Black Magic Outlaw: Books 1 - 3 Read online

  Old Kasper nodded resolutely and organized his tattoo equipment. He pulled a table over and stacked it with ink, a needle, sanitary wipes, and his beer. Then he plunked onto a stool and examined his handiwork on my palm.

  "This is the Helm of Awe, an old Viking symbol of protection. A simplified one, anyway. It's hard to ink. Even harder to use." He studied the tattoo from different angles. "It looks like shit now."

  "It's worse than that. The shield shattered completely."

  He nodded and produced the bullet he'd pulled from my chest. "Two things. First is this."

  He dropped the slug in my free hand. It wasn't a silver bullet or anything, just a regular round nose. It was slightly disfigured from hitting the bone but still intact. The etchings were clear, tiny inscriptions along the bullet. The Bone Saints were using magic bullets against me.

  "You do these too?" I asked snidely.

  "No way, Jose. I'm strictly a defense contractor, broham. If a lone operator like me got into the weapons game, somebody would smoke my white ass. I stick to the big D and everybody's friendly. It's not as profitable but I live to spend my money."

  "Or drink it."

  Kasper smiled and chugged his beer. "Life's about experiences, not things."

  I knew he wasn't having a joke at my expense, but his friendly advice didn't help. I didn't have experiences or things. Just a large void where my life was supposed to be.

  Kasper killed off his bottle of stout and let out a deep burp. "Whatever healing or armor you're working is great against bullets. Not invincible, of course. Nothing is. But a hell of a lot better than the average bear. These enchanted rounds are gonna give you trouble. They're magic-piercing. They'll take a toll on you, but the Helm should've held out. Mind if I have your beer?"

  Kasper was going for it before I shook my head. When he put the bottle down, he picked up his needle. "You really shouldn't have alcohol right now anyway."

  The biker stuck the needle in my palm, again without warning. This time I was ready for it. Believe me, a tattoo on the palm is nothing compared to a bullet in the chest. I listened as Kasper continued.

  "You should recolor every five years or so. These are the originals I drew way back when. Just like a muscle or your mind, you need to keep it in shape. You've been hitting the gym but ignoring your ink."

  I nodded, admiring his handiwork. "Which you're supposed to be telling me about."

  He laughed. "Yeah. You'll have to excuse me. I get... philosophical when I drink." Kasper cleared his throat and spoke in his grumbly voice, sounding both captivating and aggravated at the same time. "So when was it? Nine years ago? Ten? I don't know, but you were taken out by then. I even stuck my neck out and asked around. KIA, broham. That's what the street said. Now, in your line of work, a missing corpse is a curious thing, but I figured they burned you."

  I clenched my jaw. "They should have."

  He nodded. "Looks that way. Anyhow, sometime later, you came in with a scary fella. Big. African. Looked real familiar with wetwork. He didn't talk much and I was fine with that. You didn't either and that creeped me out."

  "Was he Haitian?"

  "I don't think so. I'd bet a beer he was from the motherland. Something about him was too foreign, like he didn't fit in here."

  "Animist?"

  "I couldn't tell, but he made my skin crawl."

  "Sounds like the one who killed Martine. Goes by Asan, I think, but I guess you didn't get his name."

  "You're guessing right. That's not how I operate."

  A full name or background would help since I hadn't seen his face. But Kasper had. He'd seen him up close and personal and didn't think he was Haitian. Couple that with the anansi back at the cookhouse and the African front made a lot of sense. Competition for the Bone Saints, probably. More black on black crime. Except I'd been the trigger man.

  Now that Kasper was on a roll, he kept going. "The big man gave me the specs and enough money to keep it quiet. I did my thing. Slowly. You know how long these took to ink? Months of weekly sessions. He wanted a lot of power in them, and you could handle it." Kasper sighed and shook his head. "You know, I tried talking to you when he went out back. You weren't having it. I knew you were in trouble, but I thought it was a new circle you rolled in. I thought maybe you were doing me a favor by keeping me at arm's length. It wasn't until another couple of years that I realized how bad you got it."

