by Domino Finn
Wrong. In the middle of the cookhouse, splayed out beside an overturned table, was the body of my friend, Martine.
Chapter 11
The shed was a scene from a horror movie.
Multiple bodies were clustered along the walls where they'd been thrown aside. The wood floor was splintered, the furniture toppled. The scattered limbs and heads struck my psyche like daggers. All I could think about was my dead family. Had they been found like this?
The stench of decay was surprisingly weak, but present. I could tell immediately that most of the bodies had been magically preserved. All but one.
Martine rested awkwardly in the center of the cookhouse, her hips caught on the overturned wooden table that was the centerpiece of the workspace. Her shoulder braced against the floor, awash in red. It was a lot of blood, and easily explained: half the girl's neck was missing, like it had just been ripped out.
And Martine—she hadn't been a girl anymore. Ten years older, I reminded myself. Ten years different. I approached hesitantly, afraid to have this new image of her burned into my subconscious. But I needed to see.
I turned her head and grimaced. It was bad. Her mouth was frozen mid-scream. Her eyes were wide and vacant, literally: her eyeballs had been removed.
I turned away. This was done recently, as in hours ago. Her body hadn't started to visually decompose. Barely a smell. The other corpses were another story, but normal. A scene only familiar to a necromancer.
The bodies were Martine's minions. Zombies. And no huckster magic either. They would've been strong, which meant whatever ripped them apart was stronger.
This all but confirmed my suspicions about black magic being at the heart of this mess. Me, my family, Martine—it had gotten us all killed. And now my best lead was gone.
Gone but not forgotten. That's what people say, anyway. In this case, they were right, but I had my own saying. Fight necromancy with necromancy.
The missing eyes were a problem. Somebody had removed them for a reason: so people like me couldn't snoop. I kicked some body parts aside and scanned the floor. Objects were scattered about like Miami had its very first magnitude five. I searched the walls and corners. I picked up a large glass jar of dirt with holes in the lid, shook it up, and examined the contents. I would need it. In fact, the shed was filled with tributes, offerings to aid in black rituals. It would do me some good to stock up.
But first thing was first. I needed to find me some eyeballs.
I know that sounds gross. It is, in a way. But keep in mind, blood magic isn't inherently evil. Death is morbid, but necessary. Some cultures leave their dead out in plain sight and parade them through the streets. My art involves dead things, but that doesn't mean I seek or cause death. Are coroners feared for performing autopsies? No. They get a hit TV show called CSI. I'm a forensic investigator of sorts as well. I just use... alternate methods.
The barn door was shut tight. It budged and jiggled but didn't push open, which was strange because I didn't see anything physically preventing access. No matter. I phased under the door again and adjusted my eyes to the brightness outside.
The crow was still around, except now it was on the far fencepost. For a second I wondered if I was being watched, then the bird dropped to the ground and rustled its beak in the dirt, pecking for food.
I turned to the grass myself, checking for signs of blood, signs that the precious eyes were cast aside. I searched nearby bushes and the path to the street. On my way back, I set down the jar of dirt and checked the garbage cans. They were full and I didn't want to spend a lot of time so I flipped them over.
When I upturned the contents of the second, a large spider scattered from behind the can. I recoiled and let out a sissy yell, slamming my back against the chain-link fence. It was large and furry like a tarantula. Eew.
Yes, I don't bat an eye at dead bodies, but things with more than four legs gross me out.
After the waking nightmare scurried off, I inhaled deeply and regained my feet. Using my alligator boot, I continued searching through the trash. It was no use. Whoever had taken the eyes had probably flung them far aside, not placed them neatly in the garbage. Next to a murder rap, I doubt littering even registered.
I strode back to the shed, working my jaw, pondering how best to navigate this setback, when I noticed the crow pecking at its feet again. Something dangled from its beak, halfway down its throat.
"You've got to be shitting me," I muttered.
I stomped toward the black bird, hooting and waving my arms like a madman. It spooked and fluttered to the fence, leaving an eyeball in the grass. The other was still in its mouth.
