Black Magic Outlaw: Books 1 - 3 Read online

  He also withdrew a butane lighter. It was a chrome number with a skull on it—something you might pick up at Hot Topic. Hey, we're necromancers. Skulls are kind of our universal symbol. There's a giant one on my belt buckle, so I can't poke fun.

  I kept my finger on the trigger in case this was a trick, but all Laurent did was light the cigar and return the lighter to his pocket.

  "This is what we're gonna do," I started. "I'm gonna ask questions. The first time you lie to me, I blow your head off. Got it?"

  The man frowned again. I could tell he understood, but he was taking his position entirely too calmly. That kinda freaked me out.

  "Did you send that spider after me?"

  He puffed on his cigar and narrowed his eyes. "No."

  "What about Asan? You know who he is?"

  "No."

  My teeth ground in frustration. Not because he said he didn't know anything, but because I believed him. "I'll give you an easy one, then. You said you killed me..."

  Laurent pointed to my chest. "Stopped your heart cold."

  "How?"

  The man chuckled. "How indeed? You were not easy to take down. Not easy to track down, for that matter. It took the better part of a year."

  "You looked for me for a year?" I wasn't into Bone Saints business. It didn't make sense that they'd care about me that much.

  "Yes. And when we found you, we came at you silently. We hit you hard from all sides."

  "Why? What did I do to you? What did my family do?"

  The head of the Bone Saints raised his eyebrows but remained silent.

  "What did my family do to you?" I repeated.

  I thought I saw worry creep into his face. "I don't know."

  I squeezed the trigger slightly. Almost too much. I spoke softly but sternly, leaving no question as to my intent. "Why did you kill my family?"

  Laurent Baptiste took a long pull on his cigar. He could see the possibility of not living past this night. For the first time he actually considered his death.

  "I did not kill your family," he said.

  I fired the machine pistol. A few bullets screamed past the man's ears and rapped against tree leaves in the distance. Laurent recoiled from the deafening noise. One hand grasped his ear, but the other reached for something on his waist. A charm.

  I slammed my weapon into the bones of his hand, pulling shadow into the blow. A sharp crack announced the break. At the same time, I heaved my shoulder into his sternum. Laurent fell backward to the grass, landing next to his newly lit cigar.

  "The next shots won't be a warning," I said. "Don't lie to me."

  The Haitian leader coughed but answered as fast as he could. "I do not lie about this," he pleaded. "I do not know your family. I do not even know your identity. How could I kill them?"

  He sat up, patting the ground for his cigar. I put my alligator boot on it and ground it into the dirt. Laurent sighed and resigned himself to a faraway look.

  He didn't know my family. That's what I'd thought when he asked why I was at the cemetery. It seemed true. And the expression on his face. He hadn't expected me to ask about my family.

  "Forget them," I said, starting over. "Why do you want me dead? Why'd you kill me?"

  Laurent shook his head. "Is this a joke, blanc? After everything you've done, you ask me that?" He tried to stand but I pushed him down, keeping him on his knees. He scoffed. "Yes, we wanted you dead. You were so strong. You killed too many of us, but I got you. I put my hand on your heart and stopped it for good. I cut the rat's head and swallowed it. I drank his blood and poured it into your wounds so that your heart would never beat again."

  Eew. He put the blood from that sewer rat in my body? Time to update my vaccinations for hep, tetanus, and the plague. But something about Laurent's story didn't fit my narrative. It didn't make sense but I was too wired to unravel why.

  "I dispelled it," he explained. "Powerful magic. It weakened me to do it, but I was triumphant. It no longer had a hold on you."

  Laurent was rambling now. "What magic?" I asked, shaking.

  "You should not be standing here."

  "What magic are you talking about?"

  "You were meant to die in that dumpster, blanc. To pay for what you've done."

  I stumbled back a step. I wasn't sure what he was going on about, but I'd figured out what didn't make sense about his story. I'd found the incongruence.

  "That's not right," I said. "The dumpster was this morning. I died on Star Island ten years ago. South Beach was where I came back to life, not where I was killed."

