Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1)

by Domino Finn

  I immediately felt like royalty. Everything—from the lavish curtains to the stained glass to the bedsheets to the cushions inset into wall benches—was patterned maroon. The furniture and floor were impeccable, turn-of-the-century hardwood. The cream-colored wall faded into a baby blue at the top and was detailed with painted vines and flowers. The single chandelier was modest but still probably cost a fortune, and I was thankful its bulbs were dimmed.

  The room was surprisingly organized. Every single throw pillow (and there were a lot of them) was carefully placed. The bedroom was fully stocked and spotless.

  A joint like this, the furniture sells with the building. Many of the accents had been designed by Versace himself and would likely increase resale value. It stood to reason there'd be staff maintaining the place.

  You know, so random vagrants don't break in to take a load off.

  That meant I needed to keep an eye out. This wasn't the perfect long-term hideout, but it would do in a pinch. I sat still, waited, and listened. I wanted to make sure I could relax before I actually gave in to the impulse.

  Nobody interrupted the silence. Not the Miami Beach police. Not the Bone Saints. Not even Paul from the pool. I sighed and melted to the floor.

  Some people might consider me fortunate given my escape but, as far as I was concerned, I had a bullet in my belly and a graze on my thigh. Worse, the Haitian banger had said I was dead. That they had killed me.

  Is that what I'd been doing in that dumpster? Busy being dead?

  It was ludicrous to imagine. Between my headache, the fog in my brain, and the fact that I felt like absolute crap, the evidence was pointing more to life than death.

  I felt for a pulse. It was racing.

  Whatever I had been, I was alive now. If the Bone Saint was telling the truth, that meant I'd been resurrected somehow.

  That kind of magic was supposed to be impossible.

  Don't misunderstand me. There are no real rules to spellcraft. Rules are just theories written down by those who want control. Rules range from mostly true to flat out wrong, and there are always exceptions.

  But not for death, right? That's the one true law of the universe. You live, you die. Period.

  The end of your life, but not the end of your story. You still exist. Your spirit still exists. What it does at that point is open for debate, but every necromancer knows about the truck stop of life called the Murk. That's where spirits live, tapping the Intrinsics, the lifeblood of the universe. Magic is the blood of life, and life is the blood of magic. Every animist knows that.

  Now that I had some peace and quiet, I gazed inward and searched for answers. If I had been part of some resurrection ritual, I wouldn't very likely remember it. But I did feel a kind of dirtiness about me. Not just the physical grime. I had that in spades, but there was something else. A lingering aftertaste of dark magic. With my necromantic leanings, it should've been more familiar, but I couldn't recognize it. I'm far from an expert. No one truly is.

  Here's the thing: there's no singular authority on magic. There's not even a single kind of magic. It's ethereal. Natural, but exotic. Knowledge, but unknown.

  This works to our advantage. The reason people don't believe in magic is because there's no one thing that is magic. People pray for miracles but discount the supernatural. Others see ghosts but don't believe in monsters. Psychics discount telekinetics, and so on.

  There's a natural order to only believing what you see. It's smart, most of the time. But since nobody can be everything, we're all guilty of pushing away new ideas.

  Like an astronomer arguing with an astrologist, people will fight to the death over their perspective. Think of the scattered opinions on religion, race, sex, and identity—just in the United States alone. Then add all the other countries and cultures in the world. Consider then that the present is a single point and place in time, and you'll concede there are many more outlooks than your own.

  That, my friends, is magic in a nutshell. A complex interweaving of subjects and understanding. Something entirely different depending on who you ask.

  Is that my view? Sure. Like I said. It depends on who you ask, and you asked me. So even though I'm falling victim to the same frailty I just explained, I still say resurrection magic is impossible.

  Yet here I was. Living proof.

  Enough reflection. When I think too much, I contradict myself. If I kept at it, I'd find myself in a full-fledged argument.

  The phone in my pocket rang.

  The relaxation I'd worked so hard to find bolted. I pulled a solid Nokia candy-bar phone from my pocket and answered. "Go." I saw someone say that in a seventies cop show once and thought it was cool.

