by Domino Finn
I live in an abandoned boathouse off a dirt road occasionally used for swamp access. The path is overgrown and mostly forgotten—great qualities in a hideaway. Unfortunately, the amenities leave a lot to be desired. The building is large but otherwise spartan, basically just a boarded-up shack of corrugated metal on a concrete foundation.
The platform on the side facing the swamp is large enough that boats can be towed right up to the doors and rolled into the garage. The actual water access is closer to the road. I drove the drug van past that ramp, through the overgrowth, and up to the abandoned boathouse. I hopped out and opened the roll-up loading door, then pulled in. And just like that, we were safe.
First things first. I grabbed the briefcase of money and checked to make sure all the stacks were legit. Seven-fifty large. I'd lost more than half of it on the road, but not a bad score overall. I pocketed a wad and stuffed some in my old pickup truck. The rest I left in the briefcase, which I shoved into the small lead safe nestled in the corner.
The safe had been hardy at one point, but it wasn't exactly what you'd call secure anymore. A few months ago I'd lost the key and needed to get it open. It took three crowbars, some metallurgical cantrips, and a whole assload of shadow magic to break into it. Ocean's Eleven it wasn't, but it got the job done. Except the door couldn't fully close anymore, much less lock. That meant it had more in common with an unplugged refrigerator than a safe, but there you go.
I unhooked the Horn of Subjugation from my belt. As far as colonial-era necromantic artifacts went, this one was a doozy. It was the cause of much of my current mess, as well as the source of the ghostly Spaniard who served me. I was so careful around the Horn I usually left it behind, but some of the bigger brawls I'd been in lately warranted the extra firepower.
It was a bull's horn, mostly white but with a flare of brown at the tip. Both sides were capped with metal to function as storage for conquistador gunpowder. Only the rebellious natives had gotten the better of the Spaniard and used the Horn in a ritual, wrapping it in Taíno gold and sealing it with spellcraft. A number of indigenous pictographs lined the soft metal.
Which reminded me. I had an expert in a museum who'd been taking a look at it. She was ignorant of the occult implications but fascinated by the cultural ones. That fascination hadn't yet translated into progress, though. Dr. Trinidad was attempting to decipher the Taíno glyphs for me, which was a tall order because it was a dead language.
"Oh, no." I slapped my forehead and withdrew my phone, holding a finger up to Milena to let her know I'd be a minute. I put the Horn in the safe and the wraith appeared, ready to protest. I gave him the finger too.
"Dr. Trinidad," came her voice over the line.
"Hi, Doctor. It's... Mr. Rose..." I said, trailing off. I wasn't happy with my alias but there was nothing to do about it now. "With the Taíno artifact," I added.
"Ah, yes. How's the music business going, Mr. Rose?"
"Please, call me Axl." I grimaced. This is what happens when you have no imagination. I plowed ahead with my cover story anyway, trying to preserve what little dignity I had left. I assumed the doctor knew it was a pseudonym anyway. "And I already mentioned, I'm not that Axl Rose."
"Of course," she said flatly. She coughed and I thought I heard something in the background. "I'm sorry," she said, "I'm a little under the weather."
"Good timing then. Something came up and I need to cancel our appointment."
"Not coming in today?" she said. There were muffled sounds that I couldn't make out, like she was in the middle of working on something. Beats me what museum curators did all day. "That's—um—I hope that's not on my account. I just have a cough, but I can still take a look at the powder horn if you bring it by."
I paused. Something didn't sound right in the doctor's voice. "Have you made progress with the pictographs?"
She cleared her throat. "Nothing concrete, Axl. I wish you would allow me to examine the actual Horn instead of poorly printed photographs. If you bring it, I believe I can make some sense of it. Or take some professional photographs, at least."
Both the wraith and Milena watched me intently. They knew I smelled something.
"I will, Doctor," I answered plainly. "Just not today. I really can't. I'm sorry." I ended the call before she could protest again. Then frowned and patted the phone on my hand a few times, mulling over the conversation. Going over each word. Eventually I pulled the battery.
