Death March: Black Magic Outlaw

  DEATH

  MARCH

  BLACK MAGIC OUTLAW

  BOOK SIX

  Domino Finn

  Copyright © 2018 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

  Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.

  Cover Typography by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-946-00806-0

  DominoFinn.com

  Chapter 1

  The bottle of Corona slammed the bar with enough force to bubble over. The gruff man tending brews paid it no mind. He was, after all, the one being so forceful in the first place. I dropped a fiver and grunted, feeling a more appropriate gesture of thanks would be wasted.

  The establishment, if it could be called that, was more like a storeroom than a bar. The exterior was a nondescript reinforced door in a grungy but gentrifying Downtown-adjacent neighborhood. The interior was stripped down to the concrete and somehow even more grimy.

  I didn't know what I'd expected, but it wasn't this. I took a pull from the bottle, bit back the warm beer, and rolled the metal bracelet over my fingers. How the hell had I ended up here?

  A heavy shoulder brushed me as a man stumbled against the padded counter. "Whoa there!" he croaked. "Sometimes you catch the bar; sometimes the bar catches you."

  I straightened and cast him and his impromptu poetry a sidelong glance. In his thirties, sharp orange hair, freckled face. "No worries," I said evenly.

  Another man settled over my opposite shoulder. Jamaican maybe. The weathered bartender turned his back and pretended to disappear.

  "Of course," observed the first knucklehead, "sometimes it's your lucky day and you catch something else entirely."

  That was when I noticed they both wore bones around their neck. Not finger digits or anything so orc-like—these beads were most likely harvested from chicken skeletons.

  I frowned. These guys had nothing to do with my purpose here.

  "Careful," I warned, taking a big step backward to look them both in the eye. "I'm not here to start a fight with santero hucksters. And, trust me, you're not here to start a fight with me."

  Their eyes narrowed. The Jamaican's gaze dropped to the silver dog whistle hanging from my neck. The skull-and-pentacle belt buckle.

  His face went to full alert. "You're..."

  "Bingo," I said with a wink. I leaned back into the bar and took a swig of warm beer.

  "Don't you turn your back on me," said the white dude, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

  His boy retreated to his side and pulled him off. "Don't you know who that is?" he whispered, doing a poor job of concealing his voice.

  His friend scoffed. "Just another asshole who got lost in the wrong watering hole."

  "No, you idiot. That's—" He lowered his voice even more. "The One Who Walks With Opiyel."

  My eyebrows reached for my hair. I hadn't heard that one before. Funny how much a legend can grow in a year. I kept my casual attention focused on the bottle in my hands, hoping the santeros would go away of their own accord.

  The ornery one stared at me for a good minute, focusing and refocusing and nearly losing his balance once. Which meant his initial stumble wasn't part of the act.

  "You sure?" he concluded. "Looks like a dumbass jock to me."

  I ground my teeth. Legends, I could deal with. The jock label? Not so much. The physique wasn't me as much as it was an upgrade—part of the all-new Cisco Suarez—but growing up I was a skinny kid. Not a wimp, mind you, 'cause I always fought back. I just wouldn't win that often. I'd preferred my battles in the realms of Dungeons & Dragons, comics, and fantasy novels. Basically anything that had cool dragons in it.

  That was before I'd encountered real dragons, of course. Now I'm not so hot on them.

  I frowned and rapped the metal bracelet against the bar.

  "I'm serious," urged the Jamaican. "It's him."

  "Well, all the more reason to whoop him then."

  I sighed sharply and turned. They started, but they didn't need to. I wasn't making a move. "Look," I said, clearing the air. "Things happened last year. Things beyond my control."

  The tough guy sneered. "That's not the way I hear it."

  "Well, it's the way it was. And I'm sick of explaining myself to you guys."

  The friend didn't want any part of this conversation, but the troublemaker cleared his throat and gained confidence. "I lost my job, you know. Some of us lost a whole lot more."