  Laurent's jaw hung open for a spell before widening into a double-toothed grin. "Ah," he said. "Do you not remember? Do you truly not know?" He returned to his feet. I didn't stop him this time.

  "Know what?" I demanded, holding the gun to his head. My hand shook.

  "You think you know about death, blanc, but you are a child. There are many kinds of death. We only know what the spirits tell us. Baron Samedi whispers in my ear." He nodded, coming to a conclusion. "Yes, it should not surprise me that you do not know the truth."

  I beckoned with the pistol for him to continue.

  Laurent recovered his cigar from the ground. He ripped the ruined end from it and relit it. "These are expensive. You should know. They're Cuban, like you."

  "Keep talking."

  He puffed on the stogie until it had a good burn going. "I didn't kill you ten years ago, blanc. I killed you yesterday. Or at least, I thought I did."

  I sighed, relieved to straighten out one fact. "Okay. Then who killed me ten years ago?"

  "I do not know this thing. But in our line of work, would you not see the value in doing so?"

  "I need a reason," I barked.

  "I do not know the reason. Perhaps you should ask your master."

  "I don't—"

  I cut myself off, indignation fading to panic. What did he mean? It couldn't be. But...

  "Why did you try to kill me?" I asked.

  Laurent laughed warmly. It was a lustrous bellow that curdled my skin. "I have done what any man in my position would have. Killing you was retaliation for your sins."

  My mind raced. I thought about Martine working with Asan. The ritual on Star Island. The Horn of Subjugation.

  "I haven't done anything," I uselessly protested.

  "It is not your fault, blanc. Zombies serve the will of their masters, not their own."

  And with a shudder, everything clicked into place. He walks alone.

  I didn't remember the last ten years—not because I was in a box underground, but because I had been the walking dead.

  Chapter 21

  "That's impossible," I screamed, head spinning.

  Laurent bellowed some more. "Impressive, yes. Impossible? Hardly."

  All the little mysteries of the day flooded my brain, pooling into rational explanations. The Haitians were pissed at me for something I must have done but didn't remember. The new tattoos on my skin were protection for a pet. Protection I'd used as a thrall, which explained my familiarity with them, my muscle memory. The dark aura. The strange resistant qualities my body exhibited. It was all explained away in a single stroke.

  Someone hadn't just killed me ten years ago. They'd taken me. Consumed me. Commanded me. The Bone Saints had a beef with me, sure, but the one they really wanted was my master.

  "But I'm not dead," I reasoned. "Right now... I'm alive."

  Laurent nodded. "It would appear that way. But as the Baron teaches, there are many kinds of death." He motioned to Max, his bodyguard. I jumped when I saw her standing.

  I twirled the gun on her. She didn't look healthy, but she didn't look dying. Laurent's magic was robust. He was a true voodoo high priest, and even then he could only guess at what happened to me.

  That left the obvious question: Who was my master?

  No way it was Martine. Friendship aside, she simply hadn't been powerful enough. The full blame had to land on Asan. He'd been the one who called me on the cel
l phone, right after I went rogue. He was tracking me down. Hunting his lost pet.

  I turned back to Laurent. "You're telling the truth."

  He puffed his cigar. "I am rather fond of my head. I'd prefer to keep it intact." He eyed my weapon as he spoke.

  I lowered it. "Then you see I'm not a threat to you anymore. We can both go our own ways in peace."

  The man's entire face smiled; eyelids hugged together and twin sets of teeth flashed. He nodded and plucked his top hat from the ground. As he placed it on his head, the houngan stepped away and watched me with intent eyes.

  It was unnerving.

  "Wait a minute," I said, noticing his accoutrements. "What happened to your snake?"

  His smile never wavered, but his gaze strayed to a point behind me.

  Suddenly, from behind the houngan, a bright spotlight flared to life. I ignored it and spun around. The snake behind me reared up, tensile strength evident on its mottled black and brown scales. My instinct was to phase out, and suddenly the spotlight fit into the picture. Cisco Suarez wasn't escaping into the shadow this time.

