Heart Strings (Black Magic Outlaw Book 3) Read online

  Garcia shrugged.

  My friend snorted. "You keep shoveling that BS, Garcia. You want command of the DROP team? Do it based on merit instead of mudslinging. We're all after the same thing here. I have the same intel as you. The local gangs had dealings with someone named Cisco two weeks ago, but all contact was since cut off. A known accomplice, now missing, had once used this site."

  Missing. I guess that was the official story they were going with on paper. The vampire was dead in reality. Those were his metal teeth on my shelf.

  I eavesdropped intently. Evan was doing what I expected. After all, he couldn't readily admit that his old buddy Cisco was back from the dead, determined to kill anyone with a hand in his murder. Besides a first name, no one knew who I really was except for Evan and the supernatural bastards I wanted to kill. That worked in my favor because they couldn't come right out and reveal my identity without risking exposure. Besides, my ID wouldn't help anybody. It's not like I have an address of record, unless you count Saint Martin's Cemetery.

  The real problem was that Evan constantly second-guessed my motives, just as I did his. My ex, Emily, had worked with the Covey. Now she was Evan's wife. I was sure Evan didn't know the truth back then, but I would kill to read his mind now. Where did his loyalties lie?

  I guess I'd gotten my answer as soon as he barged into my Everglades hideaway.

  Sergeant Garcia scoffed. "You're one to talk about merit. You were gifted this job through your wife's connections. Except I hear Commissioner Alvarez isn't too happy with you these days. It's only a matter of time before you're back in uniform at Central Station."

  Evan clenched his jaw and stepped right into the shorter man's personal space. Before he could get a word out, the skinny detective returned.

  "Nothing outside, sir. It's just wilderness. No signs of a camp or hunting or anything. Maybe we should call Fish and Wildlife?"

  Evan winced. "Don't bother. FWC won't find anything." He glared at Sergeant Garcia. "We have other possible locations and we're going to check each one to rule them out. Cisco's in Miami, and we're going to find him."

  Evan Cross stormed to the doorway. Garcia shrugged with a smile, and ran his flashlight over the rafters. I shied away as light washed over me. The shadow could only help so much. I ducked onto the overhang and my alligator boot slipped and echoed against the metal.

  The beam of light froze. Evan's came back on and pointed my way, soon joined by Mullen's.

  "What was that?" asked Garcia.

  "An animal?" suggested Mullen.

  I pressed myself down on the corrugated metal eave overhanging the boat platform. The weight made the rotted support beam give way. A steel brace broke free and the entire panel, with me on it, bent and clattered to the cement floor outside the front of the boathouse. A monster truck crash would've made less noise.

  Smooth. From eavesdropping to eave dropping. I was on a roll.

  Chapter 3

  "Someone's there!" yelled Evan, mobilizing his troops.

  At the moment, there was a wall dividing me from said troops. Although it had several roll-up doors, they were locked. Evan and the others would run around through the front door, only set back by several seconds.

  The cops already outside were a more immediate problem, but I didn't see any on the boat platform. I spun, considering my options. Time was quickly running out. Without really thinking, I made a beeline for the edge of the platform and bounded into the swamp. I splashed down just as the DROP team rounded the corner.

  "It's in the water!"

  "What is it?"

  I kicked my feet and went deeper, thankful the moon wasn't bright tonight. Flashlight beams broke the water. I put the silver whistle to my lips and blew some air into it that bubbled past me. I hoped it would work.

  I checked another tree frog's vision. The cops were outside, guns drawn, facing the swamp. They knew something had been in the rafters and jumped in the swamp, but they didn't know what. With any luck they would chalk it up to Everglades creepiness.

  I swam further away from their search, kicking up mud from the swamp floor. My chest grew tight. I had to surface. Luckily I found a thick patch of saw grass to come up behind. They don't call it the River of Grass for nothing.

  "That was not a damn bird," swore Garcia, after I could hear them again. "It went into the water." Several DROP team officers swept their gazes over the surface of the swamp.