  I winced and took a calming breath. He wasn't entirely out of line. "That... that wasn't me. Listen, how about I buy you a round of drinks and we shake it out? I know what they say about me, but I don't have a problem with other necromancers. I'm one of you guys."

  He spat at my feet and made a fist. I twitched my hand. The dog-collar fetish on my wrist thrummed and a sliver of shadow rose from the floor and wrapped up his arm tight. He could no longer lift his hand, much less throw a punch.

  My face darkened as the very shadow crept over it. "Not. Smart."

  His friend threw a hand up and tugged him away. "It's okay. He's chill."

  I let him go even though his expression was anything but. They retreated several steps before getting in a hushed argument. The Jamaican eventually gave up and stormed out of the makeshift bar. Smart guy. The white dude wasn't left alone, however. He glared at me before rejoining his buddies at the pool table. More santeros, by the looks of it.

  I settled back on the bar and scowled at the Corona. My reputation within the Miami Santería and voodoo communities was something else, more infamy than celebrity. In a city full of brujos and bokors, that was dangerous business. Lucky for me—or maybe for them—most knew better than to pick a fight.

  A girl on the corner barstool chuckled. I couldn't decide if she was a cokehead or a prescription pusher, but I was in the ballpark. A waif of a thing, without the nice clothes or makeup that would've stood out in this dive. When my eyes landed on hers, she took a long drag of her menthol and arched an eyebrow.

  So much for flying under the radar. A casual glance at the surrounding patrons showed either an avid interest in my well-being or a strong desire to feign otherwise. The cat was out of the bag.

  I slid a few seats closer to the waif.

  "You're not gonna ask if that seat's taken?" she drawled. Her voice was a surprising falsetto. Sweet, almost innocent, and decidedly country. It didn't match the packaging, except for maybe the twin pigtails pinning back her light hair.

  "I've been here long enough to know better." She exhaled smoke in my face and I pretended not to notice. She had large hoop earrings, a nose stud, and black fingernails, but no apparent instruments of spellcraft. "Besides, I get the feeling you're dying for good company."

  She showed her teeth. "No such thing 'round here." They were a nice set of teeth for a rundown girl, and she made sure to accentuate them as she played with her tongue piercing.

  I twirled the loose bracelet on the bar. The metal droned like a spinning coin, faster and faster until I snatched it and did it again. The bartender eyed me gruffly. That was his thing, I guess.

  "So what's your fancy?" asked the girl. "No spell tokens here. You don't look the pill-poppin' sort." She appraised me with her lips pursed. "And if it's anything else you're looking for, you won't find it here."

  It was an interesting stance to take in front of the only employee in sight. She was essentially claiming ownership of the operation here. The bartender was staring, chewing on a toothpick, too old and apathetic to say anything one way or the other. He simply ho
vered close and wiped bar glasses with a dusty towel.

  "Funny you should say that," I started, "because I am looking for something. Someone, really." I pulled a school photo from the back pocket of my jeans and placed it on the bar. "Ever seen this girl?"

  She scoffed. "Mister, ain't she a little young for you?"

  I rapped the bracelet on the bar. I'd found it in the grass where the kid had disappeared. It was a cheap piece of aluminum with multi-colored beads. Not extraordinary by any measure except for the blood staining the surface. The girl's eyes flared, sending a chill down my back. Something was off about this place.

  I continued matter-of-factly. "Her name is Gendra. A lot of people are looking for this girl. Her parents. The police."

  Her eyes shimmered as she extinguished her cigarette. "Even little ol' you."

  I leaned in. "Not a lot gets by me."

  I left out my personal interest in the kidnapping. It wasn't that I knew the girl, but she'd been taken from my daughter's middle school. Second one this month, which was a little close to home.

