Death March: Black Magic Outlaw Read online

  I pulled up next to Evan and told him I knew a place on the corner. He followed me down the street to a ratty concrete building. We pulled into the private lot in the back.

  "Monument & Casket Depot?" Evan asked incredulously as we congregated outside the cars. The run-down storefront was jammed to the rim with headstones for sale. It reminded me of a ninety-nine-cent store for funerals.

  "Don't worry," I said. "I'm a friend."

  The back door jarred open. An overweight Cuban man held a gun on us, bald head dripping with sweat. His large belly peeked from under a dirty shirt. I very carefully faced him.

  "Cisco Suarez," he said, lowering the weapon. "I should've known it was your flashy ass."

  I smiled and approached with an alligator grin. "Hector!"

  "Stop." He raised his hand and backed into the store. "You come mierdas look like you're up to trouble tonight. Leave me out of it." He shut the door and loudly clicked the deadbolt.

  Evan cocked his head. "Friends, huh?"

  My glum expression spoke for itself. "Our cars will be safe. Hector's kind of a neutral party around here. Let's get ready."

  Evan lugged a tactical rifle from his trunk, dual Colt Diamondbacks already holstered on his shoulders. A blacked-out police vest hugged his dress shirt.

  "You didn't lose the tie," I noted.

  "Gotta look nice for the wife on the anniversary."

  Emily still wore the glittery dress. I wondered if she was taking this seriously.

  I disappeared to my car and returned with some gear. I handed Milena a Micro Uzi with spare magazines in a drop-leg holster. It was small enough to almost disappear when the stock was folded, and the recoil was very light.

  "You keep an arsenal in your trunk?" exclaimed Evan. "Those are illegal, you know."

  "Then I won't tell you what else I have. Perks of infiltrating a drug cartel."

  He remained tight-lipped. Milena hiked the tight dress up her thigh and strapped on the holster.

  "Damn, girl," said Emily, "you really wear that dress."

  "She means you have a nice ass," I translated.

  "That's not what I meant!" Emily protested.

  "But you do recognize her ass, right?" asked Evan.

  She straightened. "That's it. No sex voice for you tonight, mister."

  "Ugh." He stomped to the lot exit and glared my way. "In case I forget to tell you later—or, you know, die—I wanted to make sure to thank you for a wonderful wedding anniversary."

  I loaded a custom fire round into my shotgun and dropped it into shadow. "Shit, guys, I really am sorry about this. Our night out's ruined."

  Emily slapped my butt and walked past. "Don't sweat it, hotshot. Evan and I celebrated our real anniversary last weekend on the sly."

  "You what?"

  "Come on, Cisco," said Evan as we walked out to the dark street. "You have a penchant for this type of thing."

  "You didn't trust me to pull it off?"

  "You brought us to a vampire business front and a midnight graveyard meeting that may or may not be an ambush."

  "But you didn't know that last week!"

  "Forget it," he said. "It's not a big deal. We had a great time tonight. I was just giving you shit."

  "I'm not talking to you guys." I stomped ahead.

  The businesses on our right were sparse. They were decrepit structures, many of them more likely housing transients than solvent companies. Individual houses came next, the lawns wild and overgrown. Across the street was mostly an open field before the cemetery started. Our destination was the only entrance a few blocks down.

  "Hey, brujo," hissed a grungy man sitting on a stoop. "You's not welcome here."

  "I'm not in the mood," I warned.

  The man was a dabbler, if that, so I didn't heed him much. We continued marching through the muggy night. Whispers and strained activity followed us as I slowly realized the local voodoo community was out in force. One minute into the neighborhood and already I was made. The dabbler outright followed us. Evan, sensing trouble, hefted his rifle.

  "Keep it steady," I murmured. "We're just here to talk."

  Chapter 18

  The man approached aggressively. He had dirty dreads and shoes that were half worn away. The sad thing was I couldn't tell if he was a vagrant or a resident. This was a rotten area of the city, but some people called it home.

  "Stay back," said Evan in an authoritative voice.

