Fire Water (Black Magic Outlaw Book 5)

  FIRE WATER

  by Domino Finn

  Copyright © 2017 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 Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-946-00805-3

  DominoFinn.com

  Chapter 1

  Burning alive's no fun. Of all the ways to go, it sits firmly in my top three never to experience, right between being gutted in a zombification ritual and going for a midnight swim with a mermaid. Bad ideas, all around.

  I know from personal experience. The other two are old hat, but fire... fire was new to me. Flames blanketing my flesh, pain flaring through every synapse, brain overloading, giving in to panic and gutless screaming.

  Wait, wait, wait. Let me back up. Just a smidge—I promise. We'll get to the burning real soon. After all, you don't know who Cisco Suarez is yet. If I haven't introduced myself, if you aren't privy to all my hopes and dreams—well, you're not really invested in the catching-on-fire part, are you?

  So introductions are in order. Thing is, that's easier said than done. My story's not simple, but I can give it the old college try. Here goes:

  I'm just your average ex-zombie, ex-hit man shadow charmer on the run.

  Okay, that's a mouthful. But it's the plain truth. Even plainer would be if I told you I know magic and have a host of associated problems.

  Case in point: I was currently hiding out in the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach. Granted, Millionaire's Row is a pretty swanky place to lie low in, but I'm pretty much rich now. How I came about that cash isn't important. It's enough to say it's more than I can spend. Of course, that didn't stop me from trying. Spend it I did, living in a three-thousand-dollars-a-night luxury vacation suite.

  "You're ridiculous," said Evan, who was supposed to be my best friend. He had close-cropped blond hair and was about as straight-edge as they came. He wore a summer shirt, loose pants, and white loafers without socks. Apparently he wasn't going swimming.

  "What's ridiculous?" I asked. Our eyes were on my daughter, splashing in the fancy pool with a stupid grin on her face.

  "Drink tabs, room service, daily massages? You went soft."

  I shrugged and killed my bottle of beer. "Would you prefer I continued as a homeless vagrant? You know my safe house is blown now. The Fontainebleau is as good a place as any."

  He chuckled. "So you're a new Cisco Suarez. Footloose and fancy free."

  "That's right, bro." I stood up from the lounge chair. "And if you don't mind, I'm going to enjoy Fran's tenth birthday. I'll be back."

  I still sported jeans and a tank top, but not for long. I headed into the air-conditioned lobby and rode the elevator up eight floors. A brand-new pair of trunks and flip-flops waited for me on my bed. Even more important was the little gift-wrapped box I'd left on the wet bar. Fran didn't know I was her biological father, but damn if that was gonna stop me from spoiling her.

  I swiped the keycard and opened my hotel door. Sunlight flooded through the glass balcony windows. I didn't remember leaving the curtains open. I shuffled toward the glass, saw the black cat perched on the high-rise balcony railing, and froze.

  "Living it up, I see," said a familiar voice, sitting in a corner chair.

  I spun around. He looked the same as always. A mane and beard of wavy red hair. A blue polo and sports coat covering a burgeoning belly on an otherwise lean frame. His attitude, especially, was familiar. Casual, calm, collected.

  Remember how I said it wasn't important where my money had come from? Well, Connor Hatch would disagree because it was his. Not only was he a Caribbean drug kingpin, he was a jinn too. Mean stuff.

  My body tensed. It was Connor who had opened the curtains. In direct sunlight, my shadow magic was weak. I took in my surroundings, noting the bow-tied gift on the counter. "You said you'd leave my family and friends out of this."

  "And so they are," he remarked, flipping through blown-up photographs I'd left on the nightstand. "Dr. Trinidad's work?" he asked.

  I clenched my jaw. I'd taken pictures of a conquistador artifact, once in my possession, now in Connor's. The doctor at the Historical Museum hadn't been able to decipher the Taíno pictographs. There wasn't much in the way of notes with them.

  "This is useless," grumbled Connor, flinging the stack of papers in the air. They fanned out and rained down between us.