  "No offense to Miami's finest," I said, "but I know a trick or two they don't. A discarded bracelet on the side of the road doesn't mean much, but this one has a bit of blood." I held the bracelet to her face. She tensed and sniffed the air like a predator. "Someone like me can learn a lot from a bit of blood."

  She regained her composure and playfully twirled a pigtail. "I don't know what you're talking about, mister."

  "Then there's the matter of the windowless black van that cruises the school. The same van parked in the back alley right now."

  Her eyes shifted to the bartender. I'd definitely hit a nerve. The part about the van had mostly been a bluff, but they didn't know what my magic could do or how much I knew.

  The old man set a glass down, draped the towel over his shoulder, and retreated into the back room. I let him go.

  "Look, mister... You know this girl? She under your protection or something?"

  I grinned wryly. "They're all under my protection."

  Chairs abruptly scraped the concrete. Two wannabe bouncers stood, puffing out their chests and cracking their knuckles. One was stupid looking and the other looked stupid. I noticed the hothead and his buddies weren't at the pool table anymore. Most in the dive bar had evacuated.

  "This guy bothering you, Tutti?" asked the stupid-looking one.

  I groaned. "The bartender's not getting the manager, is he?"

  They chuckled. "Let's be reasonable, wizard. You can't storm in here and make demands. I don't care who you are." The other one clenched and unclenched a fist in anticipation. Curiously, they both had black nail polish too.

  "What, did I miss the flyer for goth night?"

  My eyes darted to Tutti's fingers, currently elongated into black claws and scraping a groove in the hardwood. She flashed a predatory smile. Two long canines grew into place, and her lashes fluttered seductively. "My, my. Now there's the face of a man who's never heard of the Obsidian March."

  Chapter 2

  Unexpected was an understatement. I'd known new players were making moves in Miami in the wake of the destruction of the largest drug cartel in the history of the Caribbean, but vampires?

  Obviously I hadn't thought this little meet and greet through.

  "The Obsidian March," I repeated. "Please tell me that’s your online guild name."

  "Cut the shit," snapped Tutti, jumping to the bar top. Her movements were erratic but fluid, toeing the line between capable and out of control.

  "Want me to take him?" asked the bigger of the guys.

  "No."

  "He knows too much."

  "He'll keep it to himself," she asserted, turning to me. "You know how this goes, wizard. We do our thing, you do yours. No need for the masses to sniff either of us out."

  I scowled at how she lumped us together. I was nothing like them. "I want the girl."

  She snickered. "You think we're going to wind down our operations because you walk in here and say so? The Obsidian March has roots in this city that go farther back than your recent rise."

  "Then maybe it's time to rip those roots from the ground."

  The men transformed right before me. Their eyes milked over, their skin went black. And I'm not talking African-descent black but a polished obsidian, like their namesake. It hardened into a flexible carapace. Their noses and ears melded with their heads. Their faces grew flat. And, you guessed it, their fingers doubled into sharpened knives.

  They hissed and swiped at me. In a blink, I dissolved into the shadows. My body became ethereal, slipping past their claws and bulky bodies until I solidified behind and shoved them into the bar.

  "Cut it out!" ordered Tutti, standing over us with outstretched arms. The men turned on me and froze.

  I took slow steps back to give us some space. Good practice around vampires.

  Trashy clogs rapped the bar. "This isn't an ambush, wizard. We're not fighting you."

  I cocked my head to the side. "Could've fooled me."

  She glared coldly and hopped to the floor. Again, a sudden movement with alien grace. I backed away as shadow billowed over my fist.

  Tutti scoffed at the show of power. "But this is a declaration of intentions. The March halts for no man, woman, or child. If you have services or property to negotiate, come back when you're feeling more congenial. But never dictate terms, wizard."

  A siren broke the city noise.

  The vampire smiled. "Speaking of Miami's finest..."

  Tutti pointed at the door to the back alley. The three surged forward, leaving me a choice: stand my ground or go. I maneuvered to the door.

