Fire Water (Black Magic Outlaw Book 5)

by Domino Finn

  "You're not gonna say anything?" she asked.

  I shrugged. "I didn't want your help anyway."

  She swallowed silently and nodded. Then she hopped off the bus.

  Chapter 32

  A series of Metrobus transfers got me back to my hotel on the beach. A combination of light coaxing and elbowing the dashboard got my old pickup started. It was a 1970 F-250 with a missing radio and power nothing. Most of its character had been acquired over time rather than being a stock option. The patina of rust, for example. And the minor poltergeist that haunted the engine compartment. He'd been especially well-behaved lately. Luckily, that streak continued. I was broadcasting my mood loud and clear and even the afterlife didn't want to fuck with me.

  I let the glove box fall open. A box of pastel birthday candles. A cheap Farm Stores matchbook. A deceptive amount of cash in small stacks. And a mostly empty box of birdshot. I didn't have my belt pouch anymore so I had no supply of homebrew bullets laced with spark powder. I plucked the vanilla shotgun shells out one by one and stuffed them into my jeans.

  Before I shifted into drive I noticed the folded shirt on the back seat. I smiled, changed into the white tank top, and tossed the orange shirt into the trash. Cisco Suarez was back.

  I drove north along the barrier islands until I hit Hallandale Beach again. Connor's yellow house with the fountain. From a distance, it looked just as dead as before. Even more so since the two rental trucks were no longer in the driveway.

  I didn't have time for covert sneaking this go around. Public transportation in Miami is laughably bad and I had to be way behind Connor at this point. He couldn't teleport anymore but he had amazing resources at his disposal. If I was gonna catch up, I would need to move fast. I pulled right into the driveway and walked to the front door.

  Somewhere in the middle of all that I realized I should've stopped at a local voodoo supply store, but I had to work with what I had.

  I kicked the door down, pulled my sawed-off shotgun from the ether, and slid a shell into its breech. A deep, smoky flavor clung to the walls and carpeting, like the cartel had been celebrating Connor's exile by grilling up a whole pig. His own Nochebuena. Only it wasn't Christmastime and I wasn't so sure what I smelled was pork.

  When I rounded into the living room my fears were confirmed. A charred corpse lay on the sofa. It was Sleeping Beauty, in nearly the same position as when I'd seen him last. Except he'd been decidedly less crispy a day ago. The poor sucker had burned so hot and fast that the couch was barely scorched.

  I took a long breath. I never figured Connor for the stereotypically evil movie villain who indiscriminately kills his own people. Flunkies will turn on you real quick if that becomes a habit. Was I finally getting to him?

  Movement through the back windows caught my eye. The freaking submarine was at the private dock. I barged through the back door and charged through the patio and the yard. Bubbles of water flooded to the surface. The sub was diving. Connor had returned to his safe house and loaded everyone up and was taking off, just minutes before my arrival.

  I ran along the wooden rail of the dock but it was no use. The vessel was submerging and already sailing away. The electric engine was unnaturally quiet. I raised my shotty to fire but held off. Announcing my presence wouldn't help. I checked the shoreline for any other boats but it was clear. The entire inlet was private and the submarine had been the only ship. Connor was gone.

  I cursed and stomped inside. The house was empty, as before. Even the coffee-table book about the Taíno was missing now. I slapped my palm over my face and held off a growl. I'd been so close. Any number of things could've gone down differently and I would've been here in time. Skipping the argument with Darcy. The bus delays at the beach. Hell, I could've run a red light or two. Everybody else in Miami did.

  I stumbled dejectedly down the stairs and was again overpowered by the smell of roasted human. I looked over the body. The mercenary had probably caught Connor when he was most pissed. Exiled, beaten, nearly blown up. The mercenary must've confessed to Connor that I'd snooped around. Stolen his gun. Found a lead to the museum. So Connor offed the guy as punishment.

  Poor Sleeping Beauty. He'd gotten a hell of a poison apple. Or maybe that was Snow White. Point is, the dude was dead.

  But then, his loss could be my gain. I could make time for a quick trip to the voodoo supply store after all.

