Black Magic Outlaw: Books 1 - 3 Read online

  Hey, cut me some slack. I'm still a little rusty.

  I checked the sky but didn't see the crow anywhere. The graveyard was otherwise empty until the pit bull's master turned the corner of the office building with two flunkies carrying automatic pistols.

  The group looked different from this morning. More prepared, maybe. More determined. Or maybe it was just their makeover. All three had pulled their nice duds from the closet. Jet-black cargo pants and shiny, patent-leather boots. The two gunmen wore tight camouflage shirts. The bokor had some kind of tan ceremonial robe that looped around his arms and left much of his chest exposed, more tattoo than skin. The etchings glowed a pale green in the dying light.

  All three men had white skulls painted on their faces, eyes and nose left as hollow, black cavities. The bokor had a silver hoop through his nostrils, a stud through his upper nose, and long hanging earrings. Matching silver gauntlets armored his fingers, more ornate than protective.

  I guess they were bringing out the big guns tonight.

  Still, this wasn't nearly the same fight it had been in the morning. I wasn't the same confused fawn. I had my fetishes now. I'd learned a few things. And I was ten orders more pissed off.

  I grabbed a handful of the dirt I'd exhumed from the graves and slowly stood, realizing my momentary disadvantage. It was still twilight, which meant some of my stronger shadow magic was neutralized. Judging by the light left in the sky, that problem would be resolved in a few minutes. I just needed to buy time.

  "I don't like being followed," I growled, trying to hold them at bay with my temper. The pit bull cowered but the men continued their approach. The two gunmen split out to my flanks. They watched me with practiced precision, if not knowing what I was capable of, at least familiar with the unpredictability of magic. With their faces painted, maybe they knew a little themselves.

  Blood. Without shadow, I needed blood to fight this gang off. With a fist of dirt in one hand, I reached for my knife with the other.

  The bokor snapped his silver fingers at me and the pit bull yelped. It charged me, ignoring my attempts to pacify it. I readied my shield but didn't need it; the gunmen were content to watch. They were, however, enough to distract me. The dog was on me in no time. Too fast for me to draw my knife.

  The zombie lunged, snapping powerful jaws on my extended right hand and clamping down. Some of its dog collar, now on my wrist, helped armor my arm. It wasn't enough. I grunted as the teeth pierced my skin. This was no love bite.

  My natural instinct was to pull away. Doing so ripped my flesh even more and didn't get me any less stuck. The men laughed as they watched me struggle with the animal. That pissed me off. Cisco Suarez wasn't a sideshow. I fought the panic away, then improvised.

  I hooked my left arm around the pit bull in a head lock, pressing my body close to keep it from yanking my wrist back and forth like a chew toy. The dog opened its jaw to bite my face. Instead, I shoved my right hand deeper into its mouth, forcing it to bite down or choke. New scrapes opened on my wrist. The ball of dirt in my fist was now dripping with my blood.

  Blood that I needed for my spell.

  I released as much of the graveyard soil as I could, right down the pit bull's throat. It gagged on the blood and dirt but, let's face it, zombies don't need to breathe. As the dog grappled violently, I leaned in and whispered in its ear.

  "Shhh," I soothed.

  And then the dog went to sleep.

  The mirth on the bokor's face immediately vanished when his pet slumped to the ground. You know how they say you can sleep when you're dead? It's true. Sleep for the dead is permanent. Whatever magic animated the animal's corpse was dispelled.

  "Sidney!" screamed the bokor, and—I shit you not—there was sentiment in his voice.

  Some necromancers grow attached to their loyal minions. I've never had that much fondness for them. Death to me is clear-cut. A corpse is an empty husk without a soul. After death, there's nothing left to treasure, but don't tell the fine staff of Saint Martin's.

  The bokor obviously didn't see things my way. He thrust both armored hands above his head to ready an attack. Then a piercing whistle cut through the twilight.

  "That will be enough," boomed a voice from across the cemetery.

  Two figures approached from the far end of the lawn. They strolled with the patience of lovers in the park. The man wore a tuxedo and top hat. As he passed several headstones he nodded as if acquainted with the occupants. His escort was a woman as tall as he was, with ropey and muscled arms. The gunman nearest them slung his weapon over his shoulder as they passed and smiled.

