Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) (8 page)

 

 

 

 

It all made sense now. Asan had a companion. Martine had called it anansi. Only that wasn't a name, it was a type of being from the Nether.

The Nether is under us. Everywhere. Just a secret doorway away, it's a world of twisted, grotesque creatures. Anansi are trickster spiders from Africa, or at least the part of the Nether that maps to Africa. They're cunning foes that can shift in size and shape. No doubt the baboon spider had set the trap to kill me, watching in anticipation as I almost burned to death.

It had just found out I wasn't easy prey.

It skittered away to the side of the house, running for the front. The walkway was still well-shadowed beneath trees. I gummed up the ground. The giant spider's eight legs had trouble pushing through.

I checked the yard for other surprises. The anansi was just a pet. Where was the master?

The combination of explosion, fire, and smoke had cleared out the yard. The birds were gone, as well as the squirrels and insects. No sign of Asan. It was just me and the anansi. After the type of day I'd had, that suited me just fine.

The giant tarantula was almost clear of the shadow. I chased it down the side path. In defense, it brushed its furry back legs at me. Hair filled the air like a cloud of spores, flying toward me. I threw up my shield and hunched behind it, avoiding the brunt of the attack. The floating hairs weaved through the air in odd patterns, going around the blue energy protecting me and backtracking after they passed. Scores of tiny barbs cut into my skin. I shut my eyes, thankful that I still wore the voodoo toxin mask so I wouldn't breathe in the needles.

I set my jaw and attempted to inch forward, but it was too much. The spider hair slashed at my arms and face. I backed into the yard and ducked around the corner, away from the deadly cloud. The damn thing was covering its escape.

I ran into the open back door of the house. The kitchen was filled with black smoke, and not from the shed fire. The peppers and onions were burning. I rushed through the house and out the front door, beating the slowed spider to the driveway. I jumped in its path just as it found daylight. The anansi screeched and sprayed me with saliva.

Great. The spider could make noise too. All that was left to realize my deepest fears was for it to crawl into my ear and lay eggs.

It reared up like a horse and doubled in size in the process. The anansi slammed its two front legs down hard. The ground shook as I sidestepped the blows. The spider swiped articulated legs at me. Several cat-like claws slashed uncomfortably close to my face.

This thing was big and strong now. Absent a giant can of bug spray, I wasn't sure how to kill it.

I channeled the dog collar. Opiyel. It took extra effort in the sunlight, but a tentacle of shadow lashed out from the side path and curled around the spider's back leg. The darkness tugged the anansi back into the shade, where I was stronger.

I charged. Large fangs extended like switchblades from its mouth, revealing dripping digestive juices. I lunged forward into the shadow and brought it around my fist, then connected a haymaker with whatever was the equivalent of a spider jaw.

The anansi literally flipped, pulling a full rotation in the air before latching sideways onto the house. Eight sets of claws raked lines over the concrete and ripped into the side door beside the garbage cans.

The effort of the punch had required dissolving the shadow tentacle. Shadow charming is intricate and requires concentration. Manifestations are pretty much a one-at-a-time operation. Now that I was done boxing, the tentacle returned.

This time, the feeler wrapped around the metal garbage can. I lifted it and slammed it down on the tarantula, my version of a rock and a hard place. The metal crumpled like a soda can and fell away. The anansi barely hissed.

It looked like the squishing tactic wasn't gonna work. Maybe there was a giant magnifying glass around.

Again I raised the garbage can. The shadow tentacle crushed it further, compressing it into a solid wrecking ball. Before it came down, the spider smashed open the window on the top half of the side door, shrank down a couple sizes, and crawled inside.

I growled and let the cannonball drop. My tentacle lashed out, just barely hitching onto a spider leg before it disappeared inside. I tugged hard, fighting the beast's strength, but it wasn't caught off guard this time and held its ground. I grunted and moved closer, straining against it. Suddenly, the tentacle ripped backward with the leg, except it wasn't attached to the spider anymore.

Eew. I released it and the appendage twitched by itself on the floor. Gross.