  I hadn't banked on tussling with vampires today, but it wouldn't be the first time I'd seen something of their sort. The real problem was the police. And...

  "The girl," I said.

  Tutti twirled a pigtail and pouted. "I'm afraid that one didn't work out. She's beyond even you now."

  I went red at the thought. "You sick fucks!" My shotgun materialized from the ether. The bodyguards reacted quickly. They batted my aim to the side. I spun with the blow as the other grabbed at my old position. It was a simple matter to send a locomotive of shadow into him. It bowled him over two tables and the bar.

  The police siren grew louder. The second bouncer lunged. I hopped back to avoid the attack while working a rope of shadow around his waist. I closed my fist and pulled, pinning him to the far wall, unharmed but out of the action. That left Tutti and me unmolested.

  By now the girl had a serrated blade gripped between two fingers, readying a throw. I was faster. I lifted the shotgun and fired, sending a custom blend of buckshot and spark powder into her gut. A roar of fire exploded and sent her spinning through the air.

  Tires skidded in the curbside gravel. I opened the back door and scanned the bar, angry I couldn't finish what I'd started. The bloodlust distracted me. A rubber alternator belt wrapped around my neck and yanked me outside.

  The sudden transition to sunlight blinded me. Yes, seedy bars operate daytimes. Hell, it wasn't even noon yet. This unfortunately meant my shadow spellcraft was limited. Before my eyes could fully adjust, a fist slammed into my cheek.

  I kicked out and caught a groin with a red alligator boot. The dude doubled over with a high-pitched squeal. It was the hothead santero with his pool buddies, minus the Jamaican who'd had the sense to leave. That meant I was only surrounded by five guys now.

  The santero coughed and climbed to his feet. "You're gonna pay for that, brujo."

  I checked the back door, which had shut itself. With the Miami sun beating down, it was doubtful the vamps would join this particular party. I also noticed the black van was gone.

  "You guys are either very stupid or very drunk," I muttered.

  "Could be both," said the guy squeezing the alternator belt around my neck. His friends glared at him. I shook my head.

  "Cisco, is it?" asked the santero, deepening his voice to mask his bruised... ego. "This is from John
ny Red." He punched me in the gut.

  I cackled. "What kind of stupid name is Johnny Red and why would he call himself that?"

  A couple of them chuckled. The hothead's face flushed. "It's me," he snapped. "I'm Johnny Red."

  "Tell him he punches like a girl."

  He smoldered. "You..."

  He telegraphed a haymaker. I waited as it came and threw up an arm block. He struck the armor tattoo along the outside of my left forearm. Blue light flared and several bones in his hand crunched. He reeled and screamed, "Kill this asshole!"

  A fist came from the side. I lurched forward, pulling the dummy choking me into the blow. He dropped the belt and stumbled away cupping a bleeding nose. I didn't bother looking for shadow. I punched the surprised guy who'd just hit his friend and then kicked the knee out from another. The last one danced in place for precious seconds as his brain processed the situation, but it wasn't long before he bolted.

  A white-and-green police car turned into the alley with a quick chirp of its siren. The runner scrambled and turned, jumping over a chain-link fence.

  "This isn't over," swore Johnny Red, hunched over his broken hand.

  I sighed and cracked him in the face with my boot, sending him to La La Land. Then I turned to escape around the block.

  Another police car veered ahead of me. They had us on both sides. I contemplated the door to the dive bar before it slammed open. An officer on foot rushed me.

  I threw up my hands and dropped to my knees, unwilling to escalate this any further. Overexcited police officers in brown uniforms converged on us, barked commands, and slammed me face-first to the asphalt.

  I ground my teeth as the handcuffs clinked into place. We were all going in. Not a good day to be a necromancer.

  Chapter 3

  "Francisco Desi Suarez," read the detective sitting across from me. He snapped my shiny new driver's license on the table and considered it with an arched eyebrow. "Why in the hell would you get a photo ID with a black eye?"