Fire Water (Black Magic Outlaw Book 5) Page 2

  What had he done to them?

  "Your time has come," said Chevalier in a measured Haitian accent.

  "You kidding? Where's the rest of your army?"

  The bokors gritted their teeth. One of the kids pulled a burlap sack from his waist. I jerked my hand. A twine of shadow extended from beneath the dumpster and lashed his wrist. He dropped the sack and spilled frog legs on the street.

  "Nobody think about making fast moves," I warned. "Or even slow, stupid ones."

  The young gangbanger stared at me blankly, ignoring the pain from the shadow whip. He'd grown a lot in the two months since I'd seen him. Something had emboldened him.

  I turned to my friend again. "I know you're pissed about the Horn, Chevalier, but I'll get it back."

  He cocked his head. "The Horn."

  The other full-grown bokor grabbed a cross around his neck. I sent the shadow at him but he rolled away. He backed out of range and let his hands fall to his side. For a second I thought I'd warned him off his spell. Then I heard rustling in the garbage underneath me.

  "Oh, screw this," I said. I hopped out of the dumpster before whatever animated vermin was in there could snap at me. My boots clapped on the blacktop. Only Chevalier tensed at my approach.

  "Back off," I warned.

  The bokors rushed me. I stepped back against the dumpster and slipped into the shadow beneath it. In my ethereal form, I slid to the side of the obstacle and rematerialized at the flank of the converging gang members. I grabbed the back of the closest head and slammed it into the steel wall. He went down without a fight. Yup, still human.

  With my foot still in a bit of shadow, I drew some around my fist and punched the older man in the chest. He tumbled to the ground. The third swiped me with a blade, slashing my right forearm, the one without the protective tattoo.

  "Ah!" I recoiled away from the knife, into the sunlight.

  A bright red line opened on my arm. Sizzling fluid escaped the cut. I instinctively reached for a neutralization powder in my belt pouch before remembering it was gone. When the kid came at me again, I fended him off with my left forearm. My Nordic protection flared to life. I caught him with a vanilla punch to the jaw. He fell away, rubbing his chin.

  Curiously, Chevalier hadn't made a move yet. And he was the one I was most worried about.

  "What is this about?" I asked. "We're supposed to be friends."

  "Friends," said Chevalier flatly, without recognition. If he wasn't standing right before me I would've sworn it wasn't him. It was like he didn't know me anymore.

  The kid who kissed the dumpster was still out cold, but the man had regained his feet. The other kid slashed his knife menacingly in the air.

  I was in the sun now. I could still pull some tricks with the shadow, but I couldn't draw it to me. I grimaced at the wound that continued sizzling on my arm, blackening the flesh around it. I had no choice but to draw my own knife from my belt.

  This wasn't a Crocodile Dundee number by any means. It was a small, ceremonial thing. Bronze with a curved blade. Perfect for cutting yourself like a moody teenager but not much else. Still, it was all I had.

  "Stop this, Chevalier, before somebody gets hurt." I didn't want to cut them, but they were coming at me pretty hard.

  My friend's eyes flashed when he saw the knife. He raised a hand and his men paused in unison, waiting for his order.

  That's when I saw it. Chevalier's eyes are silver so I hadn't noticed at first, but his right eye was glazed over just like the others.

  They were thralls of some sort. Slaves, like I had been. Not quite dead but devoid of the best parts of life. Only Chevalier wasn't completely gone yet. He still had one good eye and tried to speak. He recognized the bronze knife.

  "You know this?" I said carefully, presenting the ceremonial voodoo blade. "It was yours once. You gave it to me. Remember?"

  "Mine," he said.

  I nodded. The bubbling on my arm had mostly stopped. "We're friends."

  A quick intake of air and then, "Friends," he repeated.

  By now the kid on the floor was groggily shaking his head. His now-brown eyes took in his surroundings with confusion. "Jean-Louis," he said. "Jean-Louis."

  The head of the Bone Saints turned to him sharply. The startled initiate froze under his glare. "Kill the shadow charmer," grunted Chevalier. "Kill Cisco Suarez."

