by Domino Finn
I sighed in relief and rested on one knee. Spirits can't cross magic circles. Many things not of this world can be contained within them, but the ward works both ways. In this case, the angry poltergeist thrashed about to its heart's content but I was safe inside. The water on the floor puddled around me in a semi-circle as I pondered a plan.
I shuffled through my pouch of components. You might be expecting things like witch hazel and eye of newt, but modern spellcraft is a bit more practical than that. I mostly work with stuff I buy at 7-11 or party supply outlets. Even the 99 cents stores do in a pinch.
Pay attention. Here's the Cisco Suarez walkthrough to banishing ghosts.
Step one: Light a birthday candle with a cheap lighter. Two: Wrap a metallic balloon around the open flame. If you do it right, the fire will go out before burning a hole in the balloon. Step three requires some form of magic that can manipulate spiritual energy. Sorry if that leaves most of you high and dry.
The balloon crumpled in on itself, flattening into the vacuum. I plugged the nozzle between my finger and thumb and pulled the candle out. Calmly, I stepped from my protective circle. The hot tub didn't move at first, but I goaded the spirit with a few clicks of my tongue. The pool hopped a single time.
That confirmed the object still contained the poltergeist. I put the balloon nozzle against it and released the plug.
Imagine the sound of air escaping from a balloon in reverse. Then imagine a ghostly scream falling down a well. Then imagine a ghost being sucked into one of those high-tech traps from the Ghostbusters movies.
That last part isn't really accurate but I think about it every time I do one of these.
The balloon filled up as if hooked to a helium tank, except this wasn't lighter than air. When I pulled it away, the balloon stretched toward the floor with a shifty weight.
I waited a moment. The hot tub remained still as the water within settled. It looked like a clean catch to me. I marched straight to the nearest bathroom, flicked off the light, and set the balloon against the mirror of the medicine cabinet.
Like I said, the Murk is where ghosts live, at least until they grow a pair and greet whatever oblivion waits beyond. It's an almost-literal mirror world of ours, except cold and twisted. That's what the books say, anyway. If my soul was there while I'd been dead, I sure as hell didn't remember.
To animists, spell casters like myself, super-reflective surfaces are windows to the other side. With a word and a release of pressure on the balloon, my free spirit would be driven back to the Murk. Once that happened, it would be difficult to return. This was step four of banishing ghosts. The last step, at that. Only I wasn't sure why I was hesitating.
The poltergeist very much deserved a one-way trip back home, but something told me to hold back. I drew the balloon away and tied it closed with a knot, then sank onto the toilet and rested my face in my hands.
Now that I thought about it, I kinda had to go, but something about killer appliances gives me performance anxiety. I rested only a moment before walking through the house, using my shadow vision, watchful for any unnatural lights on the fringes. I doubted the poltergeist had company over, but you can never be too careful.
My fingers rapped at the balloon as I held it.
It didn't make sense that I'd been attacked. Especially that viciously. Ghosts usually stop at frayed nerves and nights of fitful sleep. They don't often kick off murdering sprees against strangers. I'd only been inside this house ten minutes, and now the sparse living room was fully furnished, complete with refrigerator and hot tub. Hardcore. But it also made me think.
What, if anything, did this ghost know about me? And what, in turn, could it tell me?
My enhanced vision picked up a faint red glow seeping through the crack behind the refrigerator. There was something there. Inside the wall.
The heavy appliance didn't want to budge, but I teased the shadow beneath it to shift it away from the wall as if carried by a thousand ants. Chunks of drywall fell away to reveal dusty wooden studs and electrical wires. The wood bore a sheen of magic, residual Intrinsics that had been locked beneath during a home repair. When I blew the dust away, I could see what it was with my bare eyes.
The wood was soaked with blood.
Long dried, of course, but I knew it was tied to the ritual because of the magical energy. That meant, somehow, blood had seeped into the wall here. The blood of an animist, perhaps. Or a man bespelled.
