Powder Trade (Black Magic Outlaw Book 4) Read online

  The bokor scanned the contents of the van carefully, without touching anything.

  "I assume you were prepared to pay for that bag," I said.

  "Of course. I have eight-hundred thousand dollars ready for the transaction. What are you doing with the rest of it?"

  "There's gotta be three times what you were expecting in there. Why not triple the price?"

  Chevalier turned away and took a thoughtful lap around the boathouse. I got the feeling he was doing more than just considering my offer. "I don't have that kind of capital," he concluded. "But it would be a favor to take it off your hands. Without the resources to distribute it, the stash would only bring trouble."

  He was probably right about that. I didn't mind taking money from drug dealers, but I wasn't one myself. Chevalier's money would double what I already had. I might be homeless but I wasn't poor. Truthfully, money kinda just sits around when you don't have a power outlet to stick expensive electronics into. And a Maserati probably wouldn't handle well in the Everglades. But those creature comforts were for later. For a time after I'd exacted revenge. For a time when, maybe, I could actually have something resembling a real life. Now wasn't that time.

  The new leader of the Bone Saints examined the trinkets on the metal shelf. Again, he was respectful not to touch anything. Best way to piss off an animist is to touch their spell tokens.

  "You have the Horn," he said nonchalantly. "Do you not?"

  And there it was. The real reason for the bokor's visit.

  You see, the Covey had architected my quest to find the Horn of Subjugation. Sure, they'd used me to start a gang war and hit minor rivals, but my shadow magic was the Taíno link they needed. The way to find the Spaniard. And it had worked.

  The wraith was more powerful than even I cared to find out. You think making someone blow their head off comes easily? Truth was, I hadn't fully realized what the "subjugation" part of the artifact's name referred to. I presumed the Spaniard had controlled the natives as his minions, had performed unspeakable acts in the pursuit of power. Their ire had been well earned.

  And this is my ally we're talking about.

  Naturally, the Miami necromancer community was a bit skittish to hear of the Horn. Their power, they thought, was absolute. Life and death. The last thing they wanted unleashed in their city was an object that could bring the spellcraft of death under its thumb.

  The Horn was the real reason Chevalier had come. The drugs were just a pretense.

  "I never found it," I said flatly. "That was the vampire and the others. You know that."

  He nodded, humoring me but not worried about selling it. I approached him as his eyes passed over the lead safe.

  It was unlocked, but it wasn't undefended. I kept it blanketed in shadow. Nothing overt, but enough that the eyes should pass over it. A simple trick, for sure, but an effective one. Problem was, most of the simple tricks don't work on other animists. It's not that we're immune to illusion, but we tend to be familiar with the trade. Our eyes look for the card up the sleeve or the spare that was palmed.

  I got lucky. The bokor continued past and finished his survey of my home, coming to a stop before me. "You will alert me then, if you find it?"

  I clenched my jaw. "I'm not looking. Like you said about the drugs, it would only bring trouble."

  He appeared satisfied. "So you agree to let me take the van?"

  "Actually," I countered, "I'll agree if you can supplement your original payment."

  His voice was impatient. "I already told you, Suarez—"

  "Not money," I interrupted. "Information. You're the head of a big bad gang now. Your finger's on the pulse of the magical community."

  "Ah. You want information."

  "You're damn right I do. There's a thing going down tonight. Don't know where but it might involve go-fast boats. Word is Connor Hatch is coming into town to personally make the deal."

  He repeated the name with a grim expression. "Connor Hatch."

  "Head of the Agua Fuego cartel. These are his drugs you're buying. You know him?"

  "Just what the street knows."

  "And what does the street say about the meet tonight?"

  He shook his head. "The street has been unusually silent on that subject."

  Milena jumped in. "But you can find out, right?"

  "I do not have cartel connections," he insisted.

  She rolled her eyes. "But you can make them, right?"

  He scowled at her.

  "It's important," I added before they butted heads some more. "I know going against Agua Fuego is bad business, but I just want information. Keep in mind this is the guy who started your gang war. Who wants the Horn of Subjugation."