  The kid swiveled to me slowly and, right before my eyes, his brown irises went white.

  This was some Borg-level shit right here.

  Chevalier sneered and his men mimicked the expression. Together they brandished weapons of spellcraft. Things were about to get dirty.

  The second they stepped toward me, someone kicked the alley door in the brick wall open. The bokors spun around. The man with the cross necklace took to the air like a kite and landed twenty feet behind me.

  Out of the door stepped a small girl with a bob of bright red hair. She wore ripped skinny jeans, a Fugazi T-shirt, and gummy bracelets. Just a teenager, but one of the most powerful telekinetic witches I'd ever met. She waved a statuette of Hecate, the Greek witch god, to the side. Another bokor flung in that direction.

  "Get inside!" she screamed.

  I kicked the back of Chevalier's knee, forcing him to buckle to the ground without breaking anything. Then I elbowed him in the face to force him lower. I rushed past the Haitian and went inside without thinking it over. Darcy hopped in behind me and bolted the door shut.

  "Follow me," she said firmly, marching down the hall. She stopped when she noticed I wasn't complying. Gummy bracelets went to her hips. "What is it?"

  I tickled the shadow on the floor, ready for her to make a move. "The last time I saw you, I was chained to a wall for hours."

  She held her fetish at her side. "I didn't do that."

  "You sure helped."

  She shrugged. "Look, you're not in shackles now. I can't keep you out of the shadows. And in case you're not paying attention, you're either with me or you're with them." She nodded to the door, which the Bone Saints started banging on.

  "I'm not so sure you're better," I said. "They're the devil I know."

  She scoffed. "You don't know them. Not anymore." She stormed to the front of the building.

  I waited alone in what would have been silence were it not for the incessant attempts to break in. The door rumbled on its hinges. The bokors were getting more creative.

  I sighed and caught up to Darcy. "Where are you going?"

  She weaved past cubicles with stoic determination. "All I know is I'm getting out of here. You should too until you understand what's going on."

  "What is going on?"

  She cracked the front door and peeked both ways down the sidewalk. Satisfied, she threw it open and led me to a VW Bus painted bright orange. The roof and window trim were white. "Get in and I'll tell you."

  The driver was a heavyset woman I didn't recognize. All business, from the short black hair to the functional yet drab clothing. She barely glanced at me before starting the van.

  I turned to Darcy. "Get into that hippie wagon? With you?"

  "I helped you once before. Let me help you again."

  The teenage witch climbed in the back, leaving the door open for me.

  Since no one else was listening, I grumbled to myself. Darcy was just a kid, but she was powerful. Her spellcraft had been vital in imprisoning me two months prior. I didn't blame her for too much of that, though. She worked for a secret society I'd butted heads with a few times. For her part she was just a kid in training.

  But what she said was true. She had helped me before, in a way. She'd been unsettled at my capture and at Connor's attack on my family. And while she didn't exactly help me escape, she saw it happening and didn't intervene.

  I grumbled one last time to get it out of my system and jumped in the bright orange van.

  Chapter 5

  Of all my stupid moves, this had to rank among the most desperate. Accepting a ride from this crowd? It wasn'
t that I didn't know who they were. Quite the opposite. The problem was I knew exactly who they were.

  The Society of Free Thinkers, if memory served me right. The Society for short. They're an American business collective from frontier times, if you can believe that. Apparently "free thinker" is code for animist in this context. Which is fair enough. Spellcraft has been vilified for as long as it has existed. I can understand the need for secrets.

  The Society is every bit as mysterious as it sounds. One part political lobbying machine, one part wizard's guild. I used to liken them to a cartel before I had a legit drug cartel on my ass. Now I saw them as independent actors, tied to Connor Hatch's business dealings, but not part of the drug trade.

  That hadn't stopped me from making enemies. Rotten memories flooded my head. Simon the lightning animist, their ruthless enforcer. Shen the illusionist. Even Darcy the telekinetic.

  These animists were no friends of mine. They'd wanted the Horn just like Connor. By now they knew I didn't have it.

