The drums dropped to almost nothing. The worshipers watched with rapt attention. Her voice rose to a cackling pitch, and Jesse ignited the chicken. The room filled with a hellish, fiery glow.
The audience went into a frenzy of chants and drums. The animal shrieked and thrashed in Kincaid’s grip. He held the bird aloft, shouted a series of curses, and hurled it into the crowd. The worshipers scurried out of the way as the poor animal thrashed for a few tortured moments.
They held their arms—their wrists—towards the stage. Some spoke in English, their voices full of desperate tears. “Let us walk with you! Let us walk with you!”
Jesse uncoiled his whip. If a worshiper drew too close, he lashed out at them. Skin split and blood flowed, but addiction and misguided fanaticism drove them forward. I could feel the magic being drawn from the ritual, and it made me queasy. It wasn’t Vodou. Even an uneducated white boy like me could tell you that. It was cruelty and mockery. A deception, to convince the worshipers what they saw was something spiritual.
Throughout history, there had been mages that had invented or usurped existing religions, depicting themselves as gods. The goal was to harness spiritual energy. Faith. The trust humans show in others. It was spiritual parasitism. That so many fake gods turned their worshipers to blood rituals and sacrifice to harness said power proved as much. It breached the Society’s Edict of Sanctity, and the Visatori said it was one of the ‘big five’ crimes, along with murder and mental domination.
The old woman tossed flowers to the crowd and revealed the syrettes of Stig in her basket. The audience turned to her, arms raised, like starving children begging for food. She seemed to call on each to offer an oath, and they gave it. I couldn’t tell if they were honest in their conviction, or paying lip-service to get their fix. It didn’t matter. The old woman took their oath with a nod and offered a gift of Stig, which the worshipers injected into scabby wrists.
Kincaid watched over his ‘flock’, seeking some sign among them. He pointed at one, and two of the Haitians hauled the target to his feet. Jesse produced a glass bottle wrapped in a leather cord, decorated with coins and slips of paper.
I felt the hot sting of Jesse’s necromancy filling the room. My magic felt comfortable to me, the cool dampness of a fresh grave. Jesse’s was vile, like a vulture that feasts on an animal before it has succumbed to the desert heat, or the sting of a scorpion. I recognized it, the same magic I’d felt in Josh Wilkes’ body.
The junkie let out a wheeze, and Jesse held the bottle to his lips. Not to drink. I felt an uncoiling, the release of some crucial component to life, and a luminescent mist poured from his throat into the bottle, which Jesse corked shut. The junkie’s face went slack. Kincaid gestured, and the entranced worshiper fell into line behind him.
Not death, I realized. But something so close as to seem that way.
Jesse produced a beeping phone from his bottomless pocket. He tapped Kincaid’s shoulder, and they filed the worshipers out through an exit behind the stage. Even riding their high, the junkies rose and followed like puppets.
My gut nagged me to get back to Jocelyn and get out of there, Jesse or not. But I couldn’t leave yet. Their magic had a purpose. It wouldn’t hurt to learn a little more about it.
I entered the room and knelt over the dead chicken. The poor thing had not died fast. Jesse’s magic lingered all around me. The malice, the desire to inflict pain, convinced me that the brother Jocelyn remembered was not the man she would find.
And he’d been making old school zombies. The entranced slaves of Haitian folklore, commanded by a powerful sorcerer. That meant Josh wasn’t dead. Just being controlled.
Okay, you’ve learned all you can! Now get out! My brain shouted.
I turned to leave and ran right into a Haitian. Without a word, he grabbed hold of my neck and slammed me into the floor. His fists closed around my throat and squeezed.
I tried to claw my fingers under his, but it was like peeling wood. I kicked, kneed him in the crotch, slapped his face, and punched at his nose until the cartilage crunched. He didn’t so much as flinch.
Not a priest, but another zombie.
I could feel the pressure in my lungs as they struggled to inflate. My limbs were heavy, and spots appeared in my fading vision. I only had one option. Dangerous for him, sure, but also for me.
