engine still running. All things I would expect.
I flipped the AC on and set it to high. At least there was a bright side to this mess.
After a minute of mulling the mystery over, I opened the glove compartment and found the registration. John Harmon, Bayshore Drive. The address was just a block away from here. That meant one of the well-to-do residents had pulled out of the marina, slammed into me for no reason, and vanished into thin air.
Quite the puzzle. But a hell of a way to derail my attempt to follow Rudi Alvarez. Somehow I didn't think John Harmon knew his car was here.
I grabbed the handle to open the door but the lock clicked. I pushed the door but it held firm, and the unlock button didn't do anything. That's when I noticed there were no keys in the ignition. The cabin light began blinking on and off.
It wasn't until the car shifted into reverse all by itself that I understood what was happening. Another poltergeist, this time haunting a Dodge-fucking-Neon.
The gas pedal hugged the floor and the car skipped backward, right into the canal. Adding insult to injury, the AC switched from cool to heat.
"Hilarious," I muttered.
The coupe didn't have windows anymore, so water poured over me immediately. Thing was, with the roof crumpled, I couldn't well squeeze out those windows.
I leaned back and kicked my boots against the door, but it was jammed tight. Water roared over my head. I checked the back seat, wondering if I could go through the trunk. Fuck it, there wasn't time, and I wasn't helpless.
Inside the car, shadow enveloped me. I clenched my right fist and repositioned, waiting even as my head submerged. I punched that stupid blinking light on the ceiling with a fistful of shadow. The cheap plastic exploded, but that wasn't all. The fabric and the fiberglass frame gave way as well. The shadow shot up and dissipated under the harsh sun, but the job was done.
The little Dodge Neon was now a convertible.
I climbed out of the sinking car. The engine gurgled angrily but cut out in the water. I pulled myself back to shore and checked up and down the street for the ghost's next attack.
Nothing came. Nothing else nearby to possess.
I removed my boots and upturned them. Good thing alligator hide was water resistant. I slipped them back on, wicked the water from my short hair, and trudged back to my pickup.
It was the first time I'd gotten a look at the damage to the passenger door. Barely a dent. The old thing did have a bit of trouble starting again, but after a sudden backfire, the engine growled smoothly.
What did I say? Built like a tank.
Chapter 8
A poltergeist is a freak occurrence. Most people go their whole lives without ever encountering one. Two's way more than dumb luck. Something or someone was after me. I didn't know who or what, but I had a damn good idea why.
I could've waited for the commissioner to return from his lunch break, but something about being nearly drowned changes a man's priorities. Discretion is the better part of being murdered by a ghost. Besides, I'd already died enough in one lifetime—I could go without the experience for a few days more, at least. So I left Rudi Alvarez in peace.
Instead, I wasted most of the day trolling junkyards. By the time my truck hobbled over the dirt road of my Everglades safe house, I had extra cargo in the bed.
I stopped on the concrete platform of the abandoned boat house, disembarked to roll up one of the oversized garage doors, and backed inside. The building was deep off a dirt road only used for boat access to the swamp. No one needed to pass that area and come here. And if they did, they'd only find a dead end and a locked-up building in ruin. I wish I had the know-how or friends to cast a not-notice-me glamour on the area, but I was a solo operation at the moment.
The boat warehouse was large. A high, corrugated ceiling. A concrete foundation. It had been completely gutted so there wasn't anything inside. Just a dented metal shelf along a wall with my meager belongings and spell tokens. Oh, and a set of metal teeth fused to the floor. Those came courtesy of a West African vampire.
Did I say this was my safe house? Well, it is now, but I had to kill its former occupant to inherit it. The metal teeth melted to the floor were all that was left of Tunji Malu, the asanbosam. Payback for mutilating me at the Star Island house, putting me in a death trance, and commanding me to murder countless innocents.
The vampire was dead now, but his secrets were as vigorous as ever.
The last few days had been difficult. I'd been unwell. Relief from his death had given way to anxiety over the greater mystery. I'd repeatedly second-guessed my decision to snap his neck and vaporize him. With Tunji Malu went my best chance to gain more insight into my past. That's why I'd resorted to police reports and politics.
On top of making me sloppy, my lack of sleep and calm had me seeing things too. Ghostly things. Impossible things.
I'm a necromancer, so I'm familiar with what goes bump in the night. Hell, sometimes it's me. But the spirits had not behaved normally lately. It was like I had shadows around me, playing with me. I'd only see them at certain times and places. Hotspots where death or other atrocities had occurred. The house on Star Island. The cemetery where my family was buried. And Bayshore Drive, for some reason.