The balloon in my hand stretched toward the blood, attempting to get at it but losing a battle with gravity. I pushed it into the wall. The balloon swelled and moved frantically. Unless there was something I wasn't seeing, this ghost was sensing its own blood.
That was strange. Until now, I'd assumed all the blood at the scene was my own. It was hard to detect, though. Long since bleached and trodden over. Long since lived on.
But this ghost could see its blood. Or, at least, remember.
"Show me," I whispered, dropping the metallic balloon on the floor and pushing shadow into it.
For a second, nothing happened. And then it lazily bounced away from me of its own accord.
You know that board game where everyone rests their fingers on the lens that slides over different letters—the one that's supposed to communicate with ghosts but really it's your friend messing with you? Well, this wasn't so far off, and didn't cost $29.99 at the toy store. I'd gotten the spirit's attention and given it a little nudge. Now it was just a matter of seeing what it had to say.
The balloon bounced across the living room with the slow cadence of an astronaut on the moon. It went through the broken patio doors. I held my breath as it passed over broken glass, but the balloon was made of a tough material.
I followed the ghost through the backyard, examining everything I could for residual magic. Years of rain and fresh grass and coastal wind had left nothing behind. Yet the ghost hopped along, toward the water. It bounded along the wooden dock until it eventually landed in the water.
I frowned. I wouldn't find anything in the water. Salt, especially, does a number on ambient energy. The spirit wouldn't find anything either. The balloon stopped all attempts at movement. It didn't attempt to dive or hop along the surface. It just paused as if it was lost. And maybe it was.
I went to my knees to recover it. As I reached my hand out, the balloon suddenly popped.
I jerked away and readied for another fight. The poltergeist was free now. Maybe it fancied the Adirondack chairs on the lawn. Or maybe the hot tub would have a second go.
But the ghost didn't come. It had escaped before I sent it to the Murk, but it no longer attacked me. I cursed my sloppiness, but no doubt the ordeal had weakened the spirit beyond its capacity. For all I knew, it had retreated back to the Murk on its own.
Maybe not lost then. Maybe the ghost had finished what it wanted to show me.
I pulled the police case file from the back of my jeans, checking the evidence list again. One Francisco Suarez was determined to have died on the premises. Despite no body being present, the abundance of blood pools, tracks, and spray patterns were ruled fatal. But a significant amount of blood was also found on the boat that had been docked here.
According to the report, the vessel, the Risky Proposition, was in police impound. The open question: Where was it ten years after the fact?
Chapter 4
The next morning, I found myself at a place I'd sworn not to go back to. Ever. Oddly enough, it was my best friend's house.
I'd managed to keep true to the sacrosanct oath for just five days.
I've known Evan Cross since grade school. True to his name, however, he crossed me. He didn't have anything to do with my death, but some years ago he'd been confronted by Tunji, the vampire responsible. Evan was basically too chickenshit to avenge me, afraid the same tragedy that befell my family would find his.
Hell, maybe he was the smart one. And I couldn't blame him for keeping his family safe: he'd married my girlfriend and adopted my daughter
as his own, after all. That contradiction of emotions was going to take some time to sort out, but that wasn't why I was here.
Evan was a lieutenant, detective, and squad commander of a City of Miami Police special task force. The DROP team, they called it. Some acronym about district overview that meant he reported to Miami's city commissioners. Besides having five bosses it sounded like a cushy gig, if you were into that sort of thing.
He was my police contact, the one who'd secured the crime scene files of my murder. I'd been hoping I could write him off completely and follow the magic, but it turns out city bureaucracy is best maneuvered by a city bureaucrat.
Who better to find my boat?
I frowned as I stared at his perfectly stuccoed house. Cream with red Spanish tiles, clashing against the bright yellow Corvette Stingray C7. There were even freaking palm trees in the driveway. But what got me most of all, what was the biggest slap in the face, were the multi-colored letters draped over the walkway spelling out "Happy Birthday."