  No one said anything. I waited a moment before asking who it was. No one spoke, but I swore I heard someone breathing.

  Chapter 6

  I ended the call and checked the screen for the number. Blocked. I frowned and wondered who would call a dead man.

  That wasn't my phone. Like the tattoos, I didn't remember getting it. Maybe I really had died. It would explain not recalling anything in the hours and days before the dumpster. I couldn't tell you a thing about that time. It was gone. I had no memory of that stuff whatsoever, and maybe I never would.

  The long-term stuff—who I was, my friends and family, my talents—I could remember all that. I even benefited from residual muscle memory in some cases, as with the Norse shields. That gave me hope the information I needed was somewhere inside my head.

  I checked the rest of my pockets. Besides the bokor's knife in my waistband, all I came up with was the stolen wallet. Cisco Suarez, a regular pickpocket. I apologized to Richard Greene of 3032 Temecula Street as I thumbed through his ID and the other contents. I took the bundle of cash. Ninety-two bucks. The bills looked different, like the Fed had just minted a new, high-tech design. As long as it spent, it was good with me. I kept the cash in a front pocket and stuffed the wallet in the back.

  I stood on shaky feet that weren't ready to support my weight yet. I sighed, trudged to the bathroom, and closed the door. It was safe in here to flip on the bright light without being visible from the windows. I ignored the Italian marble countertop and the brass fixtures and all the other mind-numbing amenities. A couple of days ago, I would've felt like a king. Today I realized it was all bullshit. Living mattered, not possessions, not stuff.

  I rubbed my eyes and focused on the wall-spanning mirror. The car window had been kind to me. I was a mess.

  Besides the sexy new muscles, there was nothing else to cheer about. My hair was tangled and knotted, almost to the point of dreads. My chin and neck were covered in a coarse beard. Besides the expected dirt on my skin and clothes, my tank top was flaking dried blood. Probably mine, if what that Haitian had said was true.

  I pulled the shirt off and considered my new pecs. The resurrection magic had been good to me, but I'd still been to hell and back. Literally. A large purple bruise covered my heart, which explained the stiffness. Luckily, it was just a bruise.

  I checked my lower belly. I could still feel where the bullet had tagged me, but there was no wound. My stomach ached from the hit and a red mark was spreading, but nothing had penetrated. The same with the graze on my thigh. The jeans sported a horizontal tear and there was a burn on my skin, but no blood.

  In a way, that scared me more than the alternative.

  I smiled at my dark-red alligator boots, wondering if they were a joke from the devil. Then I pulled the knife from the waist of my jeans.

  It was a bronzed little thing with runes etched along the blade. A slight curve to the edge and an opposite curve in the decorated handle. Nothing I recognized, and nothing powerful from what I could tell. It was probably a keepsake more than anything. Something used by a necromancer in ceremonies. Something that someone might want back.

  I shrugged and leaned over the sink, grabbing a handful of hair and raking the knife as close to my scalp as possible. The bokor had kept a good edge on the blade. It c
ut through my mane so well that I had a familiar crew cut in no time.

  I drew a hot bath. No showers here. I'd been dead—I deserved the hot spa treatment. I steamed up that room real good. While I waited, the sharp knife served as a straight razor and left my chin and neck real smooth. I soaped and soaked. I even nodded off for a few minutes there.

  Somewhere in that luxury, I got to thinking about my situation. A lot needed figuring out. The Bone Saints had killed me. I didn't know why. Someone had resurrected me, and I really didn't know why (much less who or how). And then there were the tattoos and the fact that bullets had bounced off my skin. I didn't know how I'd managed that, but it sure was new to me.

  There are various pursuits of spellcraft. Offense is a common example, but there are many more. Some animists care more about seeking knowledge. Others, utility. But protection is something every animist covets. It's a biological imperative. It's what makes us durable.