  "He's right," said Evan grudgingly. "It was big. We can search the swamp if we need to." Evan pulled a radio to his lips. "Miami, you there?"

  The speaker buzzed back. A female dispatcher spoke out individual letters. "QSL." Miami Q codes.

  "This is DROP 1. Does SRT have an airboat unit on standby?" asked Evan.

  "QRX, DROP 1."

  I grimaced. If the cops got an airboat out here, I could never outrun them.

  "Hold it," called out Garcia. He pointed to the center of the swamp. A fifteen-foot alligator surfaced and floated lazily past them.

  Two of the detectives recoiled from the water. Mullen raised his rifle.

  "It was a gator," said the sergeant.

  Evan's forehead knotted. "In the rafters?"

  The cops turned and examined the roof of the boathouse. The panel I'd jarred loose was still half attached with its other end touching the cement floor. It was basically a ramp to the roof now.

  "Was this overhang like that before?" asked Mullen. An officer shrugged.

  Meanwhile, the alligator drifted away from them and towards my spot in the grass.

  Evan scratched his head and spoke into the radio. "Miami? 0-7 that airboat request. We're not gonna need it."

  "QSL, DROP 1," came the answer as he clipped the radio back to his vest.

  "Now I've seen everything," laughed Garcia nervously. He lowered his weapon. "Look how big that thing is."

  He wasn't kidding. Fifteen feet of leathery hide, all swimming my way. The police abandoned their search of the swamp, choosing instead to focus on the alligator. It would be difficult to make a move with them watching.

  I waited, as still as the unrippled surface of the water. The black creature neared. Its eyes were dark orbs on a barren island. As the gator reached my patch of grass, he lifted his head and revealed a long set of dirty teeth.

  I calmly checked the boathouse. Garcia was still watching, but it couldn't be helped. I had to chance it. With a deep breath, I slipped beneath the water. The alligator passed and I reached underneath and grabbed his front leg. Once I was hitched, the gator kicked ahead and swam into the darkness.

  Yes, I had an alligator zombie too. Admittedly not the cuddliest pet, but you can't blame me. I'd been in the Everglades for weeks without TV or internet. I couldn't afford to be choosy with my hobbies.

  I held my breath as long as I could before bringing my face up for air alongside the alligator's thick body. It was a good angle that hid me from distant onlookers. Not a lot of people know this—hell, I didn't know it until my stint in the Glades—but gators can work up a good clip in the water, something approaching twenty miles per hour. I was one Mr. Toad's Wild Ride away from safety. (No, I didn't name my gator Mr. Toad, although now that I think of it, I wish I did. His actual moniker? Leatherhead. Am I a product of the TV generation or what?)

  In no time my chauffeur got me to an embankment far from the action. I scrambled past the mud and did my best to empty my boots, but the grime was staying with me for a while. I tossed my water-logged cell phone into the water and was just coming to terms with my predicament when Leatherhead jerked his head around.

  A stray black cat hopped through tall grass and glanced my way with bright green eyes. The gator took a step toward it.

  "Not this time," I commanded. "Go distract the boys at the boathouse."

  Leatherhead waddled off silently. If he hadn't been a zombie I would've sworn he was disappointed.

  I wasn't partial to feeding cats to gators. This cat, specifically, was special. He was one of my thralls, another zombie, except I'd lost my connection with him many miles and a couple weeks back.

  "Come here, boy."

  The black cat blinked bored eyes at me.

  I put my whistle to my lips, blew the water out, and called the cat with a silent chime. It turned away, waved an angry tail at me, and jumped into the brush. Cats.

  "Bad zombie," I grumbled.

  I took careful steps after him, wondering what the hell was up. Believe it or not, despite my current accommodations, I'm not much of an outdoorsman. Navigating through wetlands in the middle of the night wasn't my idea of fun.

  "Is someone out there?" came a crisp voice. I ducked into the grass. Another flashlight. Another officer. His radio chirped and he called for backup.

  What was the DROP team still checking the perimeter for?

  "City of Miami Police," he announced. "If someone's out there, identify yourself."