I lunged at the crow. It took to the air but, in its haste, dropped its meal. I caught the slimy eye and breathed a sigh of relief, but the crow swooped down and caught the hanging optic nerve in its beak. Wings flapped hectically near my ear but I held tight and waved the bird off.
With an angry caw, the crow took to the air, circled a few times, then flew away.
"And stay out," I said. I plucked the second eyeball from the ground and returned to Martine's body.
The fleshy orbs were in bad shape—squished, picked at, half eaten—but they would do. As long as they were fresh, not much else mattered. I popped them back into Martine's empty sockets. She somehow looked worse than she did without them.
I dug around the floor till I found a shattered change jar. I plucked up two quarters and placed them over her mutilated eyes. These weren't normal quarters: they were pre-1965, heavy in silver. You hang around necromancers long enough, you'll find they often work with silver. It's a conduit. The most conductive of all the metals. Scientists like to frame that in terms of electricity and heat, but animists never forget about spirits.
Next, I ripped a strip off the bottom of her blouse and balled it into her open neck cavity. The white fabric drank the blood in. As I waited, I rested my hand on Martine's. I tried to smile, to think of good things, good times, but I couldn't. My mind was all about the investigation. A decent friend of mine, a colleague, was nothing more than evidence to me.
Martine had never outgrown the showy, skulls-and-crossbones phase like I had. Her belt buckle was made of pewter, an oversized disc with a pentacle on top, swimming in a sea of black lacquer. Dominating the center of the five-pointed star was a large skull, angry teeth lacking a bottom jaw. It was my friend's fetish, and I was in need of one. I unclipped her belt and put it on.
It would make my magic stronger, and I absolutely needed to get this next part right.
I pulled the strip of cloth, now saturated with blood, and wrapped it around my head like a blindfold. I rubbed some blood in a grip on the belt buckle and rested my other hand on my friend.
"Here goes nothing, Baron," I said, channeling the voodoo patron Martine had introduced me to.
Seeing the last moments of somebody's life is unnerving, especially through their eyes. All their struggles and fears become a part of you. For a few moments, you are them. For a few moments, it is you who dies. But it was the best way to get the answers we both deserved.
The moments were silent. My jaw was set.
"Okay, Martine. I'm ready. Tell me what you see."
Then I clamped my hand over her mouth like I was suffocating her.
Chapter 12
I scrape the mallet against the wooden bowl, grinding the delicate orange powder to dust. I'm an expert at this, only I'm not Cisco. I'm Martine, vodoun priestess, speaker for the dead.
The light bathes the room in a warm glow. Hanging oil lamps that Cisco didn't see before. The room is whole now, disorganized but not in disarray. Dried animal husks hang on the walls. Jars of oils and ointments sit on shelves. I am alone with my work, and I see them coming before they know it.
Outside my cookhouse are the brute and his fellow trickster. They should not be here. They are not supposed to come to me.
But I am at home, within my seat of power. I am ready.
I draw the wards away when th
e man stops at my door. "You may come in," I announce, and the door swings open. "But the anansi is not welcome inside."
The large man at the threshold wears a long jacket with a hood drawn, obscuring his face in shadow. He has the build of an ogre, a football player, a mountain in his own right. He stands as still as the earth as well, facing me, considering my motives.
"Have it your way," he announces in a deep, confident voice. He isn't scared of me, but he should be.
The man steps inside and scans the walls. He takes his time to aggravate me. To set me on edge. I do not disappoint him. "Why are you here?"
He shrugs casually. "We need to talk."
"We do not need to speak in person."
"Oh yes," he says, stepping closer, "we do." The darkness in his hood betrays a glint from the lantern flame.
I peek through the half-open door, seeing the shadow of the pacing trickster. Its unnatural gait sets me on edge, but it obeys and remains outside. "Get on with it, then."
The ogre nods. "We are displeased with you."
"I have done everything you've asked."
"Where is the Horn?" questions the large man.
"The Horn?"