  Imagine having all this power but no defensive magic. The secrets of the universe are helpless against a large fellow with a baseball bat. So aside from some purist specialists, every animist learns some secondary protection. How far you wanna go with that is up to you. Do you want to stop knives? Bullets? Bombs?

  That's the part that depends on practice.

  Shadow isn't the most potent force out there, but it's hella good at defense. But hardiness against bullets without conscious effort? New to me.

  I wondered if it had to do with the dark energies in my aura. The thought sickened my stomach. I drained the black water from the tub, dried off, and wrapped myself in a towel. When I wiped the condensation from the mirror, I introduced myself to the new, clean-shaven Cisco Suarez.

  It was me. But it wasn't.

  I looked different. It wasn't just the extra mass on my frame. My face was weathered. Older, if that was possible. I definitely didn't look twenty-four anymore. It might be an oxymoron, but death had really aged me.

  I dressed myself in the only stinking clothes I had, wondering exactly how long I'd been dead. That's when the real-life considerations hit me. The social ramifications.

  What did my family know? What did they think when I never came home one day?

  (So what? I still lived with my mom and dad and little sister. Sue me.)

  But darker questions came to mind. For instance: if someone wanted to kill me, was my family in danger as well?

  I needed to warn them. I needed to protect them.

  Rest time over, I marched from the bathroom with a mission. And that's when I saw the drunk couple having sex on the floor by the door.

  Jeez, they hadn't even made it to the bed.

  The girl screamed when she noticed me and rolled off her partner. The guy stood up and, to his credit, put himself between me and the girl before vanity took over.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, grabbing a teddy bear from a shelf and holding it over his privates.

  "What are you doing here?" I returned, stumbling to form an excuse.

  "Me? What are you doing here? This is my room!" He turned around. "Brenda, go get security."

  She was hunched into a corner, clutching her shorn clothes over her body. "I'm kinda naked right now."

  "Oh, right."

  I threw my hands up and looked away in my best gentleman impersonation. "Chill out, guys. Maybe this is my mistake."

  "Maybe?" yelled the man.

  "Okay. Definitely. But what do you mean this is your room? This is Versace's room." I inched closer to the far wall, circling away from the couple and the bedroom door.

  "Dude," he said, readjusting his teddy bear. "What are you, a stalker? That was years ago. This is a hotel now."

  The look on my face must have been priceless. "No, it's... Since when?"

  "A year ago, you idiot." The man stormed over to the phone beside the bed and pushed a button. "Security?"

  I ran to the balcony door. "Speaking of security," I said, slipping outside. "Little tip: make sure to lock these up at night."

  And then I bolted.

  Chapter 7

  Miami Beach is an island. A series of islands, really. A lot of people don't know that. Downtown Miami is on the coast, then you've got Biscayne Bay between it and the beach. Everyone's familiar with the downtown skyline view from the MacArthur Causeway, the highway bridge that connects the two.

  That's what I watched from the Metrobus as I crossed over. Yes, I was using public transportation. You might think it's been an especially unglamorous day for me, but I was used to the bus. My family was dirt poor.

  Seeing the skyscrapers in full sunlight brought a smile to my face. I didn't know why. I'd seen them countless times before but I recognized that, this time, I was fortunate.

  I'd been dead. For a year apparently. That was a lot of time to lose. A lot of time for things to change.

  The urgency of finding my family grew muddled. I realized they wouldn't be in danger anymore. The time for that was long past. Now I just wondered if they knew what had happened to me. If they'd be happy to see me again.

  Of course they would, right? But it's a little complicated. (Family always is.) As the firstborn, my parents were a bit disappointed in me. First in the family to reach higher education, I wasted the opportunity by dropping out after two years of community college.

  I was a lousy student. I couldn't concern myself with the banalities of academics. So I read a lot. Novels, comic books—anything that required imagination. I used that background to imagine something more. To be open to the impossible. And when I found it, the magic, it felt like it had always been a part of me.

  Luckily, my sister had gone down a different path. Seleste knew about my skills, but she hit the books with more dedication than I ever had. She was on track to go to law school. I was proud. Our parents were too, of course, but I always felt I'd let them down.