"It is not wise to ignore the expert," warned the wraith. "We must unravel the Taíno seal."
"Not now," I said.
"Is there a problem?" asked Milena.
"I'm not sure."
I'd been meeting curators for weeks now. First came the cover story of working for a collector. Then I put out feelers for their Arawak knowledge. Dr. Trinidad had been the candidate with the most applicable experience and the willingness to skirt proper channels in the interest of intellectual curiosity. I'd met with her twice and she came off as extremely capable. She wanted hands on the Horn, obviously, and I wanted to limit her exposure.
So her pressing to see the artifact wasn't strange by itself. But there was something about her voice. I couldn't be sure, but I didn't stay hidden all this time by taking chances. I strolled outside and chucked the burner into the swamp. A stray alligator saw the splash and headed toward it.
Milena chuckled as I returned. "You really do go through those things like candy. Which reminds me. I have another stack for you in my car. I'll hand them over when you drop me off."
The Spaniard floated forward. "I am sorry to see you leaving so soon, señorita."
"I'm not leaving yet. Cisco and I have work to do."
The skull swiveled indignantly towards me.
"It's true," I told him. "Her grandfather was attacked last night. I need to find the lowlife who did it."
The wraith's breath scraped through his desiccated throat. "No time for that, brujo. You heard the cartel this morning. The jinn is preparing a meet tonight. We must prepare."
Milena started to speak, but I held up my hands and shook them both off. "We will," I said firmly. "But I can't let what happened to Hernan slide."
The wraith's eyes flared. "Our bargain struck calls for vengeance against Connor Hatch. In return you've agreed to free me from my bindings. This adjacent quest does not fulfill either purpose."
What, you didn't think the Spaniard was helping me out of the goodness of his heart, did you? Yes, promises were made. I had an obligation. But we never set a timetable.
"This is Connor too," I reasoned. "They attacked the old man to get to me. That means if we catch this scumbag with the face tattoo, he could lead us to Connor."
"Given many assumptions," returned the Spaniard angrily. With full conquistador helmet and breastplate, he was a frightening sight. "This displeases me," he said, and vanished.
"It's not like we have a better lead," I called out. No answer. I hissed loudly. Sometimes my life felt like a well-rehearsed reality show.
"Forget him," said Milena.
"Already did."
She smiled halfheartedly. "I don't want you to lose your chance, you know. If you need to deal with this creep another way, you can."
I could be a stubborn son of a bitch. I wasn't changing my mind now, even if they both ganged up on me. "I know," was all I said, but the intent was in my face.
Milena gave me a full smile now, pinched eyes and a set of teeth. "So where do we start?"
"Well, I hate to say it, but 'a white guy with a face tattoo' isn't enough to ID this dude. It's a solid identifying trait—maybe someone in the biker community—but we still need to ask around. The card he left behind is the only substantial lead. But it might be dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"I'm still working that out."
I walked to a dark corner of the room and induced the Intrinsics into my pupils, widening them till they overtook my irises completely. The charm allowed me to see in pitch black, but that wasn't all. I
t also allowed me to see the trace energies of spellcraft, if they were strong enough.
In this case, I confirmed the symbol was somehow enchanted, a script carefully applied to a blank playing card, but I could discern nothing else.
I cut off my examination the second I sensed it. Something in the shadows, reaching out for me. I grabbed the silver dog whistle that hung on a strand of black twine around my neck, closed my eyes, and listened.
Except there was nothing to hear.
One of my thralls, a Cuban tree frog that I'd reanimated, was suddenly snuffed out. That happens sometimes. My spellcraft obscures their rotten flesh, and predators in the Everglades aren't too picky when hungry. Zombies in general aren't very smart. Their job is to sit still and watch. They often do that right up until they're eaten. I'd lost so many frogs by now that I stopped naming them.