I sat on the curb in my old pickup truck for a long while considering what to do.
The pickup? Yes, in the week I'd been resurrected, I'd bought a truck. It was a faded piece of shit and I loved it, but I'll tell you about it later. Right now I was grappling with the daughter I'd only seen a glimpse of the week before. The anxiety had already caused two false starts, a drive around the block, and a trip to the local big-box store.
Now that I was back, I'd just about run out of excuses.
I disembarked and hiked to the front of the house, pinching a pink fairy princess doll under my arm. Before I hit the porch, I heard kids yelling and splashing in the backyard.
Great. Evan had a pool too.
I shuffled to the thin pathway along the side of the house, stopping at the wooden gate and peeking over.
There she was. My daughter. Ten years old now. A head of bouncy brown hair. Seeing how big she was immediately embarrassed me about my choice of birthday present. She was too old for a doll. (Not that I knew the first thing about kids.)
She was with a friend. I saw some other kids, but it surprised me that most of the attendees were adults. Married couples, some with strollers and toddlers, others without. They passed around ice-cream cookies on paper plates and shared stories and fake laughed.
Maybe I was biased against the fancy crowd, but they were all trying to impress and one-up each other. It was all so pointless, like they weren't content just to have friends and family around. I wasn't sure if I hated them or hated that I wasn't one of them.
Evan noticed me leaning over the fence. He was a well-groomed man with short blond hair, thin but athletic, the stereotypical suburban American chilling with sunglasses and a polo on a warm day.
"What are you doing here?" he asked gruffly, coming through the gate and closing it behind him. "I don't think you know what 'you're dead to me' means."
I shrugged. "Perhaps I was a bit emotional."
Evan checked over his shoulder to make sure the disturbance was kept to a minimum. Cisco Suarez, the disturbance. "Don't you remember?" he asked, then switched his voice to mock mine. "You said, 'I'm Cisco Suarez, the big, bad, scary necromancer. You're dead to me.'"
"I don't think I used the word 'scary.'"
"Well, maybe I heard it wrong when you were busy choking me with magic." My friend pulled off his sunglasses and I wished he hadn't. His eyes were cold, accusing, and worse—they were right.
"Look," I offered weakly, "I shouldn't have done that."
"Damn right. You have twice the muscles I do and can't even take a beating like a man."
"I was distracted. Dealing with a murderous vampire at the time."
Evan put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "You realize the overtime I've been clocking to clean up that mess you made? Two bodies missing. A weak cover story. We all look bad."
I spat. "Fuck celebrating the fact that an evil West African vampire is no longer on the loose in Miami."
"Don't be so trite, Cisco. I'm glad the bastard's dead. I'm just worried about what's coming next. That's why you should've stayed away from me. Instead," he said, backing away and waving at the birthday party, "this? Here?"
"Hey, she's my daughter. I deserve to—"
"Shut up," he said quickly.
The gate opened, and Emily stood there, mouth agape. Evan and I froze like a couple of kids caught shoplifting.
Emily was beautiful. A natural blonde with layers of highlights draped over her shoulders, a long neck, high cheekbones. I'd always told her she was model material—the perfect Aussie bombshell. She was taller than me in heels, but I never resented that. I smiled at her, unsure what to say.
Emily slapped me as hard as she could.
I knew it wasn't appropriate, but I laughed. They both stared at me like I was crazy.
"Is that the same old feistiness or do I just have that effect these days?" I asked.
"Cisco, I haven't seen you in ten years. You stand me up the other night and decide to show your face at a birthday party?"
"I have a right," I said. "She's my—"
"Cisco..." warned Evan.
"What?" asked Emily, swiveling her slender neck between the two of us. God, she was still as beautiful as ever. "You didn't say anything, did you?"
"Sweetie..." he said.
Emily's face flushed, skipping past red and going straight to purple. I decided it was time for a peace offering.