  During the long silence, darkness fell and encompassed the cemetery. The shadow washed over me like a comfortable fur cloak.

  "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" I demanded in a gruff voice.

  Skulls shone in the night. Two sets of exposed teeth grinned wide, one painted on his lips, and the other yellowed from the cigar clamped between them.

  "Don't you recognize me, blanc?" he asked, amused. "I'm the man who killed you."

  Chapter 19

  My face flushed at the revelation. I knew I'd be face-to-face with my killer at some point, but I hadn't expected him to introduce himself. I forced a cool exterior but fumbled over what to say.

  The man in the top hat spread his hands in peace. "Let me introduce myself," he said in a thick Haitian accent. "My name is Laurent Baptiste."

  My eyes narrowed. "The leader of the Bone Saints."

  "Naturally."

  Laurent took a hard pull on his cigar and watched me with interest. His hat was adorned with feathers and a wooden cross. His tuxedo was worn with age. The paint on his face was simpler than the others. More traditional. Less menacing. Possibly to counter that, he had a real-life snake wrapped around his neck.

  I could feel the power oozing off him, empty and cold. This man wasn't just a bokor. He was a houngan. A high priest.

  I ran my eyes over his getup. "Kind of a walking cliche, don't you think?"

  I joked, but I knew the reason for the top hat and tux. It's the traditional dress of the Haitian dead. Houngans, as religious figures, are often expected to mimic the effect.

  "What brings the Bone Saints to my neck of the woods?" I asked.

  "There are many saints here, blanc," Laurent replied. "But the Baron is the greatest."

  I snorted. He was talking about his patron. Orishas, totems, gods. All the same thing. Around Miami, between the Cubans and the Haitians, you hear the word "saint" thrown around a lot.

  That might be confusing without a bit of history.

  Christianity, traditionally, has not looked kindly on pagan religions. They're like oil and water (although stakes and fire might be more accurate). So what happens when people who worship many gods are conquered and told they can only worship one? Easy. They smile and nod. They find a way to venerate the many in secret. Except the best secrets are kept in broad daylight. In this case, in church, in full public view of their oppressors. The trick is to call one spirit Saint Peter, another Saint Matthew, and so on. Aliases for gods. Soon enough, they're surrounded with creepy statuettes and paintings. Saints, get it? They keep The Church happy while continuing the same ceremonies they've practiced for hundreds of years.

  That's why the irony of the cemetery's name wasn't lost on me. Saint Martin is the syncretized version of the High Baron of voodoo. The Baron fueled my magic, and Martine's, and Baptiste's. If there was voodoo around, the Baron was involved. The difference was, Laurent was a houngan. To him, this was something closer to religion.

  "Tell me the truth," I said. "You wear that snake just to freak people out." It was kind of working.

  Laurent smiled, but I recognized the scorn in his eyes. He hated me. He'd hated me enough to kill me, and I'd never even met him.

  "Shut your mouth," said the staunch woman at his side. She was dressed plainly and would've blended in with normal folk, except her sneer and buzz cut made it clear she was tough as nails. "You will
speak to Laurent Baptiste with respect," she warned, waving her bo staff in the air menacingly. "And you may live longer."

  I wiped a bloody hand on my tank top. "Living's not my problem," I said, eyeing her wooden weapon. She didn't actually know how to swing that unwieldy thing, did she?

  Laurent huffed impatiently. "Why are you here?"

  Although the gunmen kept their distance, the bokor converged on us. His body tattoos glowed brightly now that it was fully dark. "We should just get it over with, Baptiste."

  The gang leader raised his hand. "Silence, Jean-Louis Chevalier. I would know his answer." Baptiste turned back to me. "What is it? You are looking to exhume some allies to defend yourself? To commune with my enemies?"

  I stared at their blank faces. They didn't know. They didn't know my family was here. I wondered if they knew who I was.