  He smiled slyly. "This is also the man who killed you, yes?"

  "It is. In a roundabout sorta way."

  The bokor nodded. "So you give me the drugs and I give you your vengeance."

  "Don't forget that bag of money," I added.

  His smile stiffened, but he agreed to terms. "I knew I liked you, Suarez."

  I shook his hand on the way out. "As long as you don't knock my zombies out of commission anymore, the feeling's mutual." I watched him leave just to make sure, and I sent out the pigeon to keep eyes on him further down the path.

  Milena finally relaxed. "Can you trust that guy? He looks kinda scary."

  That guy had helped me take down the murderous vampire who started this whole ride. I knew Chevalier could be dependable, if he wanted to be. "Right now," I answered, "I need someone scary."

  I pulled the stiff card with a magical rune from my pocket and glowered at it. Researching the Horn was on hold, but researching this thing needed to happen stat. Chevalier was working the gang angle. That gave me time to check in on an old friend.

  Chapter 9

  I parked my beat-up pickup outside the tattoo shop. Loose gravel crunched under my boots on the way to the sidewalk. Milena hopped beside me with a spring in her step.

  "Is this where you got your ink?" she asked.

  I rubbed the protective Nordic runes on my left palm and forearm. "If the stories are true." They were done back when I was a thrall, so I had no memory of the experience.

  She gave me the side eye but moved on. "So what are we doing here?"

  I pulled on the parlor door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Not many people looking to get work done at nine in the morning. Especially not the crowd that came to this joint. "We're looking for a guy with a tattoo, right?"

  Milena brushed past me and went inside. I probably should've warned her about the business owner, but she was intent on handling herself. Showing me she was capable. I saw a little of me in that. She had a problem and was tackling it head on, whether or not smart came into play.

  I held the door as she went ahead. A scrawny old guy with a long biker beard greeted her. His bare chest was covered in tattoos of all stripes. Flags, Lovecraftian creatures, and girls showing their naughty bits. He wore red-tinted glasses and looked like a cross between a homeless vet and a rock star, though the illusion was shattered by his round pot belly. That was from the beer.

  "A new customer," he said in a voice only a smoker could have. "Got any tattoos, little lady?"

  Milena chuckled. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

  He snorted. "That's a no. A virgin, then."

  She turned away and rolled her eyes. I closed the door gently but remained in the entrance nook and watched.

  "Let me guess, honey," said the man, sizing her up. His finger ran in the air, pointing at her up and down before pausing on her generous behind. "Butt cheek?"

  Milena scowled. "In your dreams, creep." This was going well. "You could have a daughter my age."

  "Could but don't." He straightened up and his voice took a hard edge. "Listen, lady. You're the one strolled in my shop."

  That was Kasper. This was his place and he was taking zero shit, even if he liberally applied some himself. He was in his sixties. I figured that kind of stubbornnes
s just came with the territory.

  "She's with me," I announced as I stepped into the room.

  He jumped when he saw me. Maybe I'd subconsciously wrapped myself in shadow to let their conversation play out. We were friends on paper but he'd probably expected to never see me again. It was fun to give him a little jolt.

  "Cisco," he said carefully. "Damn, broham, you look pretty good for a dead man." He pulled me away from the door and checked outside to make sure we were alone. Then he locked us in and flipped the sign from "open" to "closed."

  The shop was a mess, but then it always was. Papers and signs with symbols on them tacked to every surface. Writing directly on the walls underneath and between. Medieval weapons like polearms and axes hung on display. And junk of just about every imaginable kind was piled on the counters and chairs. I started to clear some away so we could sit, but I wasn't sure where to set the stuff down.

  "Hey," he started awkwardly. "I want you to know it was wrong of me to kick you out before."

  "Wrong?" I exclaimed. "You damn near saved my life."

  "I'm sorry anyhow. I was a little quick to rush you out. You know you're always welcome in my shop." He held out his hand. I dropped the junk I held and welcomed his grip.