But when I’d touched that power in Josh, it had caught me off guard. The Brothers Midnight were powerful, but it was raw force with no finesse. If I was smart, I could push that force aside, target the flaws, and free him from it.
Or I fail, and he kills me, I thought. Or I succeeded too well, killing him, and guaranteeing my execution from Walter’s hex.
I closed my eyes and focused on my magic. Fear and pain screamed for my attention, but they couldn’t save me. I rose above my animal reflexes, held onto the discipline that made me a mage, and planted my thumb on his forehead. Then I shoved my magic into his brain like a thumbtack.
I felt the sizzle of feedback, the strain of my power against Jesse’s. Pain lanced through my arm, but I saw patterns in the energies at work. The spell bombarded the zombie with mental noise, an overdose of magical chaos. His mind was a hurricane, and the only safe place for his sanity was in the storm’s eye, far from consciousness. I could feel the storm’s course, and guided my power into it, like a boat crashing through waves.
Each tiny push gave me confidence. Jesse’s necromancy relied too much on raw power, on simple force. It could weather the worst and keep coming, but it had a weak spot, an Achilles’ heel, a cluster of metaphysical nerves further down the spell’s body. I struck that point with my will, as hard as I could.
Basically, I kicked the spell square in the balls.
As the magic recoiled, I filled the void where the zombie’s consciousness hid. The moment I made a connection, I could feel his awareness reach out. He was a mage, like me. His power surged in recognition of my intent. We turned it against the storm together and raced back towards the surface.
I landed back in the real world with a jolt. The Haitian released me and stumbled onto his back. My neck felt like a limp sponge, and my heart hammered in my ears as I sucked air into my lungs. It sounded like an angry sea lion.
Each ragged breath was a balm, but I couldn’t remain on the floor if more zombies were about. I forced myself onto wobbly feet. The Haitian shivered on the floor, his clothes soaked with sweat. Who knew how long he’d been under their control?
“Hey.” I waved my arms. “Hey! You speak English?”
He stared at his own hands, mumbled under his breath in his native tongue, and made a gesture to the ceiling that I guessed was some kind of prayer. Not like the mockery I had witnessed in the Brothers, something sincere.
I snapped my fingers, and he met my gaze with bloodshot eyes. I braced myself for a renewed attack, but instead he wrapped me in a too-familiar hug and wept.
“English?” I asked.
“Bad. Bad.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I only speak Bad English, too.”
He shook his head. “Bad. Sick.”
“Drugs,” I said. He looked at me, so I pointed at my wrist, making an injection gesture. His face paled, and he shoved himself away from me. “Yeah, no more drugs, I know.”
I had a million questions to ask him, but no time or way to communicate. I gestured for him to stand. “Leave. Go.”
“Home?”
“Home, yes!” I nodded, and my neck bones popped. “Home. Go home.”
He looked relieved, but then doubled over in pain. A croak escaped his throat, and his face smoothed over into an expressionless mask. He grabbed me, and I slapped his face. Shocked, he blinked and let out a cry of despair.
The Stig in his system was like a battery. I’d bought him a moment of freedom, but he wouldn’t be able to resist for long.
“Kill,” he said, and gestured at himself. “Kill, kill.”
“I can’t.” I shook my head to convey the message.
I didn’t want to admit that I needed him, an eyewitness who could clear my name for me.
Then I smelled smoke.
I had missed it back when I couldn’t breathe. Now it was strong enough to permeate my survival instincts. Smoke. Fire. Oh hell, I thought. The Brothers had set the Arlington on fire.
The Haitian sobbed and clutched his temples. He was losing the fight for his own body. He spoke in his native tongue, but I could only make out a single word of it.
“Baron?” I asked. My mind flickered with recognition from a lifetime of pop culture, the only source I had for Haitian Vodou. “Samedi?”
Hope lit his face. “Please. Please.” He grabbed one of the discarded flowers off the floor and pushed it into my hand.
“What are these?” I asked.