  I jumped in my truck and tracked down what I could, wary of putting myself on the radar of any necromancers who might be hunting me. Voodoo spellcraft requires meticulous preparation. Most of the powders and poisons I employ are mixed from scratch by my own hand. Frankly, I don't trust the stuff you can buy on the street. Chances are you'll get some half-effective salve cut with baby powder. That's if you don't get conned completely. Me? I don't get conned. And I don't work with subpar sacraments. But right now I had to use what the street offered. It wasn't that hard to track down and I didn't need much.

  Back in the privacy of the house I got to work. Step one was sprinkling invigorating powders over the fresh body. Old Crispy here didn't look so fresh but he hadn't been dead long. That's what counted. I didn't have intact eyes to see through but his soul wasn't far gone. I rubbed coarse grit into his mouth and ears and eye sockets to prep the vessel.

  Next I started the ritual. Most voodoo comes at the mercy of time and circumstance. The more difficult the spellcraft—and this one was a doozy—the more stringent the requirements. My talent could make up for a lot but I wouldn't have gotten anywhere without the ritual. I set birthday candles around the body and lit them in sequence, muttering incantations and compelling the corpse to my will. I poured hot wax on his chest over his heart (trust me, he wouldn't feel it) and glued the last candle in place. Then I lit it.

  The final requirement of the ritual came in the moment between the sun going down and the light leaving the atmosphere. Twilight. A period when life and death are married. It was fortunate the evening was lining up with my little party so all I needed to do was wait and hope the voodoo poisons were efficacious.

  I wasn't disappointed. The room darkened in the absence of the sun and the candles burned with a mystical glow. Still weak against the sunlit remains of the day, they shone without giving off light.

  A sharp intake of breath preceded a rasping cough and, just like that, the spirit had returned.

  The charred body convulsed on the couch. I pressed his shoulders and shushed him. The birthday candle on his chest flared and rocked but held firm.

  "Who calls me?" came a ghostly voice.

  The corpse didn't really have much in the way of lips anymore, but it wasn't physically speaking anyway. The voice came from somewhere within, from a place science has yet to discover. The jaw of the blackened body did move up and down with the speech, but it was much too slow to line up with the words. It was like watching a badly dubbed film.

  "Who calls me?" it asked again.

  "You don't ask me questions," I said, voice crisp and firm. "This works the other way around. You're dead, get it? You're dead and you can go on your way in a minute, but I need to know where Connor went."

  The burnt flesh of the jaw cracked as it stretched open. "Connor Hatch," said the spirit. "He is collecting the Haitians."

  "Collecting?" I asked. Then I shook my head. I had to keep things simple. The Haitians meant the various voodoo gangs of Little Haiti. The necromantic core of Miami. Of America, really. And right at the head of that power structure was Jean-Louis Chevalier and the Bone Saints.

  The birthday candle popped like oil in water. It was burning unnaturally fast. Already half gone. I grimaced. That's what I got for using cheap sacraments.

  "What does Connor need the necromancers for?" I asked.

  Teeth rapped against each other as ashes fell away from the mouth. "Connor Hatch needs them to enter the island."

  The island. So there was a city of gold. There was an island. Winthrop was right. But what did he need the necromancers for?
<
br />   "What's on the island?" I asked.

  The candle popped again. Chances were, this South American mercenary didn't know a whole lot about spellcraft. He couldn't have been privy to Connor's innermost plans. But the transition to the afterlife can be eye-opening. It was possible this corpse could figure the bigger picture now, in hindsight.

  "What's on the island?" I pressed.

  The body's head turned sharply to meet my gaze. Sparks from the candle bounced across its face. The blackened corpse's jaw widened and widened until it cracked and fell away, but still the dead man seemed to look inside my soul.

  "Death," it rasped. "Death."

  Its hand clenched my wrist. I pulled away but its grip was strong. Its head leaned off the cushion towards me.

  "DEATH!"