  The man ignored him until he reached me. Three more locals peeked from behind a house, gathering courage.

  "I don't have business with you," I said.

  "Dead man," accused the necromancer. "Youse bring the undead."

  My eyes narrowed. "I'm not here by choice."

  "No," he snapped. "Never your choice, huh? Never your fault." His friends slowly approached.

  "Back away," I warned. "We're just passing through. You don't want to get involved."

  "And what will you do?" asked the lone woman among them. "Bring them here and scurry away? Leave us to them?"

  I scowled. They were talking about the Obsidian March. "Do I look like I'm running?"

  Her yellowed eyes shivered at the determination in mine, but the original man was not cowed. "You's..." he started, lifting a finger to pound on my chest.

  Evan cracked him across the jaw with the stock of his long gun. One of the friends reached into a pocket. Evan twirled the rifle and pointed in warning. The three stragglers raised careful hands in surrender. They backed away at Evan's urging.

  This wasn't going how I wanted. "Go inside your house and lock your door," I urged.

  "Not wants us to see you deal against your own kind?" he spat. "Youse will not walk away from me."

  Evan growled and pulled his badge. "Hey, asshole, you see this?"

  The vagrant's eyes flickered in recognition—no—fear. He backed away. "Don't want no trouble."

  "Then get inside."

  I wondered what it said that the locals were more afraid of the police than of me. But at least the crew backed off. I scanned down the block ahead of us. White eyes dotted open windows and doorways.

  "Better not rile up the locals," I whispered. We crossed the lonely street to the abandoned far side. No one followed.

  The large cemetery was decrepit and unkempt. Chain link ran flush along the crumbling sidewalk. Rusted metal poles twisted into the air and gates rested at angles as the dilapidated fence struggled to remain standing. It was hardly the only sign of disrepair in the boneyard.

  Row after disheveled row of stone coffins sat amongst overgrown grass and weeds. They were squeezed so close together they appeared haphazardly placed, without space to accommodate grieving family members. Many graves were inaccessible without climbing over others.

  Above-ground coffins were not the norm in Miami, but this was a historic black cemetery and the tradition had been carried over from the flood-prone Bahamas. Patches of dirt marred the uneven vegetation that grew around and over the weather-stained crypts. This neighborhood and these grounds oozed the stink of neglect.

  Another block took us to the pair of coral-rock pillars standing on either side of the main gates. It was the only black iron around. Above and connecting the stone pillars was an arch with the words "Lincoln Memorial Park."

  Milena gulped. "Those vampires really know how to set the mood."

  I pulled away the rusted metal chain and pressed the gate open. It creaked unevenly. A wide dirt path cut through the cemetery and led straight to an office building.

  Evan nodded across the street. "I'm gonna set up in that tree. Should give me overwatch." He kissed his wife. "Be careful in there."

  As the rest of us pushed in, the area went deadly quiet. It was as if our presence breached a centuries-old taboo. Not because the locals avoided midnight visits, I knew, but rather because we weren't locals.

  "Stick close," I advised and walked ahead.

  Halfway down the main path, I opened my eyes to the darkness and took it in. My encha
nted eyes searched the field of coffins. A wooden cross rested on its side. A miniature flag from a country I didn't recognize was staked in the dirt. Finally, movement caught my eye at a distant bramble. I turned to Evan's position, assuming he was already scoping me, and signaled two fingers to my eyes. We'd be another fifty yards to his left. I was hoping either he could adjust his position or that he was good enough to make the shot. Regardless, the threat was more important than deadly accuracy.

  We turned off the entry path and weaved between ceramic and stone. Some of the coffins were broken, with portions of their contents stolen. A goat lay decapitated, its head nowhere to be found. Emily and Milena scrunched their noses at the sights. I knew them to be common signs of necromancy. Local santeros and voodooists had a veritable playground in this unkempt lot.

  It was, however, abandoned tonight. It wasn't a leap to figure why.

  A man presented himself from behind a low tree. We froze as he stepped into view, hands spread.