  I waited, alert, watching him, ready for him to make his move. My eyes drifted to the belt pouch resting on my bed. The one with all my spellcraft tokens.

  "Life is funny," he mused. "Human and jinn alike, we spend so much time working toward an end goal, thinking all our problems will magically be solved when we succeed. But you and I both know that kind of magic doesn't exist."

  He was talking about the Horn of Subjugation. The artifact.

  "Take your riches," he said. "This hotel. Are you a happy man, Cisco?"

  "Money was never what I wanted," I squeezed out.

  "Ah, that's right. You wanted me dead."

  I shrugged and took a step closer to my belt pouch. "You telling me you're disappointed in the power of a five-hundred-year-old wraith?"

  "Disappointed?" His eyes lit up. "Hardly. The Spaniard wields formidable spellcraft. It's the Horn itself that beguiles me. Unlocking its mysteries is taking considerable effort. More than I imagined. Just when I think I have it, you see, I find something anew to hold me back."

  Connor sighed and looked inward, allowing me to creep closer to my spell tokens.

  "Perhaps it's human magic," he said. "Using spirits as a go-between to channel the Intrinsics is foreign to me."

  "Don't tell me you're here for advice." I moved toward my bed. Connor stood and I stopped.

  "You know, Cisco, I'm happy that I'm bound against hurting your family. I've grown fond of the little girl, and her mother once served me well. But you're a problem, aren't you? Lying low, but for how long?" He paused thoughtfully, mouth twitching into a wicked grin. "You once dared me to set you on fire."

  I dove to my bed and scooped up the belt pouch. At the same time, I thrust my left hand between us, willing the enchanted tattoo on my palm to life. Turquoise energy exploded into a semi-spherical two-foot barrier.

  The jinn's hands were outstretched too. Flames lanced from them and engulfed me. The fire danced around my shield as I ducked. Too much of it. The Nordic barrier of protection was too small. The heat was too great. I jerked as the flames spread around me—overtaking the carpet, the bed, my clothes.

  "Vacation's over," said Connor as the fire consumed me.

  Chapter 2

  Fire retardant or not, the luxury hotel suite was an inferno before I knew it. The pain forced me to my knees. I dropped my shield. Flames roared over me as Connor bellowed in joy.

  Shadow. I needed shadow to dive into. But it was too late. Between the sunlight and the raging fire, sinking into darkness would only stave off the inevitable. And there was no guarantee I could hide from Connor's magic.

  I twitched as my arms blistered. Even my enchanted skin was giving in to the heat.

  The cat. The curious image on the balcony flashed through my frantic mind. I knew that cat.

  A firecracker next to me popped. No, a shotgun shell. My belt pouch was on fire. It was filled with sacraments and bullets. And spark powder.

  I flung the belt pouch at Connor as hard as I could. The leather bag beamed him in the chest and barely bounced to the floor before violently exploding. Without s
ticking around to see what had become of the ifrit, I reached under the bed. Still some shadow there. I thrust my hand into it and came away with my single-barrel shotgun.

  I fought the pain and charged the balcony window. I fired the birdshot into the glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across my view. Still on fire and at top speed, I barreled into the fractured safety glass, put a cowboy boot on the top rail of the balcony, and leaped away from the building.

  I swear, Olympic judges would've given me gold for my launch form. The landing? Not so much. By the time I plummeted eight floors and splashed into the pool below, I pulled off the mother of all belly flops.

  Air slammed from my lungs. Charred skin screamed in pain as it slapped the water. That was pain, but it paled in comparison to actually being on fire. I kicked to the surface and grabbed the sidewall, hungrily gasping for air.

  Standing where I'd left him was Evan Cross, protectively clutching a towel around Fran. Both of them were slack-jawed, watching me like I was Evel Knievel.

  "Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked desperately. "Oh, God. Please tell me I still have eyebrows."