  "Plus," I added, "the heat on the street died down, the cops aren't chasing me anymore, and the Covey's been decimated."

  Kasper shrugged. "That too." He snatched a pack of smokes from a wooden picnic bench along the wall, swept his boot across it to clear the tools on top, and sat down. "I'll tell you what. I'll be glad never to lay eyes on that vampire again." After lighting up reverently, he cut to the chase. "So, what can I do you for?"

  I gave up on trying to sit anywhere. Milena managed to clear enough space from the work chair. It was a vintage cast-iron number with leather padding and foldable back and leg rests. She tested the backward lean as she sat. Milena has an ample chest and the position really complimented her profile. I turned back to Kasper. His eyebrows reached for the sky. I cleared my throat.

  "I'm looking for someone," I said. "White guy. Bald with a black beard. Some kind of script symbol painted on his face."

  Kasper laughed. "Believe it not, broham, I'm not privy to every ink job in Miami. And that's assuming the work was done here."

  "Maybe there's a biker connection?"

  "The surly sort, huh?" Kasper chewed his lip. "Still. Bald, beard, symbol—it's not ringing any bells."

  A jarring clang of metal spun me around. Milena had pulled an unexpected lever and reclined the seat to a flat bed. Her legs flailed in the air for a second before she rolled forward to the floor.

  "Hijo de puta!" she spat. She kicked the chair.

  Kasper and I shook our heads and returned to business.

  "It's not the ink, is it?" he asked. "It's the symbol. That's why you came to me."

  I walked over silently and snapped the mystery card on the wood surface beside him.

  Kasper's what some call a scribe. An animist gifted with written language. Not only is he familiar with a number of scripts, he's able to infuse natural power into the symbols. He's why my tattoos do what they do. I don't directly channel the power of the Norse gods. The enchantment in the sigils do. A number of similar armor runes run along his body.

  Kasper frowned at the card for a minute before picking it up and turning it over in his hands. Milena and I waited silently.

  "Blood," he eventually said.

  "What's that?"

  "Blood." He flipped the card to face me and pointed at the symbol with his cigarette. "That's what this rune means. Where'd you get it?"

  I grunted. The meaning of the word put a bleaker spin on someone visiting people from my past. "Some asshole's looking for me. Roughed up her grandfather and left it with him as a message."

  "Looking for you?"

  "Apparently. Crap, he can't track me with this, can he?"

  Kasper waited a moment before replying. I wasn't sure if he was thinking or enjoying his nicotine.

  "No," he answered. "That kind of scrying takes more than a symbol. And it gives off loads of power. Someone with your skill would sense it."

  Milena crossed her arms over her chest. "A better question would be: Can we find him with it?"

  Kasper pushed his lips out, which made his mustache look all poufy. "That might just be exactly what this is, little lady."

  We all traded glances. I felt like the dumbest person in the room. "What are you trying to say, Kasper? What is that thing?"

  He handed it back to me. "A summons of some sort. Presumably for him."

  "A literal calling card?"

  "Pretty much. I think it's a challenge."

  Milena arched an eyebrow. "What, like, he's gonna stomp people until he finds Cisco? Is this guy stupid? I've seen Cisco fight."

  I tilted my head. "There are scarier things out there than me, you know."

  She snickered. "I never thought you'd admit that."

  I shrugged with a smile. "Just haven't met any yet."

  She rolled her eyes and turned to the shop owner. "Can you see where this come mierda is right now?"

  He released all his smoky breath in a loud sigh. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that."

  "So what do we do?"

  "That part, I'm not so sure of." Kasper extinguished the cigarette directly on the bench and left the butt there. "Look, we assume this guy's an animist, like us. Excluding you, little lady. Somehow, this symbol is attuned to the man who left it. It might depend on his magic. You two know anything about this guy?"

  I scratched the back of my head. "White guy. Bald. Face tattoo."

  "I got that much. Doesn't tell us a lot. You can always track him down old school, but that might take a while."