But then another twitch. Another frog. What was going on? I took over the eyes of the nearest sentry, a stealthy Mangrove Cuckoo perching overhead in a tree.
The path is clear. The night is quiet, but a strange fog obscures my vision. I cannot see through the mist. It—
Just like that, the bird dropped dead. Deader than dead. The permanent sleep. Like the other animals, it was just a hunk of putrefaction now.
I'd been lax lately. Only had a few more thralls around. I rubbed the silver whistle and jumped into my most powerful.
I glide on dark water, my reptilian body fully submerged save for my head that breaks the surface. It is safe here. None see me, and those in the water that do stay away. I paddle closer to the river's edge. The thicket of trees is too thick to make out any intruders on the main path.
I speed to the shore and climb out halfway, getting a better vantage on the point of approach. To my left is the boathouse with my master, to the right the road, but in the middle a chokepoint where the intruder must cross.
I see movement, but the figure stays behind the trees. A thickening mist rolls along the ground and into the air above. It obscures the sun. The smoke gathers around me.
"No," I said aloud, opening my eyes. I checked the boathouse, but we were alone. I closed my eyes again and regained my connection.
Spellcraft is afoot. An attack. As the fog tumbles toward me, I back into the water. The mist cares not. It falls on me, clouds my eyes. My being. I sink.
My eyes jerked open. I was breathing heavily now. Scaring Milena too.
"What... What is it?" she whispered.
I drew the shadow to my hand. "We have company."
Chapter 8
I slammed down the garage door. Couldn't lock it from the inside. Under my command, I recalled my final minion. A white pigeon flew into the boathouse through an opening under the awning. It settled in the rafters, a single wafting feather the only evidence of its passage.
Moving to my shelf of meager possessions, I grabbed the thick cloth mask. Unlike my silver whistle or dog-collar bracelet, the burlap isn't a spell fetish. It has a charm woven into its threads, meant for protecting its wearer from the noxious fumes of various voodoo rituals. I wrapped the cloth around my nose and mouth like a bandit and told Milena to stay put.
The intruder was likely at the front door, but that was permanently sealed after respective incidents with a zombie high priest and the SWAT team. The metal was welded shut now. It would be easier to go through the wall.
The next best way in was the opposite door on the back wall, unless you wanted to wake up the devil rolling up the garage doors. I figured our visitor would opt not to do that but still use the concrete walkway to pass silently.
Me? I didn't need to raise the door. It closed loosely, sitting an inch above the foundation. A poor barrier at night when rats and snakes seek shelter, but during the day the little breeze it allows through is welcome. Since the outside platform has an overhang, the entrance remains in just enough shadow to allow me to slip in and out silently through the small opening.
I waited and listened for the steps to pass. The intruder was good. I didn't hear any sounds but I knew they had to be out there. I fell into the floor, becoming one with the darkness. I softened to a blur and glided underneath the door, then solidified.
I stood in a thick haze of olive green. Bathed within was a figure making his way to the back of the building. He had already passed me. The mist made him indiscernible, but I had a feeling who it was.
"Jean-Louis Chevalier," I announced boldly.
The man jumped and spun around at the ready. When I didn't attack, his posture noticeably relaxed. After a moment of hesitation, he waved at the fog and it cleared away.
Chevalier was a bokor, a voodoo animist. A member of the Little Haiti Bone Saints. His face was all done up with white makeup to look like a skull. Boy, I should drag out the Spaniard and really show him a skull. But that was still my secret.
The bokor and I had crossed paths a couple times, mostly trying to kill each other. We'd found common ground in the end, but there was still a bit of unfinished business between us. As in, we agreed to put off our blood feud and fight to the death at a later time.
Apparently, right now was that time.
"How did you know it was me, Suarez?" he asked. He spoke in dulcet cadence, his accent thick but his words crisp.
I shrugged. "You're the only other person that knows I come here. The real question is, what're you doing sneaking around and taking out my pets?"
