by Domino Finn
The things you accumulate in this business. Her eyes widened, probably wondering if I was putting her on.
Seeing how empty the shelves were depressed me. There was a time when Martine and I had been fully stocked and organized. Potions, powders, the works. Like my collection, my progress had been stalled.
"Just gimme a bad guy," I mumbled to myself.
Milena rested her hand on my shoulder. She wanted me to slow down, but I was a shark. My fins needed to keep paddling or I'd drown. It wasn't that I hadn't gained any ground—if I truly, honestly, considered the week, 2-0 wasn't a bad score—it was just that things weren't even close to even yet.
"A sparse collection," commented the wraith.
Milena screamed. I spun to see the apparition standing close, examining the shelf.
"But a beginning of one, nonetheless." His hollow eyes flicked to me intently.
"What the fucking fuck?" shrieked Milena, backing into the corner.
The lead-lined safe was locked. Still sealed. Yet here the Spaniard was.
"It's okay," I assured her. "It's okay." I positioned myself between her and the apparition because, contrary to what I said out loud, everything was not fucking okay. "How—" I started, glancing at the safe.
"It's just lead, Master."
"That's good enough for Superman." My hand went to my belt pouch.
The Spaniard stepped closer. "Relax, brujo. I mean you no harm."
"Get it away from me, Cisco," urged Milena. "I don't wanna see your magic anymore."
"It's not my magic," I said, producing the darkfinder compass. The hands listed to the side without compulsion. "And I don't think he wants to hurt us."
"He speaks the truth, señorita," assured the apparition.
She raised an eyebrow. "Watch who you call señorita."
He ignored the warning. "You have nothing to fear. I wish only to assist your friend." But then the wraith cocked his head strangely at her and pointed.
"Hey," I warned. "Stay away from her." The darkfinder only worked for the bearer. It couldn't tell me how much danger someone else was in.
The wraith's fingers beckoned, and the necklace around Milena's neck jiggled. "I know this medal," he revealed. "Santo Miguel. The archangel."
The chain now tugged against Milena's skin as the pendant seemed magnetically attracted to the spirit. "Um, Cisco," she said meekly, backed against the wall. "What was it you said about not wanting to suck me into anything?"
"Let her go," I said firmly.
The Spaniard sighed and the necklace fell limp around her neck. Then he paced away in thought. "I know the owner of that medal," he explained.
I turned to Milena.
"I've never seen him before," she said.
The Spaniard shook his head. "Not her." His skull locked on me. "Your sister."
I narrowed my eyes. "She's dead."
"That is precisely how I know of her."
Okay. The cemetery, then. The Horn had been buried in my casket for years. The wraith had lived beside the graves of my family.
"You can see the spirits of the dead?" I asked.
"I always keep one foot in the Murk, Master."
I shuddered at the thought.
The world is based on energies. Electrons and neutrons jamming into each other, transferring heat and forming new elements. The Intrinsics are at the heart of all that. Not just the building blocks of life, but the entire universe.
When people in the physical world die, it seems the very definition of finality. But really, from some perspectives, it's just another transference of energy. Every necromancer knows that spirits live on in a mirror world, a dead world that mocks our own. Every death-animist knows of the Murk.
The place is like an echo. Things that happen here—places that are built, people that pass through and die—they all eventually move through the Murk. It's invisible, but a part of this realm. Familiar, but transient. While spirits stay there, they're somewhat accessible to people like me. It's what the totality of animist spellcraft is built upon. But eventually, most normal spirits move on and disappear. Existing, probably, but somewhere else.
Surely the Murk is one of the greatest mysteries of human civilization. Proof of life after death. And this wraith just casually mentioned it like it was a trip to the beach.
"My dad attacked me," I divulged. I wasn't sure why I told him, but the image of my father's reanimated body reaching through the ground haunted me.
The wraith nodded. He'd been there. "Your father has gone mad, stuck in the Murk far too long. Lost without your mother and sister."
I thought of the corpse's crazed words when he'd attacked me. "He's waiting for Seleste," I whispered.
The apparition leaned into me. "Heed my advice, Master. I can help you thrice. If you agree to terms."
I laughed. "Not this again. I don't want any part of that."
"Part of what? Freeing a wronged man? What would you think if you were bound to the Horn?"
"That I deserved it."
I stomped away from the safe and rubbed the burn on my side, annoyed at the distractions.
"Come on, Milena. Let's get out of here."
She flashed a nervous smile at the Spaniard and blew him a kiss, then nearly knocked me down as she ran past me. Cute. I continued after her.
"I can help you save your sister," said the wraith plainly.
I paused at the corrugated metal door. "What are you talking about?"
"Your mother has moved on, but not your sister. Seleste has been sucked back. This is why your father waits."
I traded a troubled glance with Milena. "Sucked back?"
"To this world, brujo. Occultists of our skill set can understand this, yes?"
I approached the ghost. He was talking about necromancers. Manipulating the dead. He was talking about my sister still being in trouble.
"What happened to her?" I demanded.
He formed a static grin with yellowed teeth and opened his gnarled fingers in excitement. I felt a chill as his hand brushed close.