  The snake struck. It seemed impossibly fast, but I managed to jam my left forearm in its path. The snake's wide jaws clamped around my armor tattoo, fangs reaching past the protected area. Latching down, puncturing my skin. I tried to shake it off but it held strong.

  Instead of pressing his advantage, Laurent backed away further. I couldn't make sense of it until the gunfire opened up again. I should've seen it coming but thirty pounds of snake is a helluva distraction.

  The bokor held the other machine pistol in one hand and the spotlight in the other, making extensive use of the spray-and-pray method. Good thing he got more practice at the graveyard than the gun range, otherwise I'd already be dead.

  I swung my arm forward, still weighed down by the snake. My palm opened and a blue semi-sphere materialized before me. The barrage of slugs pounded against it, once again flaring orange. I sensed the difficulty again. Each bullet sapped my effort. Each collision made me wince.

  I returned fire at the bokor. I didn't hit him, but I suppressed the spotlight. Chevalier ducked behind a tree and the beam of light flashed wildly at the sky.

  Max's staff cracked down on my gunhand, jolting the pistol free. Just as well; it was nearly empty. She readied another blow. Without the spotlight trained on me, I entered the shadow. I fell away from the world, becoming the darkness, slipping along the ground before snapping back. The bodyguard's blow slammed into the grass a few yards from me.

  Unfortunately, the damn snake was still latched to my arm.

  The spotlight trained on me again. I ran away. Chevalier and Max followed, but the bullets were much faster. They rang against my shield, the force pummeling my arm. One or two flew in under my guard, grazing my strengthened skin. I dropped to the ground and curled into a ball, now immobile but behind full cover.

  The snake chewed at my arm, refusing to admit it was too small for the task. Its fangs squeezed against the edge of my Norse tattoo, unable to secure a full grip but probably pumping me full of poison regardless. Maybe it thought it would eat me. The snake was either overly confident or had done this sort of thing too many times to count. I didn't care to find out.

  After a quick reload, another barrage of automatic fire came my way. Pinned down, I was an easy target. Not only that, the rounds were beginning to physically hurt. I grunted as each orange spark seared my skin. I struggled to pull the snake away as my magic slowly failed. Pieces of blue energy flaked away until, in one blinding flash, my shield cracked.

  Multiple collisions peppered my outstretched arm. The snake took a few bullets and fell away. I groaned and forced my eyes to focus on the flashlight.

  Maybe I couldn't call up shadow where I was, but it was pretty damned dark behind Chevalier.

  A thick tentacle shot up and grabbed the bokor around the waist. I would've snapped him in half if I had the strength. As it was, I settled for yanking him to the ground. He dropped the flashlight and fell, but not before one of his bullets found its mark.

  My chest erupted in a gout of blood. No shield, no resistance. The bullet cleanly pierced my flesh and I felt like I'd been punched in my rib cage.

  Max's head swiveled to the bokor and then back to me. With him down, no longer firing, she was clear to rush ahead.

  I was hurt bad, but there was plenty of time for that later. Since I hadn't been shot in the legs, I decided it best to use them. I ran.

  I ran hard and fast. Neither of us were especially quick. I guess we both had enough holes in us to slow us down. I skirted the grounds, the three of them on my heels, using the shadows to my advantage. But I was tiring and in no condition to fight anymore.

  Just as I thought my lungs would burst, I came upon the iron gates, cornered by Max. I smiled in relief and phased through. The bodyguard jumped and caught the top iron bar with outstretched hands. Impressive. I drew in the shadow and it sputtered weakly. As Max heaved herself up, I swung my fist between the bars and clocked her in the chest. She tumbled to the ground. I didn't stick around to see if she got back up.

  I was back on the road in the stolen Monte Carlo in no time. My body was going numb, but as long as I felt my legs I was stepping on that gas. Putting distance between me and the voodoo crowd was the only way I'd make it through the night.