  So what the hell did they want from me?

  I kept my head low as we drove through the crowded street and had to admit the win here. Uncomfortable conversations were cake compared to fighting every two-bit street necromancer in South Beach.

  "So what's going on?" I asked Darcy. "Why are they chasing me?"

  She shook her head. "Are you serious? This is your fault. You gave Connor the Horn. What did you think would happen?"

  I grimaced. I'd surrendered the artifact to keep my family safe. I'd do it a hundred times over. The trick was getting it back. I promised myself I would. Promised others. The weeks had passed without any headway and, in the absence of consequences, I maybe kinda got a little lax.

  I rubbed ashes from my hair. No consequences. Yeah, right.

  The driver silently took us toward North Miami Beach.

  "Where are we going?"

  Darcy yawned. "A safe house."

  "Safe how?"

  She stared at me in annoyance. "Safely away from Connor and his men."

  "He's a jinn," I explained. "Connor can teleport at will. It's kind of his thing. Physical distance doesn't help."

  "That means he doesn't know where you are. If he did, he would have attacked you by now." She glanced behind us. "Besides, physical distance from that ambush of necromancers helps. Berna won't let anyone follow us. The safe house is warded. Connor and his thralls won't be able to get in."

  "Excuse me if I remain a tad jumpy."

  Sorry, but I didn't trust the cool confidence of a teenager. That attitude came from the movies, not experience. At the same time, if anyone knew what they were doing, it was the Society. And I wasn't stupid enough to think Darcy and Berna were running this show by themselves. The last time they had me, I'd been introduced to Margo Gray, an enigmatic woman who everyone obeyed without question. I winced at the thought of seeing the old lady again.

  We pulled into the underground parking garage of a high-rise condo.

  "Just drop us here, Berna," said Darcy. The driver wordlessly slowed to a stop by the elevator. I hopped out.

  "Going down?" I said in an ominous voice.

  "Keep your dad jokes to yourself," she replied. She pushed the up button and stepped inside.

  She was right. I had better material. We rode to the top floor in silence.

  The building was new and modestly fancy. Two units on top. We entered the north one and were greeted with a panoramic view of Biscayne Bay on one wall and the Atlantic on the other. I'd expected a crack team of animists. All I got was a white guy in flip-flops eating cheese puffs.

  "Hey man," he said, not bothering to get up from his lounger. He had long hair and a beer belly and was well into his sixties. He wore a loud, multi-colored shirt and a tan handkerchief rolled into a headband. As we measured each other, his hand dug into a family-size bag of cheese puffs. The unmistakable scent of marijuana hung in the air.

  "This explains the VW van," I said.

  "A timeless classic," he beamed.

  "Who are you?"

  "Your best friend, Cisco."

  I glanced around the serene penthouse. Darcy stepped to the panoramic window and stared at the ocean. I waited for Margo to stroll in but no one else was here. Granted, this was an improvement from the junky warehouse I'd last met the Society in, but it was still unexpected.

  "Are you kidding me?" I asked Darcy. "What is this guy, your weed hookup?"

  He laughed and licked cheese dust off his fingertips. "I haven't heard that one before. You should make fun of my long hair and jean shorts next. I find those to be popular targets."

  "I was actually gonna go with the Jim Morrison necklace."

  He laughed and stood up. My face darkened. Hard to get at a guy who didn't take himself seriously.

  "You should see what you're wearing," he said before stepping out of the room.

  I checked my clothes. The jeans were scorched from Connor's fire but had held up okay. The white tank top... not so much. It was blackened and full of holes. The old man returned and tossed a T-shirt my way. I caught it and unfolded it as he sat down.

  "This is a bright-orange Phish T-shirt," I noted. "It matches the van."

  He shrugged. "It's a less conspicuous look than burn victim."

  I scowled and put it on. "Why am I here?"

  He held his hands up in peace. "Cool it, man. I just said I was your friend."

  "Friend? I know who you guys are. You're working with a psychopathic drug kingpin who's trying to kill me." I tossed my scorched shirt on the floor to emphasize the point.