  "So," he said, "the Frenchman actually carried through. What a good little dog."

  Emily shook a can of spray paint and traced around Milena. A circle of white gloss striped the dirt and weeds. "Stay inside at all costs," she reminded.

  I frowned. Emily was supposed to follow her own advice, but she stepped to my side without similar protection. I didn't naysay her audible in the presence of the enemy.

  The man—no, vampire—stepped toward us, stopping at a safe twenty feet. Well, safe was relative. His preternatural speed could cover that distance in no time. He had shaggy brown hair, a goatee, and wore a bowler hat.

  "You wanted to chat," I stated evenly.

  His lips curled, revealing extended canines. His black nails were still retracted. "Is that what the little dog said?" I wasn't sure why he was going out of his way to insult Beaumont in front of me. Did he know the restaurant owner would attempt to strike an alliance? "Are we here to... chat?"

  I clenched my jaw, already tired of this charade. "You tell me. I can kick your ass if you prefer."

  His eye twitched, equal parts shock and anger. He recovered quickly. Shadowy forms rose into view around us, each perching on a separate coffin. I turned my head to both sides, getting an idea of how many vamps we were up against. I counted seven others. Not too shabby.

  "I heard you were a cocky little shit," he taunted.

  His voice had a hard German twang but, like Beaumont, had been naturalized to almost non-existent. I suspected these vampires had lived several lifetimes, which could make them dangerous. I reminded myself to ask Simon about upir life expectancy.

  "We should kill him, Magnus," suggested one of his underlings.

  I lasered onto the girl that spoke. "Try it and you're the first one that dies."

  She reared her head back, sulking.

  "Enough with the second-rate intimidation tactics," I said. "You know who I am, and you know I don't scare easily."

  Magnus hiked a shoulder and flashed a resigned smile. "So you don't. But I had to see for myself." His eyes darted to the women. "The Obsidian March operates in absolute secrecy. It was careless to open those doors to others. What is seen cannot be unseen."

  "They can take care of themselves."

  His eyes narrowed. "Wizards."

  Nether creatures preferred the historical word, but I'd always thought it a bit hokey. Spellcraft wasn't about magic school and the power of love and the fight between good and evil. This was the real world, fueled by greed and lust and need and even the irrational power trip. Animists, netherlings, subhumans, primal beings—no one had a monopoly on right and wrong.

  But I realized... these were fiends from the Nether, visitors to the Earthly Steppe and unwelcome by anyone's standards. Their entire existence was predicated on living in the shadows.

  "You hate us," I said, "don't you?" His face was a steady mask. "It grinds your gears that animists are some of the few in our world who not only know of your kind, but can do something about it." Magnus tilted his head, not commenting either way. "I wouldn't be surprised if this animist serial killer has something to do with you."

  "A wizard killer?" Magnus turned to his cohorts and laughed. "That sounds like more of a 'you' problem. We don't engage in that business."

  I tried to read his face, but either he wasn't giving anything up or he was telling the truth.

  "I'll be straight, then," said Magnus, approaching. "Your disrespect at my bar was reported to me."

  "Your people attacked me."

  "I don't doubt that. Little Tutti's a spicy peach, but she's also my favorite. A connoisseur of giving pleasure." He made an overwrought sucking motion with his lips. "I'm pissed you hurt her."

  "Glad to have your attention."

  His face flushed. He wasn't used to being talked to like this. "She was only trying to bring you to me!"

  I shrugged and turned to make sure our audience was keeping their distance. "What can I say? No one. Brings me. Anywhere."

  He watched me a long moment, craning his neck to stretch. It was clear he wanted nothing more than me dead on a platter, but he was holding back. Why? I wasn't sure. If I had to guess, Magnus was a low-level pimp with some territory. He was too conceited and too rash to have more power than that.

  "I wanna talk to your boss," I announced.

  His face went hard. "You're talking to me."

  I shook my head. "Nope. Not how this works. I'd like to escalate this to your supervisor."

  "Wha—?" He visibly shook. "You insolent prick. You'll listen to my terms or you'll die."