On the door, thin strands covering the window caught the light, then faded out to nothing. More invisible webbing, holding the door closed and blocking the broken window. But that couldn't slow me here.

I slipped into the shadow and phased forward, past the magical barrier and into the house. It was smokier now. I repositioned the burlap mask, still hanging around my neck, over my nose again. That didn't do anything for my eyes, though. It was tough to see. I did notice the smoke detector on the ceiling, its battery wire hanging, disconnected. I let out a wry chuckle. Classic animist precaution.

The anansi scrambled to the kitchen, going for the back door. Hot on its many heels, I shot around the corner, giving little consideration to how the trickster had earned its name.

In the heat of pursuit, I ran straight for the door, not noticing the anansi waiting in the corner. My legs seized up mid-run, constricting and causing me to fall forward. I caught myself on the counter beside the stove and spun around, aware of my mistake.

The baboon spider was tiny again. Almost unnoticeable. I could have run right by it. But the anansi didn't want me to get away either.

Around my knees were several loops of shining white line, disappearing from sight but still every bit as solid. Elbows resting on the counter, I struggled to free my legs.

The anansi had other plans. It grew. Two feet. Three feet. The spider expanded in size until its presence in the kitchen was almost comical. The giant creature took cautious steps toward me on eight furry legs. (Well, seven now.) Its fangs were appendages as well, and two little feelers jutted out behind them. Imagining its intentions sickened me. If the anansi had its way, and enough time, it would suck me dry, not eating me but drinking me, crushing my flesh and bone into dust like I was a big ol' smoothie.

I wasn't gonna go like that.

The enormous spider unfolded two huge fangs and lunged at me.

My shield was worthless here. I threw up my forearm. One of the crushing mandibles caught it and a fang whizzed by my ear and tore my mask away. Damn those things were long. The anansi scratched at me but I warded it off with my arm. It might not be able to devour me through the tattoo, but I only had so much strength to keep it at bay. I was in a bit of a bind and needed a new trick.

Shadow magic is limited in sunlight, but sometimes the absence of shadow is even worse. Outside, the tentacle had reached into the sun and dragged the anansi to darkness, but that construct had to originate somewhere. A strong, solid shadow is necessary to source my magic. It's where Opiyel thrives.

Well-lit, modern interiors, like kitchens? I'm kinda boned. Which meant I needed to get creative, if less subtle.

The anansi released my arm and reared for another bite. I grabbed the frying pan off the burner and swung. Hot oil seared into spider skin. A sickening smell of burnt Cuban food and sizzling hairs joined the black smoke.

I coughed and the spider shrieked, coming for me again.

The cast-iron pan knocked a fang away, but the damage was minimal. The spider jutted a front leg at me next. I ducked below the attack and my face stopped short of the flames on the gas burner.

Fire. Fire kills spiders, right?

The pan had spilled its contents but was still lined with enough oil to ignite. I swept it over the burner—

The anansi knocked the pan from my hands with a well-timed swing. The cast iron clattered to the tiles behind the spider. And my legs were still tied.

The creature almost laughed, if that was possible, and spread its two front legs over me. Mandibles wiggled with minds of their own. Digestive juices pooled at their razor points. A set of spider eyes blinked, save the two that were injured by oil.

The anansi struck like a cobra, and from my repertoire of clever maneuvers, I went for duck-into-a-ball-and-scream. Hey, getting the job done is more important than looking cool. The mandibles slammed into the stove top above me, brushing the open fire. The tarantula's entire face, already soaked in cooking oil, burst into flames.

The anansi's screeches, horrible before, were now death-curdling. My stomach shriveled into a knot. I rolled across the floor as the giant spider thrashed in the relatively small space, knocking plants and spices from the walls and banging into cabinets. But the death throes didn't last long. If there's one sure way to kill a spider, to almost make them explode, it's with fire. Ten seconds, twenty tops, and I was covered in anansi guts.

Some
sofrito
, huh?

Still on the floor, I tried the ceremonial knife on the invisible bindings. Surprisingly, it cut through with ease. Coughing from the smoke, I crawled out the back door and watched my friend's house burn. The explosion of the shed had been loud and sudden but, from the street, contained and invisible. It was possible the authorities would overlook it. Now, with an entire house in flames, they'd come rushing.