  Laurent had turned on me. He'd been telling the truth and had every reason to believe the same of me. Instead he tried to finish me. That meant he would never back down, no matter what happened.

  But there were no more undead pit bulls to pick up my scent. The Bone Saints wouldn't be able to find me anymore if I stayed out of sight. That was the smart play. I couldn't take on that many animists (and whatever Max was) at once.

  Whatever Max was. What the hell was I? An automaton, filled with stuffing too? I checked the bullet hole in my chest. Nope, just heaps of blood. What a relief.

  Cisco Suarez, the undead zombie thrall. That explained the neat muscles. Ten years of hard labor will do that. But I wasn't just any zombie. I was still alive. Maybe I was thirty-four, not twenty-four. Maybe I was a new man, more mature, free of my old ego and know-it-all attitude. Or maybe I was lightheaded and on the verge of passing out.

  Baptiste had sworn that he stopped my heart. That implied there was one inside me to stop. That much was comforting, but with every beat of that heart, the stain on my tank top spread.

  Chapter 22

  I needed to see Emily. If I was going to die—again—I wanted to be with her this time.

  The Monte Carlo cruised to Brickell. The area was different than how I remembered. Snazzed up. New buildings, lots of restaurants and restorations. A buzz of activity infecting the air.

  I didn't really know where I was going, though. Miami's an easy place to get around in. The roads are lined up in a standard grid system, with streets going east/west and avenues north/south. Brickell changed that, angling the roads to line up with the diagonal coast. I needed to pull over several times to get my bearings. Once I almost nodded off.

  The hole in my chest leaked bright blood. My hand did an admirable job of plugging the flow, but I was more worried about my insides. The bullet had pierced the top of my chest, above my heart, I thought—I hoped. I could breathe okay. With any luck, my lungs were still intact.

  "What am I doing?" I berated myself for stopping again. At least I was sure I hadn't been followed.

  I studied Evan's business card for the tenth time, now bent and covered in blood. Second Court. In between Second and Third Avenue. I headed further down the street and finally saw the small road. It was a dead end set against I-95. A quaint little area, if a bit polluted by highway noise.

  The house I pulled in front of was anything but quaint. It was a two-story McMansion on a block of small, Spanish-roofed houses. The building had boring, modern lines. Vinyl windows, newly planted palm trees, even a red-bricked driveway leading to the garage. A shiny yellow Corvette, a model I'd never seen before, was park
ed outside the garage.

  I turned off the headlights but left the car running, contemplating the house with mixed feelings. Evan wasn't rich, but he'd done nicely for himself.

  "What am I doing?" I repeated, forcing down the pain. I was tired of it all. Of staunching the blood. Of gritting my teeth and pretending I wasn't beat to all hell. I shifted in the driver's seat and noticed my left arm, more covered in blotchy black bruises than not. I'd acted like I was bulletproof, and I might die because of it.

  But I had a dinner date with my best friend and the love of my life. I'd been robbed of saying goodbye the first go around. That wasn't going to happen again.

  I saw Emily through the large dining-room window. She was beautiful. The indoor lights reflected off her pale skin and bathed her in a warm glow. She was a little older than I remembered, of course, but even more fabulous, like she had come into her own. She wore a simple dress that she made extravagant. She walked with her usual bounce. While she might have put on a few pounds, her long blonde hair and smile were exactly as I remembered.

  It scared the shit out of me.

  Was I here for me or for her? Would it do her good to see me? Like this?

  I didn't have any right to be here...

  I could tell Emily that I'd fucked up. That I'd been cocky. That I was sorry. I could tell her that Martine and I had uncovered an ancient necromantic artifact and a Nether creature had turned me into a zombie for ten years to find it. Or maybe sticking to sorry would be best.

  The crazy part? I couldn't mention Martine at all. Emily would look more kindly on the zombie servitude than the thought of me hanging around with Martine.

  What I did know was that Evan and Emily weren't in danger because of me. The Bone Saints didn't know who I was. Evan and Emily had no knowledge of the Horn or anything occult. No animists would barge through their doors. They were fine with or without me.