  "Something like that," I said. The bokor raised an eyebrow as he worked it out. "You guys and your names," I said, changing the subject. I layered on the fakest French accent that would make Pepé Le Pew proud and mocked them. "Laurent Baptiste. Jean-Louis Chevalier. Even your names are full of themselves." The bodyguard fumed at my continuing disrespect. "What about you? What's your name?"

  She would've shot lasers from her eyes if she could. "Max."

  I raised my eyebrows. "That's it? No last name heavy on the drawl? Like Pierre or Narcisse?"

  "Just Max." She ground her teeth.

  "Enough of this," boomed Laurent. "How are you still alive? I saw you die with my own eyes." The man leaned in to me and whispered. "And believe me: I am an expert on death."

  I didn't doubt him. Remember what I said about animists who specialize in one magic being more powerful at it? That was this guy in a nutshell. An elder houngan who channeled the High Baron. To him I was just a dabbler, albeit a talented one.

  The High Baron is similar to the other voodoo barons, of which there are many. Death, disease, pestilence, curses. Voodoo is poison, powder, and potions. But the High Baron creeps into domains that the others can't touch. Life. He offers healing properties. That kind of magic is exceedingly difficult, and nothing that I can touch. It is, after all, much easier to rend something apart than to mend it. I figured a houngan like this could shed light on my situation, even if coming back from the dead was supposed to be impossible.

  But his question revealed his ignorance. This man may have killed me, but he sure as hell hadn't brought me back.

  "Forget about why I'm alive," I said. "We're gonna talk about why you killed me."

  Laurent smiled. "This is not a negotiation, blanc. For your sins, you will die tonight. Confess, tell me all that you know, and I will ease you over to the shadow world peacefully."

  The shadow world. The Murk. The land of spirits. No matter what you call it, it never sounds appealing.

  Max and Chevalier circled me.

  I opened and closed my fist, squeezing blood from my wounds, working it over my palm. "Would you believe I have a case of selective amnesia?"

  He snorted. "Who is your master?" he demanded.

  For all his power, this dude was seriously misinformed. "What master? Shit, who's yours?"

  He didn't miss a beat. "I serve the spirits."

  "Yeah? What do they tell you about me?"

  He grumbled and repeated his question. "Who is your master?"

  "I have no master," I answered coldly.

  Max's staff came down, but I was ready for it. My forearm caught the downward blow just above my head in a flash of blue.

  Chevalier swiped at me with a silver-clawed hand. I side-stepped the attack and caught his wrist. My grip tightened and the blood on my palm turned. It bubbled and darkened and the bokor screamed.

  I readied my attack on Laurent, but I hadn't expected Max to be so fast. She flipped the staff around, swinging the bottom at me instead of the top. The wood came in under my defenses and rapped me in the side. I fell backward and released Chevalier.

  Back on the dirt, I rolled away from my attackers. They both suddenly stepped away. In a second, I saw why.

  Laurent dumped a pouch of white powder into his palm, put it to his mouth, and blew. The particles flew everywhere, but mostly in my direction. I phased into the shadow of the night and slid forward, right between the houngan's legs. The powder blew away harmlessly in the wind.

  I materialized behind Laurent and readied a punch to his kidney. The shadow drew in around my fist and I struck, but once again I underestimated his bodyguard's speed. Her staff came down hard and knocked my strike down, nearly breaking my wrist in the process.

  She pulled her weapon back and jabbed at my chest. I hopped backward and avoided contact. Unfortunately, I moved too far from the group and became an easy target for the gunmen. One fired my way.

  Bullets, meet pure, unadulterated energy.

  The energy of my shield flared strangely. The familiar blue flash was there, but small orange sparks spiked out where the bullets contacted my magic. They felt like hail against my shield, each one noticeably sapping my energy.

  I don't like surprises. Rather than deal with the problem, I jumped back into the fray with Max. That forced the gunman to cease firing. Unfortunately, it gave the bodyguard an opening.

  She came at me fast. My Norse arm tattoo caught her first strike, but she spun in a circle and attacked me from the other angle. Spoiler alert: I don't have the same protection on my right arm. I waved my hand and a string of shadow flew up from the dirt behind her. It caught the tip of her staff before it slammed into me, halting it mid-air. Max almost lost her grip on the weapon as she continued forward.