"The Horn of Subjugation," he barks. "Do not play coy any longer. You have been deceiving us. Working with the shadow witch. Subverting our efforts from the beginning."
"Cisco?" I tremble at the name, one I haven't heard in a long time. But he was my only partner. I have no one else now. "What does Cisco have to do with this?"
"He's alive!" booms the man, raining his fist upon the table's wooden surface. The orange powder spills. It could be dangerous but I ignore it. The possibility of a living Francisco Suarez is much more dangerous.
"Impossible."
"It's not," he counters. "Not with powerful black magic. Not with your help."
I desperately search for the man's eyes under the blackness of his hood. I know now what he is here for. "Resurrection? Such power is beyond me."
The ogre grunts. It sounds like a broken laugh, the noise of a monster. "Not with the Horn."
I shake my head. "The artifact was lost to me. You know this."
The brute doesn't move.
"You must believe me, Asan."
The man in shadow paces across the small cookhouse before turning to face me again. "I did. Once."
Something scurries outside the cookhouse. I ball my hand into a fist and the barn door closes. The man's head turns, but only for a moment. He looks to me again. I know he's smiling, but I can only see a glint of firelight.
"Do not act rashly," I urge. "You are surrounded by allies. Do not turn them into enemies."
"Allies?" he questions. "If I cannot trust you, and you will not help me, then you are a liability. Now more than ever, since he lives."
"And you are sure of this? You are sure he again walks with the living?"
"There is no question. The Bone Saints are tracking him."
I scoff. It is unbelievable. But...
The ogre cocks his head. "Where is the Horn, necromancer? It is your only chance at life."
I step away from the table. His mind is set. I can only hope the trickster runs. "The crow flies true," I say, "ever and only concerned with birdfeed."
The large man grunts again. "Your magicks cannot help you now."
I grip the skull amulet at my waist. We will see about that.
The wooden floor beneath his feet erupts in a shower of splinters. An undead hand clamps onto each foot. The man pulls away but the grip is strong. He is trapped, a piece of meat waiting to be eaten.
The walls shimmer. Bodies, once unseen, stir to life. My horde. They will have a feast.
The ogre reaches down and grabs both hands. With a powerful tug, he pulls the zombie from the ground. My petite is thin but bolstered by blood. He screams and pulls but cannot get free.
The brute strains and rips his arm off. He throws it at the oncoming horde, then crushes my petite's head with a free hand. The mob closes in on both sides, but the monster is free again.
He strikes like lightning.
Limbs rip asunder. Heads roll. In quick flashes of movement, the ogre takes blows but he withstands them. There is something evil about him. Foreign. Not meant for this land.
I use the commotion to flee, but he sees me and slams me into the table. I tumble to the ground. It takes only a minute for him to cut down my mob and subdue me.
I cough out blood. I'm slow to rise. But I am not done.
The man lumbers my way. I let him grab me, pull me close. He grunts again, but the eerie sound is cut short.
Black liquid dribbles over my hand, cold to the touch. The blade in my fingers is colder still, buried in his belly.
The ogre drops his head, startled by the wound. The hood falls lower over his face. But he is still so strong. "Silver," he muses. "I will use it to inscribe your headstone."
I reach desperately for the orange powder, but it is out of my reach, knocked from the table.
"I will tell you how to get the Horn," I plead quickly. "Let me go, and you will have it. I swear."
He pushes forward into me. I can smell his breath.
"You have told the same lies for a decade. I am sick of them." He pushes closer still. "And I am so thirsty."
I press away but he holds firm and leans in. The hood falls away and I see a flash of metal teeth, shining in the weak light. They sink into me, tearing away my flesh. Devouring me.
My struggles stop. My thoughts slow. He drinks my essence, and I know that I'm slipping away.
Chapter 13
I ripped the blood-caked blindfold from my face and rasped on the floor, too weak to stand. I had expected someone powerful, but not like that. Martine had been a decent bokor, with ten more years of skill than I'd seen before. She'd even learned a bit of glamour. All that, and that thing had just cut her down like an afterthought.
