Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (12 page)

 

 

 

 

"That's impossible," I screamed, head spinning.

Laurent bellowed some more. "Impressive, yes. Impossible? Hardly."

All the little mysteries of the day flooded my brain, pooling into rational explanations. The Haitians were pissed at me for something I must have done but didn't remember. The new tattoos on my skin were protection for a pet. Protection I'd used as a thrall, which explained my familiarity with them, my muscle memory. The dark aura. The strange resistant qualities my body exhibited. It was all explained away in a single stroke.

Someone hadn't just killed me ten years ago. They'd taken me. Consumed me. Commanded me. The Bone Saints had a beef with me, sure, but the one they really wanted was my master.

"But I'm not dead," I reasoned. "Right now... I'm alive."

Laurent nodded. "It would appear that way. But as the Baron teaches, there are many kinds of death." He motioned to Max, his bodyguard. I jumped when I saw her standing.

I twirled the gun on her. She didn't look healthy, but she didn't look dying. Laurent's magic was robust. He was a true voodoo high priest, and even then he could only guess at what happened to me.

That left the obvious question: who was my master?

No way it was Martine. Friendship aside, she simply hadn't been powerful enough. The full blame had to land on Asan. He'd been the one who called me on the cell phone, right after I went rogue. He was tracking me down. Hunting his lost pet.

I turned back to Laurent. "You're telling the truth."

He puffed his cigar. "I am rather fond of my head. I'd prefer to keep it intact." He eyed my weapon as he spoke.

I lowered it. "Then you see I'm not a threat to you anymore. We can both go our own ways in peace."

The man's entire face smiled; eyelids hugged together and twin sets of teeth flashed. He nodded and plucked his top hat from the ground. As he placed it on his head, the houngan stepped away and watched me with intent eyes.

It was unnerving.

"Wait a minute," I said, noticing his accoutrements. "What happened to your snake?"

His smile never wavered, but his gaze strayed to a point behind me.

Suddenly, from behind the houngan, a bright spotlight flared to life. I ignored it and spun around. The snake behind me reared up, tensile strength evident on its mottled black and brown scales. My instinct was to phase out, and suddenly the spotlight fit into the picture. Cisco Suarez wasn't escaping into the shadow this time.

The snake struck. It seemed impossibly fast, but I managed to jam my left forearm in its path. The snake's wide jaws clamped around my armor tattoo, fangs reaching past the protected area. Latching down, puncturing my skin. I tried to shake it off but it held strong.

Instead of pressing his advantage, Laurent backed away further. I couldn't make sense of it until the gunfire opened up again. I should've seen it coming but thirty pounds of snake is a helluva distraction.

The bokor held the other machine pistol in one hand and the spotlight in the other, making extensive use of the spray-and-pray method. Good thing he got more practice at the graveyard than the gun range, otherwise I'd already be dead.

I swung my arm forward, still weighed down by the snake. My palm opened and a blue semi-sphere materialized before me. The barrage of slugs pounded against it, once again flaring orange. I sensed the difficulty again. Each bullet sapped my effort. Each collision made me wince.

I returned fire at the bokor. I didn't hit him, but I suppressed the spotlight. Chevalier ducked behind a tree and the beam of light flashed wildly at the sky.

Max's staff cracked down on my gunhand, jolting the pistol free. Just as well; it was nearly empty. She readied another blow. Without the spotlight trained on me, I entered the shadow. I fell away from the world, becoming the darkness, slipping along the ground before snapping back. The bodyguard's blow slammed into the grass a few yards from me.

Unfortunately, the damn snake was still latched to my arm.

The spotlight trained on me again. I ran away. Chevalier and Max followed, but the bullets were much faster. They rang against my shield, the force pummeling my arm. One or two flew in under my guard, grazing my strengthened skin. I dropped to the ground and curled into a ball, now immobile but behind full cover.

The snake chewed at my arm, refusing to admit it was too small for the task. Its fangs squeezed against the edge of my Norse tattoo, unable to secure a full grip but probably pumping me full of poison regardless. Maybe it thought it would eat me. The snake was either overly confident or had done this sort of thing too many times to count. I didn't care to find out.

After a quick reload, another barrage of automatic fire came my way. Pinned down, I was an easy target. Not only that, the rounds were beginning to physically hurt. I grunted as each orange spark seared my skin. I struggled to pull the snake away as my magic slowly failed. Pieces of blue energy flaked away until, in one blinding flash, my shield cracked.