“Go. Go home.” He produced a handful of the syrettes from his pockets, all blue. I thought he was going to hand them to me, but he jabbed them into his neck instead. His body tensed, and I could see the pain in his eyes, but he smiled with relief.
“No, no!” I yanked the syrettes away and got my arms around him, trying to lift him. “Come on! We gotta get you out of here. Hospital, yeah? Hospital!”
He smiled and pushed me back. Tears still ran down his face, but he didn’t seem in pain anymore. He spoke a farewell in Haitian.
A sound drew my attention. Distant, but clear through the thin walls of the crackhouse. Police sirens. A lot of them. I offered the man a frustrated farewell gesture. He nodded and closed his eyes. He had been a mage, a member of the Brothers. So why had they done that to him? The sirens closed in. I had no more time for answers.
I retreated downstairs, and each step made my neck ache. I shouted a warning to the junkies, but every room was empty. Like the worshipers, they’d filed out to their master’s command.
The kitchen was on fire as I entered. “Jocelyn?”
No one answered. I held a sleeve to my mouth as I pushed through black smoke and kicked open the exit door. Police cars blockaded the alley. I let out a yelp and leapt back inside, before the spotlights could zero in on me. Gunfire, honest gunfire, zipped over my head and smacked against the ceiling.
“Hold your fire!” Someone snarled through a bullhorn. “This is the police! Throw down any weapons you have and step out with your hands over your head!”
Not likely, I thought. If I got arrested, they’d only find my ashes by morning.
“Alex!” Jocelyn appeared beside me and pulled me away from the back door. “Where the hell have you been?’
“Upstairs,” I said. “Where have you been?”
“Trying to get info out of that guard. But he just got up and ran out of the building. Then this fire started. What happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now we’ve got a lot of cops outside, and this place is about to become a fireball.”
“This way,” she said. We ran to the front of the hotel, into a lobby that was repurposed as a squatter’s camp, full of garbage and broken furniture. The front entrance was boarded up, and I could see police lights on the other side.
“Dead end,” I said. “What now? Maybe there’s a sewer exit? A maintenance-”
Jocelyn threw arms around my neck, and suddenly I was falling into darkness.
TWELVE
The teleportation was a shock, but after a moment of weightlessness, we appeared in a small gray room. I kept my knees steady and took a breath.
“I’ll never get used to that. But how did you-?”
Jocelyn showed me a bracelet she hadn’t been wearing earlier. “A gift from Eddie’s father, made by the Sheriff. For emergency use.”
“Hey, smart. Nothing like a quick-” The words died in my throat. A wave of lethargy cut my legs out from under me, and I hit the floor.
I heard Jocelyn curse and run out of the room, calling for help.
This is it, I thought. You took more damage than you thought, and you’re tapping out.
But aside from being motionless, I remained conscious and alert. I rolled my eyes and took some controlled breaths, felt the cool tile under me, and the discomfort of my position on the floor. I could see my arm beside me, and black-blue tendrils, like smoke, leaked from my skin into the floor. It was the weirdest damn thing I had ever seen, like worms being pulled from my flesh. My mind recoiled in disgust, but I couldn’t compel myself to move.
Someone approached and grabbed my ankles. Someone dragged me through an open doorway.
“Easy with him,” Jocelyn said, out of my line of sight.
I left the threshold of whatever field had drained me. The darkness stopped oozing out of my body, and my limbs responded. “I’m okay,” I said with a groan. “I’m alright, now.”
A Society Keeper hefted me to my feet and dumped me in a high-backed chair.
Jocelyn put her face in front of mine. “Alex, can you hear me?”
My head wobbled in a limp nod. “Ow.”
“Easy.” She touched my neck. “Who did this to you?”
“A zombie,” I said. “Any water around here?”
“Zombie?” She looked behind me. “Go get him a glass.”
I turned to see her Keeper bodyguard exit the room. No doubt he would report me to Sheriff Agni. Great.
I took a moment to catch my breath, making sure all my digits still worked, and rubbed my arm where I’d seen my strength being leached out. It didn’t feel like I was missing anything.