  A flare of heat exploded, washing into my chest and slamming me to the floor. The corpse, likewise, was shoved back into the couch. I rolled away and readied my shotgun, but the body was again sleeping in peaceful repose. The birthday candle on his chest was a smoking pile of wax. All the other candles in the circle winked out as one. The ritual was over.

  I took a slow breath and nodded. The slumbering corpse was now devoid of all humanity. He'd been a little frisky, but he'd given me enough to work with.

  Chapter 33

  By the time I reached Little Haiti, the city was dark. I parked under a busted streetlight along the curb. Most of the block was enclosed by a green iron fence. Within was a nondescript complex of apartment buildings. Nothing much at first glance, but for those in the know it was the criminal headquarters for the Bone Saints.

  I left the truck and walked away from the grounds, circling into the residential portion of the block and sneaking into a backyard that shared a border with the apartments. I'd used this trick once before. That had been in the middle of the day under the glaring sun. This time I had the night on my side.

  One advantage I didn't have this go around was the brand-new pet I'd used to scout ahead. The black cat. He couldn't help me this time. It was stupid but a part of me was sad he wasn't around anymore. It's like we were connected somehow. We more or less started our journey together. It didn't seem right that his ended before mine.

  I shut the thought out of my mind and surveyed the scene.

  Gangbangers wandered the grounds here and there but the operation was a bit off. The guards were nothing more than armed local kids. That part wasn't all that strange. The recent gang wars had depleted membership of all the voodoo players so the Bone Saints had to rely on new blood. Young blood. So what I saw wasn't so strange. It was what I didn't see.

  There were no thralls guarding the buildings. You take a gang of necromancers and one thing's for sure: zombies will be running security. I didn't see that right now. And while lack of security helped me, anything out of the ordinary was a problem. I could chalk it up to the gang wars being over. Or could be that Jean-Louis Chevalier wasn't the leader I thought he was. But no.

  The real reason for the disarray was that Jean-Louis Chevalier wasn't Jean-Louis Chevalier anymore.

  Look, it's not like we're besties or anything. On any other day I'd avoid strolling right up to his compound stoop. But if it had come to that, on any other day, I wouldn't have expected to be attacked on sight. Tonight, all bets were off.

  Seeing Jean-Louis at the dumpster the other morning had changed things. The Horn of Subjugation changed things. I could no longer rely on an uneasy alliance with the Haitians.

  But if not that, what else did I have? Why was I here?

  All I knew was what the charred mercenary back in Hallandale Beach had said. Connor needed the Haitians for something. And I needed Connor. This was where I had to be, plain and simple. If Chevalier had information, I had to get it from him. And if it came to fists instead of words... I'd do what I needed to.

  At the fence, I stepped through the shadow and out on the other side.

  I blanketed myself in darkness and crouched low as I made my way forward. The undead might have been harder to fool, depending on how they were attuned. The kids leaning on the outdoor stairwells talking smack? They'd never see me coming.

  I slipped through the yard to the building I knew was the command center and made my way up to the second floor porch. The door was open, the inside only lit by the distant city lights. Chevalier was sitting on the sofa alone watching TV. Well, he was watching the TV, but it wasn't on. His skull face paint and expression combined to create the image of living death. Not a flinch at my presence. But he was ready. Dressed to the nines. Silver earrings dangling to his shoulders. Silver-fingered gauntlets. His tattoos shone faintly on his bare chest.

  "Suarez," he said without turning to me.

  I stiffened, pissed that he'd noticed me. Then surprised he had. I hadn't made a sound.

  I circled the small table in front of the couch to get a better look at my friend. I stopped right in front of the TV. His eyes were silver and crisp, but he looked exhausted. The sight tore me away from my mission. From the information I wanted. Instead I was hit with the human element in all this dirty business. I felt sorry for my friend.

  "When was the last time you slept?" I asked.

  His brow furrowed. He heard my voice but it took a moment to compute. Then all he said was, "Sleep."

  "You're fighting it, aren't you?" I crouched down to meet his eye on a level. "You're fighting the effects of the Horn."

  His expression darkened. "You gave him the Horn, Suarez. You made a deal with the jinn."