"Your sister was confused," he stated. "Lost and desperate. Scraping at the barrier between worlds."
I nodded.
Ghosts in a nutshell: A person dies. Whether due to tragedy or magical means, their spirit is somehow able to retain a connection to the world. Sometimes they're confused. Often angry, like poltergeists. Sometimes they're even lucid enough to want revenge. But all ghosts crave something, even if it's only to find their way.
But it's not like the movies. We've been over that, right? Spirits aren't easily interacted with, in general. But there are ways of detecting them, if you know what you're doing. Even for hacks. And it doesn't involve night vision cameras and staged reality shows.
"I know him," continued the Spaniard. "I've seen him come to the cemetery many nights. Almost as deftly as you."
"Get to the point."
"He is an amateur. Reliant on ritual. But his practice is fruitful." The conquistador removed his armored helmet and held it like a bucket. His skull seemed tiny compared to the breastplate. "I have seen it once when I lived. A jar of glass used to draw the spirit in."
I thought of the poltergeist on Star Island. Of the balloon I had lured it into. But what the wraith referred to was a ritual in some fringe sects of voodoo.
"A soul catcher," I said.
My sister was trapped in a jar somewhere, unable to return to the Murk. Unable to move on to the next. And all so some santero could siphon her ambient energy for parlor tricks.
My knuckles whitened into fists. If somebody was hurting Seleste, I didn't know what I'd do to them.
The wraith saw the fire in my eyes. "This man," he boomed, "his pungent stench has lived with me for many years. His base behavior of entrapping other souls. His sheer arrogance." The Spaniard put his skull beside my ear and whispered. "I know where this man lives."
With that, his intentions were clear. The wraith wanted freedom, and he would bargain whatever information he had
for it. The problem was, he made a compelling case.
"I can't be responsible for the Horn," I protested. "It's already caused enough trouble."
The ghost of the conquistador floated back to the wall. "The trouble was caused by those who wish my counsel. I have played little part."
I sneered in disbelief. "And your power is free from corruption?"
"The Horn is molded by the bearer," he said simply. "But I will offer proof of my goodwill. I will guide you to this deviant without recompense. No oath will be required of you. No bargain struck. Just a desire to see justice. And, with the help of Santo Miguel, to set your sister free of this world."
I studied the trinkets on my shelf. The fossils of monsters. I had a feeling this specter was no different. But could he really help save my sister?
"A free taste," I mocked. "Just this once, right?" I shook my head and thought of Hernan's drug rant. "You sound like every dealer on the street."
He watched me quietly, not rising to my bait. Biding his time for the decision he knew would come.
"Cisco!" chided Milena, still by the door. She'd heard it all. "Is he saying you can help Seleste?"
I didn't answer.
From the very beginning, I had known this wasn't about me anymore. Nothing was left for me to lose. But if I couldn't help my family, the people I loved—the people I'd wronged—then I might as well just slice my throat now.
I pulled the small key from my pocket and unlocked the safe. The Horn of Subjugation was now in my hands. What harm could it do? The lead lining was ineffective anyway.
"Tell me where to go," I said, marching outside.
"I'll drive," said Milena.
"You'll drop us off."
She was about to object but I hardened my features.
"Absolutely no way you're coming with me on this. It's where I draw the line."
She could see in my face there was no room for objection. I hoped she knew the rest of it. The reason why. Seleste needed to be helped, but I couldn't trust a centuries-old ghost at his word. This was dangerous ground, and I didn't want any more innocent blood on my hands.
Chapter 16
Milena made me promise to call her later with an update. I did, then watched her drive off to make sure she would be far away from any trouble that went down. Afterward I escorted my new, bodily-challenged friend to a run-down residence nearby. North of my childhood home, but close to the cemetery. That was key, because inside the fortified house was a rogue witch doctor who entrapped whatever listless souls he could find.
As if I didn't have enough on my plate. Scratch that. This was too much for one dish. This was me, spinning multiple plates like a one-man circus. I wondered if anybody was watching from above, amused every time a new plate was tossed my way, just waiting for the fine china to come crashing to the floor.
But I had something on my side my enemies didn't count on. Something they possibly even feared. The ghost of a fallen Spanish conquistador, a powerful necromancer in his own right.
I wasn't stupid. I knew better than to trust him. But perhaps a tenuous ally was just what the doctor ordered. Besides, taking the Spaniard for a test ride wasn't a bad idea. See what he could do while keeping a close eye on him and all that. Best of all? I wasn't on the hook for anything. As long as I didn't make any deals with him and watched my back, it shouldn't be too dangerous.
Right? RIGHT? (Why isn't anyone agreeing?)
Regardless, this was personal. My sister was involved. I was getting sidetracked from my initial investigation, but I couldn't do a whole lot else. City Hall was locked down. There was a lot of daylight left. My real moves needed to wait until night, when I could find the shadow's embrace.
Now I kept watch on the single-family home. No movement. Doors and windows reinforced with security bars. A sleeping Rottweiler in the front yard.
At first I was afraid nobody was home, but the door opened and an elderly woman exited. A man in his forties helped her down the steps. He offered her a gesture of blessing and she thanked him profusely.