Multiple collisions peppered my outstretched arm. The snake took a few bullets and fell away. I groaned and forced my eyes to focus on the flashlight.

Maybe I couldn't call up shadow where I was, but it was pretty damned dark behind Chevalier.

A thick tentacle shot up and grabbed the bokor around the waist. I would've snapped him in half if I had the strength. As it was, I settled for yanking him to the ground. He dropped the flashlight and fell, but not before one of his bullets found its mark.

My chest erupted in a gout of blood. No shield, no resistance. The bullet cleanly pierced my flesh and I felt like I'd been punched in my rib cage.

Max's head swiveled to the bokor and then back to me. With him down, no longer firing, she was clear to rush ahead.

I was hurt bad, but there was plenty of time for that later. Since I hadn't been shot in the legs, I decided it best to use them. I ran.

I ran hard and fast. Neither of us were especially quick. I guess we both had enough holes in us to slow us down. I skirted the grounds, the three of them on my heels, using the shadows to my advantage. But I was tiring and in no condition to fight anymore.

Just as I thought my lungs would burst, I came upon the iron gates, cornered by Max. I smiled in relief and phased through. The bodyguard jumped and caught the top iron bar with outstretched hands. Impressive. I drew in the shadow and it sputtered weakly. As Max heaved herself up, I swung my fist between the bars and clocked her in the chest. She tumbled to the ground. I didn't stick around to see if she got back up.

I was back on the road in the stolen Monte Carlo in no time. My body was going numb, but as long as I felt my legs I was stepping on that gas. Putting distance between me and the voodoo crowd was the only way I'd make it through the night.

Laurent had turned on me. He'd been telling the truth and had every reason to believe the same of me. Instead he tried to finish me. That meant he would never back down, no matter what happened.

But there were no more undead pit bulls to pick up my scent. The Bone Saints wouldn't be able to find me anymore if I stayed out of sight. That was the smart play. I couldn't take on that many animists (and whatever Max was) at once.

Whatever Max was. What the hell was I? An automaton, filled with stuffing too? I checked the bullet hole in my chest. Nope, just heaps of blood. What a relief.

Cisco Suarez, the undead zombie thrall. That explained the neat muscles. Ten years of hard labor will do that. But I wasn't just any zombie. I was still alive. Maybe I was thirty-four, not twenty-four. Maybe I was a new man, more mature, free of my old ego and know-it-all attitude. Or maybe I was lightheaded and on the verge of passing out.

Baptiste had sworn that he stopped my heart. That implied there was one inside me to stop. That much was comforting, but with every beat of that heart, the stain on my tank top spread.

 

 

 

 

I needed to see Emily. If I was going to die—again—I wanted to be with her this time.

The Monte Carlo cruised to Brickell. The area was different than how I remembered. Snazzed up. New buildings, lots of restaurants and restorations. A buzz of activity infecting the air.

I didn't really know where I was going, though. Miami's an easy place to get around in. The roads are lined up in a standard grid system, with streets going east/west and avenues north/south. Brickell changed that, angling the roads to line up with the diagonal coast. I needed to pull over several times to get my bearings. Once I almost nodded off.

The hole in my chest leaked bright blood. My hand did an admirable job of plugging the flow, but I was more worried about my insides. The bullet had pierced the top of my chest, above my heart, I thought—I hoped. I could breathe okay. With any luck, my lungs were still intact.

"What am I doing?" I berated myself for stopping again. At least I was sure I hadn't been followed.

I studied Evan's business card for the tenth time, now bent and covered in blood. Second Court. In between Second and Third Avenue. I headed further down the street and finally saw the small road. It was a dead end set against I-95. A quaint little area, if a bit polluted by highway noise.

The house I pulled in front of was anything but quaint. It was a two-story McMansion on a block of small, Spanish-roofed houses. The building had boring, modern lines. Vinyl windows, newly planted palm trees, even a red-bricked driveway leading to the garage. A shiny yellow Corvette, a model I'd never seen before, was parked outside the garage.

I turned off the headlights but left the car running, contemplating the house with mixed feelings. Evan wasn't rich, but he'd done nicely for himself.

"What am I doing?" I repeated, forcing down the pain. I was tired of it all. Of staunching the blood. Of gritting my teeth and pretending I wasn't beat to all hell. I shifted in the driver's seat and noticed my left arm, more covered in blotchy black bruises than not. I'd acted like I was bulletproof, and I might die because of it.