  Glass sprinkled onto the patio. I looked up. My hotel room was the red glow of a dying sun. Smoke billowed from the missing window. Flittering pieces of flaming paper drifted down like snow.

  "Meow!" came a sharp cry. The black cat stood by the pool now, canting his head at me. He wasn't even wet. Holy shit. I guess cats do always land on their feet.

  I dragged myself out of the pool and stumbled forward, grabbing the mangy thing before it could dart away.

  It was the same cat. A piece of former roadkill I'd animated a few months ago. But not just another zombie. This cat was special. Besides having a knack for disappearing on me, it seemed to have a life of its own.

  I had to admit, despite months of puzzling it out, I still had no idea what the black cat's deal was. The best I'd come up with so far was that it served some inscrutable higher purpose, like fate.

  The cat bit me.

  "Son of a bitch!" I yelled as I dropped him. He bounded away to the street. Thanks a lot, Fate.

  Screaming vacationers scurried away from the pool, some running into the lobby, others prescient enough not to charge into a burning building. Evan approached me cautiously.

  "It's Connor, isn't it?"

  I nodded wordlessly, looking into his face, then Fran's. This had been why I'd stayed away from them. And here I thought I could make an exception for her birthday. "That's why you can't get involved," I told him.

  "Cisco—"

  "You can't get involved."

  I looked up again. No sign of Connor, but it was highly doubtful the explosion hurt him at all. He was a jinn. He could disappear and blink around at will. It's why I hadn't been able to wring his neck yet. He was pretty much invincible.

  "So much for a happy birthday," I said, mussing Fran's wet hair. I turned to Evan. "You'll just need to settle for the gift of peace, then. Take her home. Keep your family safe and let me deal with Connor. It's what we agreed."

  He worked his jaw but knew I was right. Especially with Fran right here.

  As I skirted the pool, a burning shred of paper land on the surface of the water. It was a close-up photograph of the Horn of Subjugation. Pictographs on Taíno gold. It was one of the few symbol groupings Dr. Trinidad had been confident of deciphering. A man in the middle, stuck between a sun and a bat. Life and death.

  That was me right now. And it wouldn't be over until Connor Hatch was dead. So much for footloose and fancy free.

  Chapter 3

  I beat out to the street as fast as I could. I didn't have a plan except getting away from Connor and the authorities who would show up asking questions about my hotel room. I had no real ID so they'd never find me (given I didn't stick around and announce myself).

  Despite my lengthy downtime, a calm fell over me. The quiet confidence of a practiced soldier. I was used to the streets. Besides, the cat had skittered this way. Not that I'd see him again. He frustrated me with enigmatic cameos in my life, for better or worse. Mostly better, I thought. That beats most cats.

  No such luck this time. After I crossed the street and rounded the corner of the block, I ran headfirst into a white guy with dreads. He had a nose ring with a tiny skull charm on it. That was either code for on-his-way-to-a-goth-club or he was a necromancer, like me.

  In a flash of movement, he flung a handful of powder at my face. I was in the sun so I spun away from it, avoiding a direct hit to my eyes and nose. The puff of smoke was airborne, though, and impossible to avoid inhaling. Even as my eyes misted with water, I rolled away and coughed.

  Seeing me distracted, the necromancer came at me with a knife. His poison was child's play. Little more than pepper spray. His blade came down on my tattooed forearm. A quick spark of blue light bounced the knife off my flesh and from his grip. I punched him in the face and acquainted him with the sidewalk.

  I tried to brush past him but he tossed some bones on the concrete like dice. They tumbled and popped beneath me. Three scorpions grew from the pieces of ivory. Small but obviously poisonous, and I didn't have my usual bag of tricks.

  Hell, why fix something that ain't broke?

  Instead of retreating, I brought a red cowboy boot down on the nearest insect. It crunched satisfyingly under my sole. Another struck at my foot but failed to breach the alligator hide. It squelched under my other foot.