He was a necromancer, like me, only he was a full specialist. His patron was the Baron of Pestilence. The Bone Saints are a flashy gang in general, but Jean-Louis Chevalier took the cake. He wore decorative plates of silver over his fingers that ended in sharp points, had matching nose studs and earrings. Silver's important to our spellcraft.
The bokor waved off my concern. "Bah. You killed a pet of mine once, did you not?"
"That dog was busy chewing on me at the time."
He smiled somberly. "Then we are even."
"Is that so? Or have you come to finish what we left undone?"
Again, silver fingers waved dismissively. "I have forgotten about that, Suarez. We are no longer enemies."
I studied him for a moment and decided he was sincere. "Good. Then I don't need to tell Leatherhead to bite your leg off and drown you in my swamp."
The bokor turned slowly and saw my gator inches behind him. "That would be appreciated," he said nervously.
That wouldn't be a good way to go. No doubt he'd felt the same and had used the mist as a precaution. Great spell, too. Knocked the unlife out of all my thralls within seconds. Almost got Leatherhead, even. But any necromancer paying attention's gonna be alerted when his pets start dropping like flies. Chevalier might as well have marched down the Everglades path yelling through a loudspeaker. Which is why his coming in peace was plausible.
I heaved the roll-up door open and waved him in, pulling my voodoo mask so it hung around my neck.
"It's not much," I said to our visitor, and I wasn't being modest. A metal shelf, a lead safe, a bedroll, a truck, and a van. He took it in, unimpressed. I didn't care. My mission of revenge didn't require much.
"Milena," I called out, looking around but not seeing her. "You remember that voodoo street gang that chased me around the city trying to kill me?"
Her voice echoed off the walls. "That's a hard thing to forget, Cisco."
I cocked my head. "This is one of their top casters."
Chevalier cleared his throat. "Leader, actually." I couldn't hide my surprise but he didn't make a big deal about it. "There have been many deaths in Little Haiti, recently. Quick turnover lends itself to quick promotions."
He was referring to the gang war that broke out. One of Connor Hatch's longest cons: to depress property values, buy up a bunch of Miami, and get politicians in his pocket to boot. That was a fun conspiracy to unravel. Destroyed careers and froze assets. But it hadn't cleaned up neatly. The spark of violence in the streets didn't extinguish. The blood didn't wash away. And now the man beside me with skull face paint headed up th
e most notorious of the voodoo gangs.
Milena spun around the back of the drug van and pointed a pistol at the bokor. "Nice to meet you, asshole."
Chevalier looked like a cat trying to hide in an open field. You know, they kinda lower their profile and freeze but anyone with two working eyes can see them clear as day. I let him sweat for a minute until the laughter bubbled out.
"Where did you get that?" I asked her.
"It's not yours? It was in the van."
Huh. I'd never actually searched it. Milena was right. She was resourceful in the clutch. Plus she looked hot with a gun.
The bokor waited until Milena dropped her arm. Then he eyed me suspiciously. "I thought you would've left town by now."
"What, and leave all this?"
He frowned. The Haitian didn't really have a sense of humor. Everything was serious. He was like an existential goth kid. "Staying alive is the smart thing to do." See what I mean?
I decided to get serious too. "A lot of people thought they had the upper hand on me. Thought they were smart. I put them in the ground. I'm not done yet."
"I know this," replied Chevalier, strolling toward the van. Milena backed away as he glanced between the open back doors. "You've been choking the supply."
"The supply?" I asked. Then I got it. "That's what this is about? Cisco Suarez making things difficult for your street business?"
He nodded without a trace of mirth.
"I don't buy it. One guy, affecting the cocaine flow through Miami?"
"Joke all you want, Suarez. The market reacts to outside forces. And you've been quite the force lately. We were expecting delivery of one of these bags an hour ago."
Jeez. The Columbians had lined up buyers before they had the product. "And you're here now. That was fast."
"Urgent business requires swift action."