The atrocities in question didn't matter. The spirits, the places—they weren't relevant. Darkness, after all, has been a part of the world since its inception. But this recent congregation, this focus on me—it was a little too weird, and I didn't know how to fix it.
That's why I'd decided to go Ghostbusters on the problem.
Sitting in the bed of my pickup was a half-ton steel safe lined with two inches of lead. The poltergeist in the refrigerator had given me the idea. Except this bad boy was fire-proof, radiation-proof, and damned solid for its size. It wasn't an ectoplasmic containment unit, but it would suffice. I manifested a tentacle of shadow from the dark floor and slid the heavy object from the truck into the corner, next to my broken shelf.
Now that I had two pieces of furniture, the feng shui was really coming together. But I was missing the star attraction.
I marched outside into the blaring sunlight, covering m
y eyes and making a beeline for the swamp. You see, even though I didn't understand it, I knew exactly what the source of my troubles was. And I knew exactly where it was hidden, because I had hastily done that myself after finding it.
On the edge of the murky water, I felt along the bottom with my black magic. The darkness clamped onto the object triple-wrapped in garbage bags and lifted it to the surface, where I scooped it up with my hands. On the rocky shore, I undid the copious amounts of duct tape and tore the plastic away.
Within was a small object, a bull's horn with metal caps on each side, meant for carrying gun powder in centuries past. It was also coated in gold, an aftermarket modification, with etched pictographs along its length. Near as I could tell, they were of Taíno origin.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Horn of Subjugation. It thrummed in my hands, its dark power apparent yet uncertain.
Nothing good had come of my finding this artifact. A decade ago, when I'd been a two-bit street hustler, the Horn and I crossed paths. I was killed for it. The vampire, and whoever he'd been working for, would've recovered it had it not been for my fellow voodoo priestess Martine, who'd hidden the object in my empty grave. It had been clever of her. Even though she'd known more about the Horn than she'd let on, her last act had protected it from the ones who did us harm. It had protected her as well. For a time.
After a perfect storm of preternatural events (involving an ambush by a voodoo high priest, no less), whatever curse had befallen me was lifted. I was back, and events had led me to the Horn once again.
But not before my father's spirit had attacked me. His desiccated corpse dug itself from his grave and tried to pull me under. The cost of doing business as a necromancer, perhaps.
I, however, couldn't discount the Horn's role in the freak accident. My father had been at rest beside the artifact hidden in my casket. And now that I possessed it, swamp or not, I'd been hounded by poltergeists. This weakening between our world and the Murk had one obvious cause.
I should've left the Horn in the cemetery. Those places are good at keeping things contained. The iron gates. The gravestones and honorifics. Even the ceremonies. They all act as spirit-binding agents, giving them a gentle push toward oblivion.
But the cat was out of the bag now. I was resigned to holding onto the artifact. To keeping it out of hands more dangerous than mine.
On the way back to my boat-house hideaway, I examined the powder horn. Ivory with a brown tip. Light decoration on the steel caps. I wasn't a historian but I figured it was sixteenth-century Spanish. That was the original part of the item, anyway. Before it had been converted into an artifact of considerable power.
That's where the Taíno gold came in. It sealed the caps closed with magical runes. The island natives had been enslaved and assimilated by the Spaniards during the age of conquest. Gold and spellcraft were abundant in those pre-colonial days. But not enough is known about Taíno culture to decipher the glyphs. They didn't have a real written language.
The cultures today who identify as Taíno are a fractional mix at best, relying on DNA to connect long-forgotten dots. The so-called language in marginal use is a modern invention, a facsimile of the real thing, taught with the goal of preserving something that never existed. If you ask me, I bet more people can write fluent Klingon than Taíno (and it would be more useful to boot).
I reentered the comforting shadows of the boat house, pondering the Horn, glad I finally came up with something stronger than a few Hefty bags to contain its power. Maybe I stared at the artifact a little too long, because I got the distinct feeling I wasn't alone anymore. Something had snuck up on me.
I faced the intruder. Another apparition, but no—not like the others. It was a man, or had been, now reduced to bones, rags, and armor.
"Hello, Master," it said, gazing at me with glowing red eyes.
Okay, then. If I'd thought things were a little trippy before, this was a straight-up, peyote-induced nightmare.
Chapter 9
I thrust my hands forward and a barrier of solid shadow materialized between us. The apparition reacted with a cock of his head, but he made no attempt to knock the wall away.
An early rapier hung sheathed in his belt. Likewise, a matchlock pistol was strapped to his leg. His boots and clothes were in tatters, save for the steel breastplate and open helmet he wore. Torn leggings revealed patches of dried, blackened skin. Unlike other exposed parts of his body, his skull was completely barren of flesh. An unnatural red presence shone through his empty eye sockets and reflected in his nose and jaw.