  I frowned. I wasn't Cisco Suarez, I was a snake. A gator. A woodland creature. I just needed to stay low and he'd give up his search.

  The cat made a hacking sound, like a bark mixed with a growl. The officer swept his beam of light across the tall grass. The cat's eyes flashed yellow as the light hit them.

  He was staring at me. He wanted to show me something.

  I waited till the flashlight scanned another area and crawled ahead. I shoved and shook the tall grass, but it couldn't be helped. Either I moved or I was a sitting duck. Like a cartoon prison fugitive, I froze when the light washed over me and continued moving while in darkness. All I needed what a black-and-white striped suit.

  "You sure you see someone?" asked another officer from a distance. "We have lots of wildlife in the area. The lieutenant says we should pull back inside."

  The other officer, much closer
to me: "They don't got wolves out here, do they?"

  A beat. "Panthers, I think."

  The officer paused again. I didn't. I continued rustling ahead. I chased the cat to a tree, broke free of the grass, and kneeled in a circle of dirt. The cat was gone.

  "Over there, I think," the officer said.

  At the base of the tree was a ditch framed by two large roots. A den of sorts.

  "You've got to be kidding," I muttered. "He went all Peter Rabbit on me."

  The boot steps approached from behind. I checked around for the cat, but I knew where it had gone. With an exhausted sigh, I slipped into the hole in the ground, hoping there was a nook of shadow to hide in that the flashlight couldn't reach.

  There was a nook all right.

  Chapter 4

  When you slip into an animal den, there are lots of things that can surprise you. Teeth, claws, venom—a hibernating bear. What I didn't expect was for the ground to give out. One second I was squeezing into a claustrophobic ditch, the next I was in free fall.

  I tumbled head over heels for a prolonged second before my back thudded against solid ground. As your animist tour guide, I immediately figured where I was. It's just that I hadn't seen anything like it in quite a while. I guess, considering my ten-year sabbatical, there were a lot of things I hadn't seen for a while.

  I was in a cavern of sorts. Something that would be real cozy with the mole people. Wide walls of bored dirt formed a large room with two exit passages leading away from each other at an angle. The ceiling was hardened dirt as well, with roots dangling in the air like claws. Behind me, the soil ramped up to a small entry filled with blinding light.

  This wasn't the normal under-earth. Dig ten feet deep anywhere in Miami and you'll find water, especially in the Everglades. This earth was lower than that. Only accessible by magic. In outdated legends, this was where magic came from.

  You and I know that to be inaccurate, but it didn't make the place any less mysterious. I now sat in the Nether, what many call the underworld.

  It's not damnation. It's not the shadow world, full of spirits of the dead, or anything like that. It's more like a lateral realm. Just another place, except this one ain't on Google Maps. The Nether isn't really in the same space as everything else, but if you know a bit of spellcraft (or happen to get inordinately lucky) you can find the nooks and crannies that lead here. What I found is called a rabbit hole by people in the know (like yours truly).

  For perspective, it's important to realize that The World We Know is divided into steppes. The Earthly Steppe is Miami, North America, China, the planets, and the deepest reaches of space. What we call the universe. But there's another steppe below us: the Nether, land of the silvans. There are other types of Nether creatures, too—fiends, giants, scourgelings. They're sometimes collectively known as the fae or the wild folk, but the others aren't important. The true players down here are the silvans.

  Humans aren't inherently magical. The few animists among us require spirits to channel magic. Nether beings, however, are born of it. They don't cast spells so much as utilize natural defense mechanisms. It's literally instinct with them. The West African vampire that killed me a decade ago, whose metal teeth rested on a shelf in my hideaway? He had been a Nether fiend.

  So it's safe to say I was a wee bit nervous at having already drawn the attention of two of the fabled creatures. They stood over me with perplexed expressions, making me feel like a medical school cadaver.

  Call me a pig, but the girl drew my eye first. It wasn't my fault, really, on account of her slight dress. What amounted to a sash of red cloth wrapped her small chest between her bare shoulders and midriff. Her impossibly skinny waist was well-muscled and transitioned into a shag of bona fide horse legs, complete with straight tail and white hooves.