I wasn't sure what people would find. Corpses. Martine. Giant spider bits. Hopefully it would all burn away. But there was one thing I could prevent them from finding for sure: me.

I went down the path with the garbage cans and grimaced at the severed spider leg. At least it wasn't moving anymore. Using a plastic bag from the scattered trash pile, I hefted the leg and shoved it through the window. Somehow I managed that with my eyes closed.

Fire spilled into the hallway and began erasing evidence that I was ever there. The flames seemed to steal my happy memories of the place, not to mention anything that might've been useful. My boot kicked the over-sized jar of dirt as I stepped away. I sighed, picked it up, and moved on. There was nothing else for me here.

 

 

 

 

Of all the people I knew, Martine was the one that could've helped me. Watching her last moments of life only confirmed that. I bet she'd known exactly how I died, why I died, and what happened to my family. Assuming cooperation, a few minutes with her would've filled in all my blanks.

I hadn't come away completely empty-handed though, and I'm not just talking about the jar of dirt I stashed on a side street and the enchanted cloth around my neck. I had information now. A nether creature named Asan was hunting me. An artifact called the Horn of Subjugation was involved. Naturally, the former would kill for the latter.

At the same time, the death sight had introduced doubts. Asan was capable of murdering me and my family, but I'd figured those for Haitian jobs. I also doubted Martine's loyalty, once a solid partner, now a possible (and dead) traitor. Were the Bone Saints mixed up in their plot? I wondered if Asan was a Bone Saint himself, but Haiti was the New World. The pet anansi suggested Old World roots.

Sure, my understanding of the situation wasn't a field of rolling flowers, but I wasn't lost in the woods anymore either. My info wasn't great but it was a starting point. And hey, I'd almost been dissolved and devoured over the course of several hours. Just being alive was cause for optimism.

Still, I was left with few people to turn to. I couldn't trust anyone hooked into the magic scene, not anymore. And I couldn't risk the lives of my friends by being seen with them. But my absence hadn't prevented Martine's death. The mere threat of my turning up was enough to have her killed. What if my other friends were in a similar position? As long as I didn't carelessly lead anyone to their doorsteps, didn't I have an obligation to check on them?

One name kept tumbling around my head, prompted by Milena's glittery ink: Evan Cross.

Normally, I'd leave my best friend out of this. Spellcraft was not his cup of joe. But his position as a police officer could come in handy. If not for clutch assists, what were best friends for?

I've known Evan Cross since elementary school. Back when I was normal, he likes to joke. There's truth to the humor. Back then, we were just kids. We played with action figures and went on bike rides. Kid stuff. Then Evan and I grew apart. He played sports. I played RPGs. He exercised, and I exercised my imagination. By the time high school rolled around, Evan was the quarterback of the football team and I was a full-blown animist. Go figure.

It's amazing we remained friends through it all. True, he dislikes my craft, but he has a good heart. He ignores what he disagrees with and sees me as the same eight-year-old he used to BMX race with.

After he returned to Miami with his criminology degree, Evan breezed through the police academy and aced his field training. I knew him as a rookie, but he was too smart for patrol. News of his promotion was no surprise. Head of a special task force? Well, maybe just a little bit.

When the bus dropped me off in Downtown Miami, I checked my six. I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that I was followed. Hey, it's not paranoid if it's true. Not only were the Bone Saints after me, but Asan as well. And the last thing I wanted to do was endanger my friend.

I found Evan's field office without incident. It was an unassuming building without signs or markings announcing the police affiliation. Evan was more legit than I thought.

You might think it's a dumb move to walk right into a police station after the kind of day I'd had. I don't entirely disagree. Usually, I'm a planner. Things don't always
go
as planned, and sometimes it's more stressful keeping a plan together as it falls apart, but I like to be in control. To see all the angles. I wanna know what someone's going to say before asking the question. To know how things will play out before setting my pieces on the board. For example, it would be nice to know if I'm walking into a trickster spider trap. And, in this case, that there's not a warrant out for my arrest, before I submit myself to the police.