  He nodded. "The Society tolerates Connor, yes. Were he to be deposed, we would just be forced to connect with whatever neighboring power assumed his place. It's simple macro-politics, man. A security measure. Make allies with those with whom you share borders."

  "Tell me why I give a shit about your motivations again?"

  He smiled. "Let's just say we both give a shit about Connor's."

  I narrowed my eyes. By any legitimate measure, this man was the jinn's business partner. That didn't mean they were buddies, necessarily. I knew that much. And this guy was old enough to be a real player in the Society, like Margo Gray. Someone who could clue me in. Except unlike the Gray Lady, he hadn't put me in handcuffs for the sit-down.

  "I'm listening," I conceded.

  He crinkled the bag of chips closed. "Connor Hatch owns the Caribbean. You know that. Strange hobby for a jinn. His fascination with the New World has grown with his time here. He's particularly interested in the area's legends. The Fountain of Youth, the Bermuda Triangle. You've seen his collection of artifacts on his private island. You've recently added to it. That was a grievous mistake, Cisco. It's what turned those men on the streets against you."

  Subjugation. The Horn's true power and one I hadn't tapped. In the hands of a psychopath, it could prove a deadly weapon. Chevalier had known that.

  "You're his partner," I said. "Can't you do something about that?"

  "It doesn't work like that, Cisco. He's a participating member of the Society, but it's mainly a partnership to protect our coastal interests. We have more sway in the Northeast and the South. South Florida's a whole different beast. An international beast. Without his influence, the gate to Latin America would be unguarded."

  "From what?"

  "Everything and anything that concerns us, man. 'What' isn't important. The 'why' is all you need to understand. People think we're the Illuminati but we're just territorial businessmen and women. Nothing more."

  "Who all use spellcraft."

  "Granted, but it isn't magic that makes a man. Wouldn't you agree?" He uncrinkled the bag in his lap and snuck in another cheese puff. "I swear, these things are more addictive than the powder he pushes."

  I paced to the window. "I already got the necessary-evil lecture from Margo. Is she a part of this too?"

  "Margo?" My host tossed the bag of chips on the end table and wiped his hands on his jean shorts. "The Gray Lady's a bit overzealous
in her fanaticism, don't you think? Or is that fanatical in her zeal? I mean, anybody who has a contingent of royal guards takes themselves too seriously."

  "So what is this then? What is she to you?"

  "Board members," he said. "We get equal votes but don't always have equal say. That's how business works."

  "A happy-go-lucky bunch of free thinkers, huh?"

  He shrugged, amused. "You really do hate the Society. Eh, I hate them too. More than you, I bet."

  "Yet you rose to power in their ranks?"

  "What better way to keep them off your back? Listen, man. We all have our own moral compasses. Our own goals to drive us forward. We're not Hydra. I want to strip Connor of his power too. Take away the violence he brings to the streets. Trust me, that business with the gang war wasn't on my radar. I'm afraid Connor's more plugged in to South Florida than we are. That's why you need to understand what's going on here. You'll never catch him otherwise."

  I took a slow breath and licked my lips. There was no way I trusted the old hippie, but so far he wasn't torturing me. And Darcy was all right. I stretched my neck and leaned over the back of the couch opposite him, still standing.

  "So what's Connor up to?"

  "That's the magic question, isn't it?" The man leaned forward in the chair and steepled his fingers. "I believe Connor's looking for a lost city of gold."

  I crossed my arms and stood there blinking. "You can't be serious."

  "Why not?"

  My eyes flashed to Darcy and back to him. "Come on. Those are new-world myths."

  "Like artifacts that raise the dead? Like magic?"

  "I get the point. But just because some of the supernatural is real doesn't make every whisper of legend authentic. Otherwise we'd have unicorns shitting rainbows everywhere we looked."

  The old hippie leaned back again, taking my skepticism in stride. He wasn't put off by it. He'd expected it. "What's unbelievable, exactly? That gold exists in the New World? That the Spanish Crown funded their naval empire on what they reaped from the Americas? That there might still be some left?"