But I had a dinner date with my best friend and the love of my life. I'd been robbed of saying goodbye the first go around. That wasn't going to happen again.

I saw Emily through the large dining-room window. She was beautiful. The indoor lights reflected off her pale skin and bathed her in a warm glow. She was a little older than I remembered, of course, but even more fabulous, like she had come into her own. She wore a simple dress that she made extravagant. She walked with her usual bounce. While she might have put on a few pounds, her long, blonde hair and smile were exactly as I remembered.

It scared the shit out of me.

Was I here for me or for her? Would it do her good to see me? Like this?

I didn't have any right to be here...

I could tell Emily that I'd fucked up. That I'd been cocky. That I was sorry. I could tell her that Martine and I had uncovered an ancient necromantic artifact and a nether creature had turned me into a zombie for ten years to find it. Or maybe sticking to sorry would be best.

The crazy part? I couldn't mention Martine at all. Emily would look more kindly on the zombie servitude than the thought of me hanging around with Martine.

What I did know was that Evan and Emily weren't in danger because of me. The Bone Saints didn't know who I was. Evan and Emily had no knowledge of the Horn or anything occult. No animists would barge through their doors. They were fine with or without me.

So it was me I was doing this for.

I checked the car's clock. Still a half hour till eight. I was early. Not that I'm big on dinner party etiquette, but I used the excuse to stall going inside. It was enough to watch her for a while.

Emily placed three plates on the table beside three linen napkins and three crystal glasses. Breaking out the good china for me. It looked wonderfully domestic, like a glimpse into the future I would never have.

Not the future. The past. Emily was my past. She was still alive. Happy. I was grateful for that. A part of me thought that going inside would be a step. A beginning. I could pick up the pieces of my old life.

But pieces were all I had. My life was a box of mismatched puzzle pieces, five-thousand count. Putting them together was easier said than done, and I was growing more frustrated with each failure. Sooner or later, I wouldn't be solving the puzzle anymore—I'd be flinging the box across the room.

Evan Cross entered the dining room and placed a bottle of wine on the table. Never saw either of them as wine drinkers, but they had a cultured image now. Picturing Emily as a wine connoisseur made me smile. Her husband placed his arms around her and they kissed. My smile vanished.

It sickened me to see them embrace. I mean, I knew they were married, but give me a break here. The knowledge was barely a few hours old and I hadn't even thought about them kissing or... worse. It was a lot to process.

Evan stroked Emily's hair and looked into her eyes. They talked and laughed. The voyeur in me wished I could read lips. Emily waved her hands around, becoming more animated. Maybe they would have a spat and get divorced by dinner time. But Evan reined her in, took a breath, and calmly explained something to her. Em turned white and went all serious. She glanced around and I could see her word "Now?"

Evan nodded and lifted her chin when she tried to look away. She was stunned. Apparently she had just found out who the surprise dinner guest was.

They spoke for ten minutes. Fifteen. A range of emotions from shock to accusation to sadness played across her face. I almost wanted to storm in and end the show. Or to start it, really. But I couldn't. After a while, Evan retired back to the kitchen, and Emily put her hand to her mouth.

I don't know why. I froze. I felt vulnerable just as she did. I thought she could feel me, sense me just outside the window, staring at her like I was a shy, high-school kid. But she didn't know. She didn't look for me. Instead, she turned to a mirror hanging on the wall and fixed her makeup and hair.

That was flattering at least.

I coughed, checking my palm for blood. None yet. But I was still fading. Weak. At first I hadn't thought I'd make it here. Now it looked like I had time to spare.

Emily left the dining room and I smiled at her bounce. This didn't seem like a bad place to die. I waited in the car for a few more minutes, dozing off.

After some time, Emily returned. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying but she was strong. She always had more fortitude than I ever did. She was taking this news like a champ.

When she placed a fourth place setting on the table, I admit I was a little slow to catch on. Emily called out and her daughter approached the table.

That threw me for a loop.

What was I here for? What did I want from her, now, after ten years? Emily was a mother. A different person with a different life. Something I would never have.

There wasn't a single thing I could offer her.

And what was I supposed to do? Drink beers with my best friend while the two of them laughed at all their private jokes? No thanks.

That was supposed to be my life in there. That was supposed to be my future.

I shifted the Monte Carlo into drive. Homecoming was overrated.