We were in a small study. Shelves filled with leather-bound books lined the walls. Some were ancient, the leather cracked and brittle, others looked fresh and oiled. I sat next to a polished table in the center of the room.
I spotted a portrait hung over a small fireplace. It depicted a clean-shaven young man with hazel-brown hair and eyes, dressed in a blue officer’s coat. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place who it was.
Jocelyn closed the safe room behind a sliding shelf. But ‘safe’ was the wrong word for it, I saw a bare white cot with a metal desk and chair beside it. No other furnishings, no stores of food or water, no bug-out bag for an escape or even a phone. It looked more like a patient’s room in a psychiatric hospital. Or a prison cell. The door snapped shut with a metallic click and sealed the paralyzing magic in.
“That felt weird,” I grunted. “Wrong.”
Jocelyn gave me an apologetic smile. “It’s- yeah. The bracelet is for escapes. The room is for anyone who tags along uninvited.”
“Catch them inside and lock them in?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Smart.”
The Keeper returned with a tall glass of water. It hurt, and the water was lukewarm, but I drank it. She nodded to him, and he closed the door as he left.
“Where are we? Your place?”
“No. Yes. It’s Eddie’s father’s home.”
“Think he’ll mind us being here?”
She smiled. “Focus, Alex. We barely got out of there with our lives, and criminal records, intact.”
“Speak for yourself. Okay, you first. What did you get out of Spanky?”
“Who? How hard did you hit your head?”
“The guy you told to go self-fornicate.”
“Oh. Nothing. He babbled for a few minutes, then ran off. Wasn’t even finished his ‘task’. Craziest thing I ever saw.”
“Explains how the building cleared out,” I said.
“Why?”
“I saw a congregation of junkies, and a ritual. The Stig was affecting them, making them obedient. Some were getting turned into zombies. Maybe a lot of them. That’s how they got everyone out before starting the fire.”
“Who was in charge?” Jocelyn asked.
“A scary-looking guy, my guess is he’s Samuel Kincaid. There was an old woman with him, passing out Stig like communion wafers.” I sighed. “And I saw your brother.”
“You saw him? When? Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”
“Jocelyn, he wasn’t there for the show. He was part of it. He got a call on his pho
ne and the group bugged out. When I followed, a zombie jumped me. I broke him out of his trance, but I could get much out of him. He chose death rather than lose control again.”
“Damnit,” Jocelyn snapped. “Damnit!”
“I’m sorry, Joce.”
“We have to go back. Find out where he went-”
“That place will be an inferno by now and swarming with cops.”
“Damnit!” She hugged her arms. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Joce, I know he means a lot to you. But this isn’t a question about bringing him home anymore. The things I saw him doing in there-”
She jabbed a finger into my chest. “You don’t know that. You said yourself they were zombies. He might not have a choice! He could be under their control, too!”
“I don’t know a lot about it, but zombies don’t answer phones and they don’t...” I hesitated to tell her about what I’d seen in Jesse, the cruelty in his eyes.
“I’ll call you a cab,” Jocelyn said. “It will take you home.”
I grabbed her arm before she could dart out of reach. “Joce, wait. He’s breaking the Edicts. You know what will happen when he’s caught.”
She yanked her hand away. “You, you only care because your neck is on the line!”
“And he put it there!”
We glared at each other for a moment, then she swept open the door. The Keeper was waiting on the other side. “Make sure Mr. Fossor leaves.”
“Jocelyn!”
She left. The Keeper blocked the door and touched his earbud. “Have a cab come to the front.” He waved for me to move. “This way.”
No ‘sir’ for me, but I was too weary to be petulant. The mansion’s interior was a labyrinth. We never passed a single window, and the layout of the manor was erratic and decentralized. With all the closed doors and no landmarks to go by, I didn’t know what part of the house I was in, until he shoved me through a door that descended into a garage. A fleet of vehicles—some dating back to the 1930s—sat in pristine condition.
Death Dealers Page 10