  Bad was right. I was taken to the shop to get a tweaked engine. A shiny, late-model zombie, with all the bells and whistles. The pride of someone's stable.

  "I can't remember it," was all I said.

  Kasper finished the recolor in silence. He moved on to the line along my forearm, strengthening the edges, sharpening the tips of the arrow. His work looked cleaner and meaner than before. Maybe it was what I needed.

  At some point I dozed off, but it couldn't have been long. A beer's worth. Maybe three in Kasper's case. Waking up again felt wrong, like my body belonged to a screaming toddler who wasn't having it. I tried to ignore Kasper but he was insistent.

  "I can't have you dying in my shop, Cisco." Friends.

  I yawned and checked his work. "If you believe it, I actually feel better somehow."

  He shook his head. "No healing magic, my ass. You figure out what they did to you, you stand to make a lot of money."

  "All for ten easy payments of your immortal soul."

  He tried to smile but held off laughing. Kasper was serious now. An awkward silence filled the shop. He wanted to say something but didn't know how, and I wanted to say something but didn't know what. Kasper had been a borderline friend back in the day. Maybe I couldn't even call him that much today. The pre-nap joviality was gone. Now Kasper was all business. Tying up loose ends. Nothing more.

  He stood. "Listen, uh, you got a place to stay, broham?"

  And there it was. We were done here. There'd be no crashing on his couch. No hiding out in his tattoo parlor. No more Cuban coffee stouts. The old man had done me a solid, but it was time to move on.

  "I'm not sure," I admitted. "Anything would be an improvement after waking up in a dumpster."

  He nodded but didn't ask questions. I could tell he didn't want any more answers. He already knew enough to be in danger.

  My feet were wobbly when I first got up but they found their strength. I stretched my tank top back over my head; it was a torn, bloody, stained mess. The seconds ticked away, and I had to think fast.

  Evan's house kept popping into my head. Despite the black magic lectures, I was pretty sure I could count on him. My best friend was the obvious solution. He wouldn't even mind that I'd stood them up for dinner.

  But I couldn't face Emily. Not yet. I'd rather live on the street, and my old solution of dying wasn't working out. For reasons that were slowly coming into focus, I was feeling better.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fold of bills. "How much do I owe you?"

  "Screw that, Cisco."

  I counted out thirty-seven bucks. A tad under his usual fee. Folded in the wad of bills was a note with Milena's pink handwriting. And her address.

  "You got a computer I can look someone up in?" I asked.

  "Sure do." Kasper pulled out a flat phone. Large, thin, and all glass. Within a few minutes he mapped out Midtown for me.

  "I gotta get me one of those," I said in awe. The future is now.

  Kasper rapped me on the shoulder. "On the run and all you think about is getting a hot piece of snatch."

  "Hey, she's my sister's friend." I frowned. "Was."

  The biker flitted about nervously. "Shit. I'm an asshole. Sorry I brought it up."

  So he'd heard about my family being killed too. "Forget it. You're doing too much already. I owe you."

  He shook his head firmly. "No way. This one's on the house, broham. For old time's sake."

  "You know I hate charity," I told him. "I gotta pay you back somehow."

  My friend looked me in the eye. No hint of levity, philosophy, o
r his usual self. "You can pay me back by staying away from me and my shop. You're in the big time now, Cisco, and that's way out of my league. I don't want you coming 'round here again. If that recolor doesn't protect you, nothing will."

  Welcome: worn out. Kasper opened the door to the street. I waited for a minute and watched a car pass, and my friend couldn't look me in the eye. I couldn't blame him. After I hit the sidewalk, I said, "It's just as well. There's no Corona here anyway."

  Kasper forced a smile. Then he shut the door and bolted it behind me.

  Chapter 25

  My stolen car was still parked on the sidewalk, but the rear windshield had been smashed with a brick. Karmic justice for the illegal parking job. Except karma had hit the wrong guy. At some point the abuelo I stole the car from was gonna get it back. I felt bad about that, but there was nothing I could do. I was already full up on karmic payback.