  Honestly, I didn't always honor them as I should have. The whole black magic thing ran me in secret circles. I kinda closed off to them. Didn't pay enough attention. Things had never been crazy at home but constant disappointment has a way of souring things. I wondered what disappearing for a year could do.

  The bus cruised past the city proper and headed down Flagler Street. Miami's laid out on a grid system, streets running east to west and avenues north to south. Flagler Street is the heart of Miami. Street zero. North 1st Street is above it and South 1st Street is below. It doesn't mean it's the best part of Miami, but it's Miami all right.

  We passed all the run-down strip malls and mercaditos. This was Little Havana, and it was my stop. I rang the bell and exited the Metrobus with an uneasy sigh.

  I strolled down the sidewalk. (It wasn't pink here.) When I passed a mailbox, I dropped Robert Greene's wallet inside. It wasn't certified, but I hoped the postal carrier would be in the mood for a good deed.

  On the corner was a small cafe. No interior, just a windowed bar running along the sidewalk. Old men and hustlers leaned confidently on the counter, laughing and debating local politics. Who was corrupt, whose parents were real Cubans, even a mention of Castro. There was always talk of Fidel, but now they were referring to his brother Raul as el presidente. I supposed the old dictator had finally kicked it sometime while I was dead myself. I wondered if we toasted beers in hell. I paused with a frown, the manifestation of change sinking in.

  As I stood, the scent of marinated beef and toasted bread caught my nose. It was instantly recognizable. My stomach growled. For some reason, I was ravenous. I kept my head down, pulled out a small wad of cash, and stepped up to the sidewalk counter.

  I ordered. "Un cafecito y un pan con bistec, por favor." The old lady smiled and placed a shot of Cuban coffee in front of me. It was served in a tiny disposable cup, like something you'd put ketchup in.

  If ever there was a nectar of the gods, this was it. It's not American coffee, and it certainly isn't your typical Starbucks espresso. Cuban coffee is dark, strong, and bitter. Add a metric fuck-ton of sugar and stir until a rich cream froths the top a
nd you have lightning in a paper cup. It made the waiting easier.

  When my sandwich came, I was in heaven. A marinated steak sandwich, screw sauce, because it's meat and it's for tasting. For crunch, it's stuffed with loads of potato sticks. And the bread... Cuban bread is a thing of art. On the outside it looks like French bread except smoother. On the inside, it's a whole other story. It's lighter, fluffier, and soft to the touch, perfect for squeezing on a flat press into a sandwich. It gets stale in two minutes flat if left in the open air, but my sandwich didn't last that long. It tasted so good I knew I wasn't dead anymore. Yeah, a real existential experience.

  I popped a cone-shaped paper cup from a dispenser on the wall and filled it from a water jug. I needed to cleanse my palette and digest. Or maybe I was stalling. Having something familiar like this meal was incredibly comforting. I desperately wanted to be in the company of my parents and little sister again. But faced with the possibility, I had no idea what I would tell them.

  Mind you, the benefits of being an animist aren't easily explained. It's not something I can chat on the phone about with the extended family in Cuba. My sister never minded, but my parents didn't think the dark arts had any future. In the end, maybe they were right. I had gotten killed, after all.

  I gulped down the miniscule amount of water and crushed the cup in my hands. Regret wasn't my style. I was a seat-of-the-pants kinda guy. Live in the moment. And that's what I was now: alive, for the moment.

  A famous poet once said, "Seize the day. Put little trust in tomorrow." Well, that's why I was here. I tossed the cup in the basura, left my change on the counter as a tip, and headed down the block.

  Off Flagler, the businesses gave way to apartments and duplexes, then private housing. Cracked sidewalks and paved driveways, tiny lots with multiple cars out front. My destination snuck up on me and I was at the chain-link fence before I noticed. The house was in bad shape. Yellow paint flaked off the walls. The security bars were faded from the sun. This was a far cry from the Versace Mansion, but it was my home.