  Before she could recover, I stepped into her and grabbed the staff myself. I gave it a yank toward me and Max, already off balance, was pulled closer. In my short opening, I gave her a solid knee to the crotch.

  She doubled over to the floor. Nothing magic about that.

  I swung the staff in an arc around me, fending off Laurent. Oh God—he had the snake in his hands. What was he doing with that thing? Better than a spider, I figured.

  Chevalier had pulled back, either to recover from my decay attack or to work up one of his. I swung my staff defensively again and realized my immediate threat was the closest flunky. He trained his machine pistol on me.

  I chucked the staff at him. It wasn't a damaging blow, but it hit him and kept him from shooting me. Before he had me in his sights again, I wrapped my right arm around Max's neck and yanked her to her feet. Using her as a body shield, I charged the gunman. He couldn't get a clear shot and hesitated.

  Checkmate, asshole.

  "Shoot them both!" ordered Laurent.

  Maybe I spoke too soon. The pistol erupted into automatic fire. Max struggled in my grip but I held strong. I ducked behind her and threw up my shield to protect my face. Max didn't fare so well. While her upper body was protected with mine, she twitched several times as bullets tore into her legs and stomach.

  Maybe a second too late for Max, but just in time for me. I shoved the broken bodyguard at the flunky and grabbed his gun. He didn't let go, and for a moment the three of us fumbled awkwardly at each other.

  Then the other gunman opened fire.

  I ducked, pulling the machine pistol with me, but the bastard still wouldn't let go. I spun around to position myself behind them and the gunfire kept coming. The flunky tied up with me gurgled and slackened. I spun around and drew the gun up, a loose arm still hanging from it. I wrapped my finger around the dying man's finger and pulled the trigger like a two-man job. The shots were wild at first, but I steadied my aim and cut down the other gunman.

  Chevalier ran toward his fallen comrade to go for the weapon. I fired at him and he shied away like a frightened cat, taking cover behind a tree. Then I trained the pistol on Laurent.

  I must have looked like a madman. My right arm was covered in blood, holding a gun that was still in the grip of a dead man. I was crouched and Max lay over my back, wrapped up with the flunky. It was all worth it for the priceless expre
ssion on Laurent Baptiste's face. For the first time, he was speechless.

  I shook the pistol loose, found a spare magazine on my dead friend, and reloaded the weapon. I crawled out from under Max and stood. She fell to the floor and groaned.

  Somehow, she was still breathing.

  Max lifted herself on her elbows and coughed. Feathers and cotton, like the stuffing of a pillow, ejected from her mouth. She rasped heavily. It was a dry sound, but that didn't mean she wasn't bleeding. A hole in her neck leaked dark blood and more stuffing.

  "What the actual fuck?" I said, turning to the houngan. "She's not a zombie."

  "Isn't she?" asked Laurent. He was clearly nervous. Probably stalling and considering his options. I looked around but Chevalier was nowhere in sight. That meant zero options in my book.

  "I'd know if she was dead."

  The head of the Bone Saints smiled. "There are many kinds of death, blanc. And there are many kinds of zombies."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm tired of this game." I stomped toward the man, the pistol aimed squarely at his face. "I know a little about death too, houngan, and unless you want to meet it, you'd better start talking."

  Chapter 20

  Laurent Baptiste scanned the cemetery grounds. Two dead men, one gasping woman, and a rotting dog were the sum evidence of foul play. Chevalier the bokor was strangely absent.

  "No one left to help you," I said to the frowning gang leader.

  He calmly ignored the threat, instead choosing to be impressed. "Now I understand why they chose you."

  "Who?"

  He shrugged. "That is the question I posed you, no?"

  I slammed the butt of the pistol into the side of his head, knocking his top hat off. He grimaced and rubbed the sore spot. The houngan's hands were painted white as well, skinny bones of ivory against his black skin. He opened those hands in peace, pointed to his jacket, and slowly reached in. I bobbed the gun slowly in warning, but he only pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and spit out paper. I could only assume his first had gotten lost in the scuffle.