  "Terms," I repeated, noting the subject of a higher-up was a sore point with him. "So this is a business meeting then?"

  He twitched at my prodding tone but took my response as an assertion of his authority. It wasn't. I just wanted to get whatever this was over with. He took his win regardless. Magnus lifted the bowler from his head, brushed a hand through his hair, and replaced it.

  "We've heard of you," he continued. "The war in Little Haiti. The confrontations with the Agua Fuego cartel. Your battles don't concern us. The Obsidian March prefers a more discreet line of business." He stepped closer. "To put it bluntly, the chaos in your wake helps keep prying eyes off our activities. Which means there's room for both of us in Miami."

  I didn't say anything. The gang war in Little Haiti hadn't been my fault, but Magnus didn't care about that. His point was taken. The vampires worked in secrecy, otherwise I would've heard about them before now. More than anything, they wanted their business to run unimpeded.

  I blinked. "That's your offer?"

  Magnus snorted. "The Obsidian March doesn't make offers, especially not to rogue wizards. I'm telling it like it is. You stay out of our way, and we'll stay out of yours. The unsuspecting denizens of this city will go on living their simple lives surrounded by their simple pleasures. They, and you, will die while the March, and I, will... march on." He chuckled to himself.

  The surrounding vamps hissed and cooed as I mulled over his words. There was a good chance they'd spring into action the moment I said no. However, despite Simon's impression of me, I didn't hope and dream of starting a vampire war.

  At the same time, how much was I really willing to concede to these murderous pricks?

  "There's something you need to know," I announced, making sure every single vamp in the graveyard heard me. "In case you didn't get the memo, Cisco Suarez is back. And Miami's under my protection."

  He scoffed. "You're one man—"

  I held up my hand. "I'm not done. I know about your business. You wanna keep running your scams—collecting money and blood donations? Fine. But the human trafficking is done."

  He glowered at me, incredulous, as if I'd just asked him to turn off gravity. "THAT," he snarled, "is NOT going to happen. Ever."

  "Then don't say I didn't warn you."

  His eyes narrowed. Dark spears elongated from his fingertips. The surrounding vampires likewise brandished their claws.

  "Do you think yourself invinci
ble, shadow witch?"

  I pointed my finger at him like a gun. I glanced sideways at Evan's tree, noting the clear angle to us.

  "I warn you, wizard. If you invoke spellcraft against our kind, it means open war."

  My finger gun locked onto his heart. "And I warn you, Magnus: you're the one with the incorrect assumption about who can and can't be killed."

  Pointing at his weak spot clearly aggravated him. "So we're at an impasse."

  The photograph of Gendra in the news flashed into my mind. The words came out without thought. "Not an impasse. An ultimatum. Stop stealing people or I'll end every one of you."

  His eyes flared silently. And, just as silently, his vampire kin rose from their perches. A twisted, hungry smirk overtook Magnus' face. "I was hoping you'd say that."

  I stretched the thumb of my pointed hand back as if cocking my imaginary gun. "Watch what you wish for, Shaggy." And then I fired with a "Bang."

  It was a glorious moment, at least until nothing happened. Magnus blinked. I looked around and mimed the gunshot two more times, but Evan wasn't firing.

  "Too late to reconsider?" asked Magnus with a cruel laugh. He snapped his fingers and his cohorts closed into a tight circle around us.

  Chapter 19

  "Stay back!" ordered Emily. As she screamed, she thrust her arms up. An orb materialized over our heads and blazed like a miniature sun.

  The vamps shuddered and hissed against the sudden light. I practically did as well. My vision went white. I clenched my eyes shut and squeezed the light-sensitive spellcraft away. Black tears ran down my cheeks.

  I didn't have time to let my vision readjust—at least I didn't think so. I spun and took in the blurry forms of the vampires. The three of us were in a perfect circle of death. It would've been the ideal time for Evan to fire.

  Our attackers didn't immediately close in. Emily's spellcraft wasn't killing them, but it was holding them back.