  This time I got on I-95 and drove north. It was finally getting late so traffic was light. Before I knew it, I exited into a neighborhood I'd never seen before: Midtown Miami, a ritzy stretch of new construction.

  Milena hadn't been kidding when she said she was living okay. Don't get me wrong—she wasn't rich. But these were swank condos in high rises, clean streets, shopping strips, and fancy restaurants. In my book, that was living.

  I parked down the block from her building, a large tower of glass. The marbled lobby was impressive, but security wasn't. I strolled right past the front desk without a word. I've learned the look on your face can be as good as a key: appear like you belong and people don't ask questions.

  One elevator and eighteen floors later, I knocked on her door. Milena opened up wearing a long black T-shirt. It worked as a dress because of her short frame, but hung a little too high on her wide hips and barely covered her underwear.

  Holy moly. If I'd felt dead a second ago, I was fully alive now.

  "Cisco?" she asked in a domestic voice. Not sleepy—it was too early for that—but relaxed.

  "Hey you."

  "Ay dios mío!" she said, noticing my once-white tank top. Where there wasn't dried blood, there was dirt and yellow stains of unknown origin, and plenty of rips and holes to boot. She pulled me inside the condo. "Are you okay?"

  "You alone?" I asked, looking around nervously.

  She nodded. "Let me get a look at you."

  "No," I said. Milena ignored my protests and pulled my shirt off. I think she actually ripped it even more. "What happened to you?"

  "I'm fine," I stressed. "At least some of that blood's not mine. And the scratches and bruises just look bad."

  Milena had to check for herself, but even a stitched bullet wound doesn't look too scary. She nodded, concerned but satisfied. As her excitement wore off, she arched an eyebrow. Instead of worrying about my health, I got the impression she was checking me out. I couldn't blame her. I was the same Cisco Suarez she remembered except beefed up. I suddenly realized she was a hot girl and we were both half naked. I turned away.

  "I've got nowhere else to go," I said, dejected. It hurt to say it. More than I thought it would. I mean, I knew I was pretty much homeless, but saying it out loud hit me hard. So much had changed in ten years. I didn't have a place in this world anymore.

  "You can crash here," she said without a hint of trepidation. "As long as you need."

  I shook my head. "I can't do that to you. I just need one night on your couch. One more day to figure things out."

  I grabbed my shirt from her and tried to fold it. It didn't cooperate. On the third attempt, I just tossed it on the floor. The large living room had a high ceiling and a spacious balcony. The place was organized and my ratty clothes—hell my entire presence—felt like a violation.

  "Nice place you got here, Milena. You can afford this on your own?"

  She smiled coyly and nodded.

  Seleste and Milena were always destined for bright futures. I was stupid enough to think I was too, but that's different. Seleste and Milena were great students. Smart kids. Everything a parent (or grandparent in her case) would ever want.

  "You really made it, huh?" I asked with an impressed smile. Milena shot me a puzzled look. "You and Seleste always had big dreams." She turned away suddenly. It hit me too. "At least one of you made it," I amended. Cisco Suarez, the downer.

  I wandered to the couch. My face tightened and I fought against the urge to cry. To give in. Manly pride fighting a not-so-manly battle. I sat down to buy myself time to recover.

  It was me that had robbed Seleste of her dream. All her promise, ripped away in a puff of black magic.

  Milena didn't say anything for a while. Then she sat beside me and hooked her arm around my shoulders. I flinched at her touch. At first. It wasn't that I didn't like it—I just wasn't used to it. It was strange to me, to have connections in this world. Part old, part new. But it meant something. Human beings are meant for contact. I truly believe that.

  "Sometimes," began Milena in a wistful voice, "the details don't matter. The past. The things we do. The random things that happen." She sighed. It was obvious she thought about Seleste whenever I was around. I hated that I brought her that pain. "Cisco, whatever happened, whatever you did—it's okay. I can see you struggling but... it's okay."

  I turned away again. What did she know? But I realized I was the one who didn't know how to be human anymore. In death, I'd abandoned family and friends. Mom and Dad and Seleste died too. It was Milena that had to deal with that, not me. She'd been the one who needed to move on and make hard decisions.