Here's the thing about necromancers: they're not very durable. Death magic is about insight and control. A straight-up fight with a bruiser was better had at a distance. With an army in between.
Asan, this thing—whatever it was—had magic in its bones. It moved too fast to be human. The black blood hinted at a nether creature. A fae. But it was unfamiliar to me. Incredibly stout. Incredibly ruthless.
And it was looking for me.
Good money he was the one who'd called at the Versace Mansion. This creature was on the hunt, and it knew about the cookhouse. It wasn't safe here.
I used the table to help myself up, stomping the fatigue from my wobbly legs. Experiencing Martine's death was a shock to my system. It wouldn't have any lasting physical effects but I had some funk to shake off. The bigger picture had more troubling repercussions.
According to their exchange, Martine and I had found something ten years ago. An artifact called the Horn of Subjugation. (Yeah, scary things have scary names.) The fog of my death blocked it from memory, but Martine had known about it.
I shook my head and gave my friend one last glance. She'd been working with them. At some point, anyway. In over her head. Maybe I'd played a part, but more likely I'd been played. And when, ostensibly, the proverbial shit had hit the fan, I was a liability because I was a free agent.
Amazingly, whatever had gotten me killed continued to elude the ogre ten years later. What did Martine say about the Horn? A crow flies true, always seeking birdfeed? A riddle? One last ploy to stay alive? Maybe she had only promised to help him to save her neck. If so, it hadn't done my family any good. And the ogre, Asan, knew: if I'd gotten to Martine now, it would all come out. He knew I was coming, so he killed her, just hours after I was resurrected.
That's why he'd taken the eyes. He knew I'd be right here, right now. He wanted to stop me from finding out about the Horn.
That meant this was probably a trap.
The door was still warded shut even though Asan was gone. He wasn't in here now, I was sure of that. So why'd he take the trouble of locking the shed?
As in M
artine's vision, I heard scurrying outside. Fingers of light blazed through the cracks in the structure, and I realized now why the oil lamps were gone.
The cookhouse was on fire.
I looked around for anything worth saving. Any tokens I'd need in the coming days. Most of the sacraments were smashed and scattered. Besides, the shed began filling up with smoke. I slipped low, into the shadow, and dashed under the door.
And ran headlong into a brick wall.
Not a real brick wall, mind you, but that's what it felt like. The shadow outside had cleared away. Had I trapped myself? Had the sun moved? I figured it was the fire. The licking flames would kill any constancy of shadow that could carry me.
It started getting hot inside. I could try slipping into shadow and remaining stationary, but that would only work until the fire ate inside the structure. We weren't there yet, but it would be soon. I was lucky they hadn't lined this place with oil, but that would've tipped their hand.
Okay, so I had time for a shadow manifestation. I was under darkness and the screwiness from the Death Sight was gone.
I marched right up to the barn door and summoned Opiyel, the Shadow Dog. I needed him to give me everything he had, because this wasn't a normal wooden door. I wasn't adept at hand-to-hand combat, but I didn't need to be with this kind of punch. I drew my fist back and tugged at the black energy surrounding me. My forearm became bathed in a black cushion, like the wake of a meteor meeting the atmosphere on descent. Then I hammered the barn door as hard as I could.
It shook on its hinges but held firm.
I narrowed my eyes. These weren't Martine's wards any longer. They were something strong, meant to withstand force, physical and ethereal. They knew I'd have magic. Did they know about the Shadow Dog?
The heat continued to increase. It hurt, but the smoke would get to me before the fire. I ripped another piece from Martine's blouse to tie over my face, then saw the breathing mask she wore when mixing her powders. It was a thick, burlap rag commonly used in voodoo rituals. I wrapped it around my nose and mouth like a Wild West outlaw. Immediately, my lungs cleared. I took in a breath not unlike a crisp beach breeze. With the amount of smoke building inside, that meant the mask was enchanted. Maybe I had never given Martine enough credit for her skill set. More powerful than a novice, but not powerful enough to save herself.