"What are you?" I asked in reverence.
A hollow breath whistled like wind through a cave. "An old man," spoke the monstrosity. "One dead for a time, as yourself."
I thought of Tunji Malu's last words. The head of the Covey. "A primal being?"
Now the skull grinned, if that was possible. "Heavens, no. I am Earthly." The apparition held his hands out strangely, almost as if locked in a dance. Then he stepped forward, through my wall, as if it were... shadow.
"Opiyel," he rasped. "The Shadow Dog. The One Who Could Not Be Bound."
I'm not gonna lie. I was startled he identified my patron so quickly. People don't just know who Opiyel is. Not even practiced animists.
"Amazing," he continued. "Tell me this. He came to you, did he not?"
He knew that part too. An educated guess, perhaps. How else to learn a dead magic than by the magic itself? I didn't answer but let the wall construct fall away.
This wasn't a mindless ghost as the poltergeists had been. This was something different. Something that wasn't supposed to happen. A spirit in the physical world, standing beside me as if he didn't know any better.
A tuft of spoiled feathers flared out from his headpiece. Gnarled fingers protruded from the open tips of his leather gauntlets. Puffy sleeves and shoulders gave him the look of an undead pirate, but I knew better. The powder horn. The Taíno glyphs. His knowledge. It all tied together.
"You're a conquistador," I said. "A Spaniard."
He gave a slight bow. "I was once, Master."
My eyes narrowed. "Stop calling me that."
The spirit shrugged and lowered his gaze to my hands. The Horn of Subjugation. I quickly worked out its magic.
"This was your powder horn," I guessed, glancing again at the gun on his leg. I also noted his belt pouch. "And you were a mage."
He nodded. "I still am."
"But you're dead."
"There are many kinds of death, brujo, as you yourself have seen and experienced."
"What do you know of me?"
"Only what I have seen," he breathed. "I've learned much, buried all these years."
I flexed. "Things like how to drown a man in a compact car submerged in ten feet of water?"
Again, the spirit cocked his head in interest.
"The poltergeists," I hinted.
His skull rolled back and the lights went out, as if he'd closed his eyes. In a moment, he returned. "Ah yes. I can assist you with your spirit troubles, mayhap?"
"I'm not asking for help. I'm looking for whatever stirred up the ghosts."
"Then you should look elsewhere," he assured.
I couldn't get a handle on whether he was lying or not. He had no eyelids or cheeks to quiver, no ears to flush with nervousness. Still, it was safe enough to assume the animated Halloween costume wasn't selling Girl Scout cookies.
But what if he was right? If the poltergeists were unrelated to the Horn of Subjugation, then someone had to be directing them at me. Two in two days wasn't random chance.
He snorted. "Do you not remember?"
I reeled backward a step. "You're not saying we've met before, are you?" My mind raced with possibilities.
The apparition put a glove to his chin and scratched the bone. "Trauma can make a man forget. So can magic."
I recalled the glowing afterimage of energy at the scene of my murder. The red pentacle, the gray zombification, and the black void of somethin
g else. The third spell.
"What happened to me?" I asked.
The empty eyes answered without hesitation. "There are tears in this world, Master. Points of convergence. I cannot explain them, but I can help you try."
I shook my head. This thing wanted something from me. I wouldn't be its vessel. But my words betrayed my desperation.
"Do you know Tunji Malu? Do you know his master?"
The spirit blinked plainly. "I do not."
I gritted my teeth. "Then you can't help me."
"But I can," he chided. "I can tell you about yourself, Master. Why you can do what you can."
"Anybody can do it if they open their mind to it."
He flashed a skeletal grin. "On a fundamental level, yes. Many can channel spirits. But not everyone is watched over by the Shadow Dog. You have a connection to the Taíno dead."
This ghost was far older than I was. It upset me how much he knew. His confident knowledge of Taíno culture grated me, even though it made complete sense. He'd been alive to personally witness their culture. Hell, he'd probably had a hand in destroying it.
And it was imagining his life that let me understand his death.
"The Taíno didn't like you," I concluded. "You probably raped and butchered their people. I wouldn't be surprised if they killed you themselves."
The spirit grinned. "They were not able to do so."
I nodded. "You're a necromancer."
"Which is why we understand each other."
"I understand that the Taíno couldn't kill you, not permanently, so they sealed you in the Horn instead. They covered it with gold and glyphs, called whatever magic they had to contain you. And it worked."
After a moment, the apparition only said, "For a time."
I snorted. "You're a wraith. A human hexed by spellcraft, killed, but coherent in spirit."
He chuckled. "Any occultist knows labels merely reflect the perspective of those doing the labeling."