  "I didn't mean to," I said. "It wasn't the plan." I knew that line of reasoning wouldn't get me anywhere. How could he, of all people, sympathize? He and his men were direct victims of my actions. But in my mind, there had been no other way. It was impossible for me to get to Connor if I had to constantly worry about the safety of my family and friends. Having them squared away was the only way to isolate him. To keep Emily and Fran from becoming another Kita Mariko. And I was almost there.

  "I'm gonna get it back, Chevalier. I promise. I'm gonna fix this."

  For the first time, the bokor blinked. Several times. It was an overwrought movement. A dream state. When he tried to focus on me again, his right eye partially glazed over.

  I ground my jaw. The last few days must've been a constant struggle for him. For the gangs. I let the darkness seep into my eyes so I could examine him. His voodoo tattoos glowed brightly. So did his eye. There was an enchantment on it. No. A curse.

  I reached out and tugged on the dog collar. Shadow gathered over the bokor's eye. I wasn't sure what I was doing. I wasn't versed in lifting curses, that's for sure. But I couldn't stay idle. I tried to smother the dark magic with my own blackness.

  Chevalier's face began to soften. I couldn't whisk away the spellcraft that clung to him, but perhaps I could provide temporary relief.

  We stayed there in the shadows for a moment. The Intrinsics flowed freely through my body. Left me wired. But my friend leaned back into the cushions. It was working.

  "A useless gesture," rasped another old friend. This one had a Spanish accent. I hadn't heard it in a while.

  "This is turning into a reunion," I said. My cool voice masked my nervousness.

  My old companion appeared in the corner. First just a skull suspended in air, two red hollow eyes cutting through the black. Then the rest of his body appeared. A steel helmet with a feather. A breastplate. Worn fingerless gloves, boots, leggings. A matchlock pistol and a side-sword hanging on a belt. Full conquistador battle dress.

  It didn't need to be said, but this was no normal conquistador (if such a thing existed these days). He was a five-hundred-year-old wraith, the spirit bound to the Horn of Subjugation.

  He had a new significance now. A distinction he hadn't had before. One that was perhaps inevitable. For the first time in a decade the Spaniard, my companion, was my enemy.

  Chapter 34

  "I was wondering when we'd run into each other," I muttered, standing to face the wraith.

  He did
n't draw a weapon or take up a defensive stance. He just idled in the air with eerie stillness.

  "So this is your latest project?" I asked. "Enslaving living, breathing humans? I thought you weren't evil."

  The fixed teeth of the Spaniard's skull somehow worked into a smile. "I am but a slave myself, my former master."

  "Can't you fight it?" I pointed at Chevalier, quiet on the couch. "He's doing his best."

  "His best is hardly enough. Neither was mine. The will of eleven Taíno shamans sealed my fate centuries ago. I cannot go against my master."

  "Even if it means going against your family? You're my ancestor, for shit's sake."

  "Brujo," he said in a patronizing wisp, "ask your dear sister and parents which is more powerful: blood or a blood curse."

  My face hardened. The wraith had a point, but it was a low blow.

  He drifted toward me. I closed my fist and readied myself, but he didn't come within reach.

  "Connor does not wish to destroy you," he said. "He seeks something more profitable than a finale. More powerful than death."

  I scowled. "Subjugation."

  The Spaniard raised shriveled fingers.

  I felt it immediately. The assault on my mind. This was a trick I'd witnessed the wraith perform many times: direct control. He could stop people in their tracks. Make them blind to the reality before them. Make them forget. His power was so absolute and unforgiving that he could even force a man to raise a gun to his own head and pull the trigger.

  My jaw twisted under duress. I raised the internal alarm. Drew all my defenses. I'd been a mindless drone for ten years, a zombie hit man under the vampire Tunji Malu. I'd promised myself I would never serve another.

  The necromancer's attack was swift. Strikes of lightning to the brain, irregular and multi-pronged. There was nothing to do for the sheer amount of pain it inflicted. I had to concede that much. I had to accept that fending him off might mean sustaining irreparable damage in the process. But I had to do it. Better dead than a slave.