  She was a satyr, supple and feminine on top, yet powerful underneath.

  She was pretty, too. Large doe eyes on a childlike face. Expressive eyebrows and flowing black hair that curled across her slender shoulders and back. I'd feel remiss if I failed to mention the flesh-toned horse ears that flopped down either side of her face, each with a large gold hoop earring. She wore only the bright red sash and a matching wrap around her waist.

  Her companion was her polar opposite, and don't assume because I mentioned her first that he blended into the background, because he didn't. Like, not at all. He was huge, imposing, and—there's no gentle way to say this—a minotaur. That meant he had a full-on bull's head, ears twice as long as the satyr's (with twice as many earrings), thick brown horns planted in his skull (more earrings somehow), and a red Mohawk and chin-beard. And man, gold hoops must be the height of silvan fashion because he had a huge one that put all the others to shame dangling from his nostrils.

  The minotaur's body was covered in a sheen of short brown fur, thinned over the chest and stomach to show off more muscles than I could count. He only wore a shoulder strap and simple leather breeches that cut out under his knees to reveal thick legs ending in black hooves.

  As I studied him, he made a throaty grumble that vibrated his cheeks.

  "Uh..." I started meekly, "you kind folks didn't happen to see my cat, did you?"

  The minotaur's grumble ended in a sharp snort that shook the ring in his nose. "A human," he growled, considering the situation. "I hate humans."

  "If it's any consolation, I'm with you on hating a fair share of humans too."

  Another rumble-snort. The minotaur turned to the satyr. "We should kill him."

  Sheesh. That's silvans for you.

  Everybody knows what silvans are. Not always by name, but we've all seen the artwork. We've all heard the legends. There once was a time way back that silvans interacted with humans openly. Greek scholars debated their nature. Sages sought out their advice. It wasn't until the Middle Ages that human technology became a real threat to them. Mass warfare, the end of paganism, it caused the silvans to lie low and all but disappear.

  So yeah, maybe a little bad blood between the races. But, to be fair, they have their own perfectly good steppe called the Nether. You don't see too many humans foraging down here on their turf. Present company excluded.

  I watched the satyr hopefully. Tried to find sympathy in her light-brown eyes. Some common ground, maybe.

  You're not supposed to trust silvans, you know, but satyrs are generally good-natured. Throughout history they've often brought luck upon mankind. I could use some of that.

  "I really don't think I'm worth killing," I chanced. "Just a human, and all that." I waited for her verdict.

  Her brown eyes pinched closed in mirth. The satyr opened her mouth and... giggled.

  Not exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for.

  The minotaur grunted and his jowls settled into a smile. Then he reached over his shoulder and drew a kukri from a sheath on his back. At least now I knew what the leather shoulder strap was for. Just my luck it was a giant knife with a bent blade.

  Chapter 5

  Kukris are mean-looking short swords that sport a sharp angle in the middle of the blade. The inward bend makes it more of a raking weapon, imposing leverage in close quarters. Good for tunnels, I figured. The minotaur jabbed it in my general direction.

  Whether it was a strike or a warning, I didn't hesitate to phase into the darkness. There are lots of problems with the Nether, but no one will ever tell you it isn't well shadowed. Even next to a rabbit hole, I had good coverage down here. My body backed into the ground, slipped into the darkness, and slid forward, between the two silvans.

  This kind of dash only works for short distances. A few yards, maybe more with a long shadow. The good thing is, when you're talking giant knives, sometimes a couple inches is all the difference between life and death.

  I materialized behind the wild folk before they caught on to what had happened. Taking advantage of their confusion, I drew a line from the shadow, a tight cord of ether that wrapped around the minotaur's blade like a whip. My hand with the dog collar bracelet—my fetish to Opiyel, the Shadow Dog—closed into a fist and wrenched to the side. The shadow whip mimicked the motion, tugging hard at the kukri.