  I used to think I was smarter than everybody else. Better even. I wasn't weird, they were buffoons. I was a natural at spellcraft, which only reinforced those beliefs. And it distanced me from my family. No matter how powerful or practiced I'd become, I couldn't save them. I couldn't save myself.

  I would have given it all to have them back. My magic. My life, even. Just if they could live.

  Tears welled in my eyes. I wiped my face and clenched my jaw, silently scolding myself. I didn't have time for weakness. It took all my concentration to bottle my emotions. It was a stupid moment, and I hated it, but I won out.

  Milena noticed my brooding and hugged me. She didn't ask questions. She just waited with me in silence. It was comfortable. It felt like friendship. It felt like trust. And I found precious little of that these days.

  The tension eased from my muscles. I wasn't wired anymore. I was still sore (there was plenty of that to go around) but relaxed. I lifted my arm and wrapped it around Milena to hug her back, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. I shouldn't have, but I did.

  Here I was, with a hot girl, but it didn't feel right. I was too worried about what Em would think. How ridiculous was that? Emily was married with a daughter. I guess old hang-ups are the worst kinds.

  I pulled away from the embrace. Milena sat up, slightly embarrassed, then stood abruptly. I almost said something but didn't. She disappeared down the hall, and I was relieved when she returned. She handed me a blanket and pillow and smiled at me without judgment.

  It was a good look. I needed that kind of support right now. I smiled back, then lowered my eyes over her form. Her voluptuous body came with a much smaller waist than I'd remembered. The bottom of her T-shirt was caught on her hip, and we simultaneously realized she was standing there flashing me her underwear. She immediately tugged the hem down.

  "Sorry," I said.

  She waved me off. "No problem." Her words were quick, spoken before I'd finished apologizing.

  I straightened in my seat, wanting to change the subject but having a hard time looking her in the eye. Judging by the way she shifted on her legs, she was having similar thoughts.

  "You know," I said. "I saw Emily today."

  Sometimes I say the dumbest things.

  Milena sat down, surprisingly compassionate. "I'm sorry. I should've told you who she was married to. I just couldn't bring myself to do it after telling you about your family."

  "It's not a big deal. I get
it."

  She nodded but I could tell she still felt bad. "Did you visit Saint Martin's?"

  I pointed to the stitches on my chest. "That's where I got this."

  She leaned in and pressed me down into the cushions. Her fingers traced Kasper's golden mark on the wound. "Magic?"

  "Not mine," I answered groggily.

  She silently ran her fingers up and down my chest. "Maybe you should show me some time."

  I couldn't be sure, but Milena was bordering on flirty. It wasn't the smoothest move on my part, but exactly two seconds later I passed out.

  Hey, gimme a break. How many days have you gotten shot, been bitten by an undead pit bull, trapped by a giant spider, and hunted by a Haitian voodoo gang—all after waking up in a dumpster after getting killed the night before? Sometimes I swear my life is a Twilight Zone episode. Even better: For all I knew, I was living and dying every day, repeating an endless Groundhog Day loop. My own personal flavor of hell.

  Milena had said that details didn't matter sometimes, but she was wrong. Details were what I needed. I knew that I'd been a zombie, but what kind? Serving what cause? What exactly had happened to me? And would I still be alive when I woke up?

  The questions all faded away under Milena's caress, and I dreamt of many things, both living and dead.

  Chapter 26

  I woke up the next day, cold as a corpse, buried under a thick blanket. Milena must've kept her AC set to arctic. I was lying lengthwise on the couch, which would've been more comfortable had it been more than a glorified loveseat. My head and legs arched over the armrests and I think there was a remote lodged into my back.

  It was the most comfortable I'd been in days.

  "Just in time for breakfast," said Milena in a chipper voice that hurt my ears.

  I pulled the blanket away. She was behind the bar in the kitchen. I sat up, excited for bacon and omelets and biscuits. Two frozen waffles popped out of the toaster.