But desperate times, and all that.

Besides, I trusted Evan. He probably had a new best friend by now, but I didn't. He'd see that. He'd do the right thing.

I opened the door and marched in, expecting to give a fake name to a front desk officer. Instead I was greeted by several cluttered workstations. The layout of the office didn't waste any real estate. Just enough space for the staff to work effectively and comfortably, but no more. High-tech computers (to me anyway) dotted the main room. Everything from equipment, files, and personal items found a proper place. Thankfully, the actual detectives were absent.

Two doors loomed against the far wall, one open and one closed. I approached slowly, wondering if I was trespassing at this point. The name placard on the closed door read, "Sergeant Ronaldo Garcia." When I got close enough to the open door to check the name, Evan Cross looked up at me from behind his desk.

"What are you—" he started, pausing just as suddenly. His eyes widened and his mouth hovered open, trying to speak but failing.

I smiled. "Who'd you have to blow to get this office?"

The bad joke barely registered on his face. Evan stood up. "Cisco?"

I tried to come up with an equally sophisticated punch line, but sometimes perfection is best left alone. I just shrugged.

"Holy shit!" boomed my best friend. "You're alive, you son of a bitch!" He hurried around the desk, gave me a hug, then drew back to look at me. "I can't believe it."

My friend had short, dirty-blond hair and what could only be described as a cop's face. He was taller than me, and I wasn't short. Thinner, but well-muscled. The white shoes, white pants, and polo combination didn't scream tough guy. The double shoulder holster with twin Colt Diamondbacks did.

"Jesus," I muttered. "You look like Steve McQueen."

Evan laughed. "Thanks."

"Don't worry. It's mostly about the bad-ass-in-charge persona, not the looks."

"You're no spring chicken yourself," he said, eyeing me over. "You've lost some of that boyish charm in your face. But man, you've been working out."

"I'm not sure I recognize myself anymore."

He cocked his head. "You look tough."

"It's just a facade."

Evan nodded. "You're back," he repeated, and excitement slowly turned into an awkward frown. "But how?"

"That's what I'm here to find out."

Evan blinked, checked the main room, then shut his office door. He knew
about
magic. He didn't practice, but he knew
I
did. Just because he didn't have the stomach for it didn't mean he refused to believe.

"I've never heard of resurrection magic before," he said, keeping a distance from me now.

"Me neither, except that it's impossible."

"Impossible," Evan agreed.

"Exactly.
Totally
and
utterly
impossible."

Evan watched me uneasily. "Right." He backed up and sat on top of his desk without taking his eyes off me. After a minute of silence, I shook my head and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk.

"Relax, Evan. It's me. I swear. Why don't you pour me a shot of whiskey from the bottle I know is in one of your desk drawers?"

He half smiled, paralyzed for a second, but the suggestion of something familiar and normal, a drink with a friend, shook him loose. He returned to his seat and pulled a sealed bottle of whiskey and two rocks glasses from the bottom drawer.

Aside from beer to take the edge off, I wasn't much of a drinker. Maybe I didn't like losing control. Evan often encouraged me to man up and drink something that would put hair on my chest. There was no way I was gonna give him the ammunition to call me out today. Not when he was the one crapping his pants.

He poured two shots and added soda water to each, then passed mine over. I tried a sip and bit back the saltiness of it. Evan took his in two gulps, so I followed suit. It was only after the burn in my throat calmed that Evan spoke.

"You're supposed to be dead, Cisco. Your blood was everywhere. I've seen the crime scene photos."

I slid the empty glass on the desk. He gestured to the bottle and I shook my head.

"I don't know what to say," I confessed. "I woke up today in a dumpster in South Beach. Next thing I know, the Bone Saints are trying to kill me.
Again
, apparently, since they claimed to have done it already. Oh, and by the way, it's ten fucking years later."

"Can you ID them?" he asked, leaning forward. "Can you ID the one who killed you?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Evan leaned his forehead into his hands. "Fuck."