I knew exactly what I was looking at. A two-bit hustler charging the local community for blessings. A crooked santero who probably had enough innate talent to eke out a living, but not enough to go legit.
I'd known a hustle or two back in the day, but Martine and I had been the real thing. We worked the street. We provided value. What we did not do is scam the elderly out of their life savings.
Santeros practice a sort of Cuban voodoo. The African influence is ubiquitous throughout the Caribbean. An influx of slaves will generally do that kind of thing, but here it forever changed the islands. And it all started with the conquistadors.
I glanced at the Horn tucked in my belt and wondered if I was making a mistake.
"That's him," whispered the apparition. I jumped because he wasn't there. Not visibly. It was just his voice floating on the wind. I figured that was one of the perks of holding the artifact.
If the wraith was telling the truth, then the man in this house was a soul catcher. An amateur using resident energies for half-effective curatives. Sure, spirits can tap the Intrinsics and provide a drop of power now and then, but the true pros channel the patrons. The voodoo Barons of Death. Spirit guides. Tapping normal spirits instead of patrons was like drawing from a well with an eyedropper instead of a bucket.
Not only that, but soul catching was exactly the flavor of black magic that gives my vocation a bad name. I practice Taíno death magic and Haitian voodoo. This wasn't the same thing by a long shot. Normal voodoo involves animating the body. This is the opposite. Taking the soul, the very energy that constitutes a person, and locking it away. It's not simply summoning a spirit, or even trapping one as with the wraith. Soul catchers do it as an extension of their own magic. They sap the contained power slowly, flaunting cheap cantrips and sideshows. It's a sad stand-in for the true power channeled willingly from patrons.
In case it wasn't obvious from my vitriol, the practice of soul catching is almost universally shunned, even among necromancers. Even among creepy centuries-old conquistador ghosts, so that says something.
Once the santero disappeared inside the house again, I was confident he was now alone. I abandoned all stealth and crossed the street, opening up the chain-link fence and making my way to the front door. The sleeping dog, as with the old woman, didn't even bat an eye.
As I reached for the handle of the security gate, the inner door opened.
"You're new in town," said the santero, wiping away sweat from his shiny head. "I saw you across the block, scoping me."
The security door was locked and the porch light covered the door. I couldn't simply phase inside, so I played cool and shrugged. "I'm not new in town. Pretty old, actually. And I wanted to see if you were legit."
The man flashed a grin of gold teeth. They seemed out of place with the ceremonial robes he wore. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
I know you're not supposed to bullshit a bullshitter, but I figured I'd try. "I need a love potion. For a girl tonight." He looked me over suspiciously so I sweetened the deal. "Frank said you could help me out."
He frowned. And then the wraith spoke.
The Spaniard's ethereal voice grated on the wind and set my teeth on edge. "You have sinned, soul catcher." I guess he was going with the "bad cop" routine.
The santero's eyes widened. "What was that?"
He reached for a baseball bat leaning close to the door. I squeezed an arm between the bars and grabbed it. The older man was scrawny. He couldn't overpower me despite the better angle. But he wasn't completely out of ideas.
He slammed the door on my wrist. I yelped in pain and shoved my other hand against the pressure. Again, I was much stronger than he was. I managed to lodge an alligator boot in the doorway and he gave up.
I pulled the bat away and dropped it on the ground outside. Then I grabbed the handle of the gate and pressed it down. The inner door opened slowly as the santero backed away, watching me
in horror. He may have been an amateur, but he knew spellcraft when he saw it.
What? I didn't mention that I dabbled in metallurgy?
It's nothing big but, with great effort, I can weaken the integrity of small metal objects and break them. A reinforced security gate was too much for me, but I was guessing the doorknob was its weakest point.
I was right.
The ratty handle cracked away and the door swung open. The santero bolted down the hall and I stepped in, checking for any onlookers outside. Not even the dog had noticed.
I stormed after the hack. He slammed a door around the corner and I kicked it open. Steps descended before me. I followed him into a candlelit basement. Shadows played across the musty floor. Two back walls were lined with rows of glass jars, wrapped and bound with colored paper. Shrines of a sort. A toolbox. A museum. A prison.
The santero spun around in the corner, producing a revolver.
I yanked my hand down and a large mass of shadow delivered a body blow that sent the man sprawling to the floor. The gun bounced loose.
His eyes widened as he took me in. "Brujo!"
"Where's my sister?" I boomed.
The santero coughed and prostrated himself before me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't do anything!"
I thrust my hand to the side and the darkness swept a table of jars against the wall. They shattered, but had no other effect I could see.
"My sister," I repeated, towering over him. "She's in one of these jars. Which one?"
"How... how should I know, man?" He waved his arms over them. "Take your pick."
This time I wrapped the santero in shadow, picked him up, and threw him against the far wall. Broken glass cut into his skin, and his flailing caused the destruction of more jars. A candle rolled to its side. The man scrambled to put it out.
I turned to the other candles in the room, wrapping my fingers around the flames and snuffing them out until it was dark enough. Then I let my pupils crack and infect my eyes, glossing them over. I could see clearly now, through the dark, but I looked deeper. Searching for the magic.