  The third scorpion was a bit quicker than the others. It avoided my stomps and, instead of striking, jumped onto my boot and crawled up my jeans. I don't like things with more than four legs—scorpions are practically spiders in my book—but there was no time to scream like a sissy. Before it could strike, I clapped my hand against it and crushed it like a fly.

  Amateur spellcraft. The wannabe necromancer was still reeling from my punch. He managed to regain his feet but just stood there dumbfounded as his last pet dropped to the floor. I took a step toward him. His eyes widened and he reached for more powder. My fingers clamped around the skull on his nose and ripped it free. He convulsed. I shoved him to the ground and tossed the spellcraft fetish across the street. An animist of his meager caliber would have a hard time casting anything without that.

  I turned to go and noticed another onlooker approaching. A Cuban woman with a dead chicken in her hand, and not a fake one made out of rubber. A santera. Another animist coming for me.

  All of a sudden my streets didn't feel so cozy.

  I cut between the buildings into an alley, walking casually. As soon as I was out of sight, I snapped into a run. I was supposed to be on vacation, damn it. Relaxing poolside with a brew. I really didn't want to get into a scrap on the streets today.

  I hopped a stone wall and crossed through a construction site. Some workers on their lunch break shot me funny looks but I kept my head down and made my way to the next street. As I crossed it a gang of Haitians screamed in alarm.

  What the crap? These kids had white skulls painted on their faces. Bone Saints from Little Haiti. What were they doing after me?

  A delivery truck honked as it slowed in front of me. I scrambled out of the street and down another alley, getting serious vibes of déjà vu. Chased through South Beach by a voodoo gang. Where had I seen that before?

  I turned the corner onto an empty side street. No one around. A dumpster against the brick building.

  "Oh, what the hell," I muttered and jumped in.

  In the fetid darkness of sour garbage, I finally realized what this reminded me of. This was my new life, all over again, back where it started: on the run and in a dumpster. Was my story gonna end the same way it began?

  No, I assured myself. I was in control now. More powerful, even without my pouch of spell tokens. And the gangs didn't have a way of tracking me this time.

  I kept quiet as shoes skittered past on the asphalt. At least three people, no doubt the Bone Saints. Last I'd seen the Haitians, we'd made a great deal of money together. That was right before I piss
ed them off by trading the Horn to Connor. They'd warned me of the danger of doing so, but it happened anyway.

  It wasn't something I'd planned. I did it to keep my friends and family safe. To make sure Fran lived to see this next birthday. Even now, I knew it was worth it.

  Several yards away, a foot twisted in gravel. I stiffened. Feet stomped closer and men muttered in creole.

  Damn. I didn't have to understand them to know they'd found me. Deciding to go for broke, I waited in silence, wishing I'd buried myself deeper in garbage. Too late now.

  After several long moments, I heard a familiar voice. Not Connor this time. It was the voice of a friend.

  "Suarez," announced Chevalier flatly.

  The head of the Bone Saints was here in person. Maybe I could talk some sense into him. I meekly pressed the dumpster lid open.

  Four bokors surrounded me. Two kids, initiates I'd worked with before. Another man I didn't know. And Jean-Louis Chevalier, decked out with a sash around his chest, silver gauntlets and hanging earrings, and white skull paint. He sneered when he saw me, the painted teeth showing double against his real ivories.

  These guys had always gone for creepy. Intricate props and horror movie makeup that seasoned animists like myself learned to ignore. But something was genuinely creepy about my friend this time. Chevalier's countenance had changed. The measured strategist I'd expected didn't stand before me. Instead he seemed more like a rabid dog. Careless, rushed, more prone to hate. Maybe I'd just never seen him this pissed off before.

  His silver eyes blended with his makeup, hard to read in the bright light. I stayed in the shadow of the dumpster, wary of my supposed friend's intentions.

  Chapter 4

  "What is this?" I growled. "Corralling me in the street?" One by one, my eyes locked on Chevalier's three soldiers. Their dark eyes were fogged over with a milky glaze.