"I just wanted to know she was okay," I assured. "And give her this." I held out the fairy princess and Emily raised an eyebrow.
"Pink?"
"Yeah, you know? Little girls like pink. And princesses. And fairies, but that's only because they haven't met any real ones."
Emily rolled her eyes. "Fran hates pink." But she ganked the doll from my hands and turned away to examine it.
"Fran?" I asked, choking up a little, realizing I hadn't known her name. "You named her after me?" That brought a tear to my eye. I mean, I hoped her name wasn't actually Francisco, but it was close enough to count.
My ex-girlfriend sighed. "I'm not completely heartless, Cisco."
I couldn't help but smile. A big, stupid grin, right in the center of my face. The moment should've been awkward. Emily was studying the toy, afraid to look me in the eye. Evan shuffled nervously between us like a third wheel. I sensed their anxiety. Mine? It had melted away.
I had a daughter named Fran who hated pink.
Chapter 5
"I'm sorry for not coming to you sooner, Emily," I started softly. Better to get the speech over with. "You need to understand. It's been ten years for you guys. A lifetime, maybe. But for me, well, I remember being with you a little over a week ago."
"Watch it," said Evan.
"It's the truth. My mind might as well have been turned off for a decade. I remember being twenty-four, in love, without a care in the world—and a 'big, bad, scary necromancer'—then I remember waking up in a dumpster last week. I need some slack, is what I'm saying. From my friends most of all."
Emily sniffed. She nodded and finally looked at me again. I was hoping for a smile but she didn't give them out so easily. She never had. But I could wait. At least she wasn't slapping me anymore.
"Evan and I can help you," she said. "Did you get our money?"
I nodded. "Bought a truck and tucked some away."
Evan frowned. The money had practically been a bribe to get me out of town. I took it 'cause I needed to eat, but I could never leave Miami.
Emily checked with her husband. "Let's do a dinner party one of these nights," she suggested. "Just us adults. I'd like to know everything that happened to you, Cisco. At least what you can remember." She considered me and folded her lips into her mouth. She did that when she was afraid to say something. "I'm sorry about Seleste and your parents. That was horrible. And that can never happen to Fran and John."
I nodded. "Losing loved ones is hard."
Emily's face pointed to the floor. Evan opened his mouth to say s
omething, but held back. My time as a zombie must've done a number on my social skills because I had no idea what was going on.
"Wait a minute," I said. "Who the hell's John?"
Evan hissed. "My son. John McClane Cross. He turned three today."
My eyes widened. All the toddlers and babies and parents suddenly made sense. "This is..."
"His party," finished Evan. "Fran's birthday isn't for another six months."
I grimaced. I'd wasted at least an hour deciding what to buy my daughter. "Hold up. You named your son after Bruce Willis in Die Hard?"
Emily turned to her husband. "What's he talking about?"
"Nothing, honey." My friend gave me the stink eye.
"Does John like pink?" I asked meekly, backtracking as fast as I could. I held up the doll as a peace offering.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Emily. "I'll make sure Fran gets this anyway. But not now, Cisco." She opened the gate halfway and looked back at me, her voice becoming stern. "It's inappropriate for you to visit us like this."
"Come on. Was it something I said?"
She pulled her lips taut. "We'll have you again for dinner, all right?"
"Fair enough," I answered, but she was already walking back to the party. I leaned over the gate and watched her ass as she went.
"Eyes up, Cisco," warned my friend.
"Adjustment period," I reminded. "It's all still sinking in."
He grinned smugly. We'd never competed over women before. I was disappointed that he seemed to enjoy it. But then his smile vanished and he lowered his voice.
"You know," he started, "you weren't the only one with family that passed. Her father died."
"Henry Hoover?" I exclaimed. "The hotel magnate?"
He shushed me and motioned away from the fence, where our conversation would be more private.
"So that's where the money for the house and the car came from," I concluded.
"It's not that much. The old man squandered most of it trying to save his island investments. Emily and I don't care about the money anyway."