"Are you telling me you don't know?"

"No one knows, Cisco. It was a big story. It got a lot of play in a slow news period. We put out requests to the media for information, but you know how tight-lipped the magic community is. They don't say shit."

"Were they looked into?"

"I don't know, man. I pointed the detectives to that voodoo friend of yours, tried to find answers on my own, but I was a scrub back then. I never got anywhere. Neither did they." I stared at him, upset at his ineffectiveness. He saw my expression and held a finger up like he had an idea. "But with you back, maybe we can make headway."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What kind of headway?"

"The detectives weren't qualified for something like this, right? So they tried, but by now your file's sitting in an unsolved pile in a dusty box somewhere. But you can give us new leads. Your testimony alone is enough to get your case re-prioritized."

I shook my head.

Evan kept going. "It'll be easy, Cisco. I'll personally do everything I can to push this—"

"You don't get it," I said, raising my voice. Sometimes you have to do that to get him to stop. "I'm dead. I've been dead for ten years. I can't magically reappear and file a police report. 'Yes, officer. That's the man who killed me. But don't worry. I got better.' No one's ever going to be accused of this in a court of law." I hissed in frustration. Some bright idea. "Besides, my death took a toll on me. I don't remember anything that happened."

My friend went sullen when the reality set in. He shook his head. "I wish I'd known you were alive," he added.

"I wasn't. But I am now. I don't know what happened but I'm gonna get answers. People are going to pay for what they did."

Evan threw his hands over his ears. "Whoa, don't tell me that, man. I'm a cop."

I jolted to my feet. "Where were the cops when my family was killed? My little sister..." Tears came to my eyes but I forced them back. Dwelling on Seleste and my parents wouldn't leave me in the right state of mind.

"Don't blame me for that. I'm outclassed here. What did the voodoo bitch say?"

"Martine," I corrected. "She's dead. Killed hours ago by a man she called Asan. A man who was looking for me."

"Dead?" The surprise was evident on Evan's face.

"Yes, because she would've talked to me. I'm being hunted, Evan. Martine and I got into something. That's why I need to stay underground."

Evan Cross kept shaking his head as if denial could help. "I told you she was trouble, Cisco. I always told you she'd get you into trouble."

"Skip the speech," I warned. "I need answers, not more lectures on spellcraft."

"Why not? Because I'm right? I told you not to play around with that stuff since day one. Remember in school when you used to draw pentagrams and listen to death metal and wear all black?"

"That was just a phase," I said, slightly embarrassed.

"It was black magic, Cisco. Once you started playing with roadkill, you officially lost the right to call it a phase."

"That's different. The early stuff was teenager bullshit. I was a kid, man. But practicing was real. It's not devil magic, and it surprisingly doesn't dictate your choices in music."

Evan scoffed. "Make jokes all you want. Nobody liked it. Nobody liked you hooking up with Martine either."

I rolled my eyes. "Jesus, you sound like Emily now."

He stopped short and jutted his chin out. Whatever my girlfriend believed, Evan knew it wasn't true. My friend shook his head and took a measured breath. "Cisco, the point is that nobody thought what you were doing was safe. You need to own that."

Normally I would've snapped at him for the self-righteous act, but Em was still on my mind. Four years together. Out of my reach now. The last thing I wanted was to put her in danger.

Evan frowned. He hadn't liked Emily a whole lot at first, but I think that was because he thought she broke our crew up. After he got to know her, he understood why I was into her. Beautiful, Australian, she had a lot of experience traveling and knew about varied cultures. Both of us shunned higher education as useless. Maybe it works for other people, but for us it felt like thirteenth and fourteenth grade. One step above day care. We stopped focusing on class and focused on each other, always talking about traveling the world.

"Milena said she's happy now," I chanced.

Evan raised an eyebrow. I wasn't even sure he knew who Milena was. My friend rubbed the back of his head and winced. "Look," he said weakly, "I'm not gonna hide this from you. You're my friend, and I'm just gonna be upfront about this, even if it hurts. Okay?"

My heart stopped.

Evan said, "Emily's my wife now."