  "Uh-uh," said Milena. "We're setting this guy straight today. If you're telling us this card can send some kind of magical text message, it can't be that hard to figure out."

  Kasper nodded, coughed out a loogie, and then straightened his beard. "You could always try the basics. A circle, a candle—standard séance stuff. But that's your specialty, broham, not mine. You might try to work in the Slavic pronunciation of the rune: Kree."

  I traced the symbol lightly and repeated, "Kree."

  "Whoa!" said Kasper, jumping to his feet. "Not here. Not here."

  I smirked and twirled the calling card in my fingers. "What happened to 'You're always welcome?'"

  "Very funny. You do what you gotta do, Cisco, but I'm retired from field work. I mean, it goes without saying, but meeting this guy on his own terms has obvious disadvantages."

  I stared at the rune and grunted. It was theoretically so easy. "Yeah," I agreed.

  "What?" asked Milena. "What does he mean?"

  I tried to let her down quickly, before her hopes were too high. "He means this is a trap. It might not call our guy at all. Or it might call him and twenty of his friends and a Nether fiend. It's too risky to use."

  Milena looked to Kasper for a counterpoint but he just nodded. She deflated. I felt like using the card just to lift her spirits.

  "I'm sorry, little lady. I hope the old man will be all right, but I can't glean anything else from the rune. I'm gonna get a beer."

  She pouted and Kasper made for the back, but I stopped him. "One last thing," I said, flashing the card at him one last time. "Disregard the enchantment aspect of this symbol. Forget the magic. You said it has a Slavic pronunciation?"

  He furrowed his brow. "Yeah, some kind of bastardized Cyrillic script. Proto-Slavic, maybe. Why?"

  I hazarded a guess. "Is that kinda like Russian?"

  "It's the root language, broham. It existed before there was such a thing as Russian. It's that old. And I'd watch it if I were you because old things signify power." Kasper paused then grinned, seeing the connection. "Wait a minute, here. You telling me that after all this, you're mixed up with the Russian mob too?"

  I pocketed the card and stomped to the exit. "Actually, it looks like they're mixed up with me."

&nbs
p; Chapter 10

  Screw the Russian's fancy calling card. Doing things his way was a last resort. If I was at a complete loss I'd still consider it the stupidest of alternatives. But I wasn't there yet. My tank wasn't empty. I had a line on Russian organized crime in Miami. Just picked up a new lead this morning, courtesy of the nickname Manolo gave Veselovsky. Pop Stars strip club.

  True, some might call it dumb to walk right into the heart of operations of the same criminals who'd been hired to dispatch me. Veselovsky hadn't known about the Columbian betrayal. He'd been there for me. And the rest of the Russians likely wanted me dead as well.

  That meant I had to go incognito. I didn't have another straw mask handy—those required days of prep work and time I didn't have—but it's not like the Russians knew what I looked like. Not the living ones, anyway. To them I'd be just another schmuck. The important thing was to curb my spellcraft. Visible magic would make them put two and two together in no time.

  Our drive took us to Sunny Isles, north of North Miami Beach, in a ratty, sun-baked business district. The strip club recon started uneventfully. The nondescript building sat in an empty parking lot under a sign of flashing pink and purple. The O in Pop Stars was ornamented like an explosion, and the whole thing was framed in giant lips. These places aren't known for their subtlety.

  The door at the front was locked up tight.

  "I guess they don't serve brunch," I said.

  Milena shrugged. "I bet someone's in there." She led me around the building. You couldn't see it from the street, but a brick wedged the back door open. She moved to go inside.

  "Hold up," I said. "I'm not comfortable with this."

  She puckered her lips. "Never seen naked ladies before?"

  "Not that. You. There's real serious business going down inside. I think it's a mistake for you to come with me."

  "Please, Cisco. This is my element. I know how to handle these guys."

  "No," I told her. "You don't. At least let me check out the place first. You can wait by the truck."

  She made a noise like the air had been knocked out of her. "You serious?"