Fire Water (Black Magic Outlaw Book 5)

by Domino Finn

  I sighed and rested my face on the soft pudginess of my roommate. I reached into my pocket and drew out the bent matchbook. It took some gymnastics but I managed to bend my arm at the elbow and bring my hands to my face. I propped my back against the lid of the box and struck the match.

  Berna's face stared back at me, frozen in a horrific scream. I yelped and dropped the match. The flame went out and left us in the blackness but I could still see her contorted face. It spoke of unassailable pain and anguish.

  Jeez, I'd expected a corpse. I hadn't expected a familiar face.

  Then again, was I really bothered? Berna had sold me out. She'd set me up to die with that glass bomb. Maybe I hadn't been the primary target, but she'd considered me acceptable collateral damage.

  Her presence in this box meant Connor had been likewise offended by her attack. The jinn had been busy, not only figuring out who'd left that bomb but responding to the threat. I wondered if this changed things. By all accounts Connor had just openly declared war on the Society. For all I knew, Winthrop was lying in the box on top of us.

  Crap. Darcy was just a stupid kid in a lot of ways, but she didn't deserve a fate like this. So help me, if she was in one of these boxes Connor was going to pay.

  Knowing what was staring back at me now, I lit another match. Berna was dead all right. A Society assassin getting her comeuppance. As I considered her, I realized my head was resting on her boob. I jerked away.

  "Sorry about that," I said. I chewed my lip and slid her eyes closed. Dignity in death. It's a lie.

  The match went out again. I was almost done with them. I realized I could get as much light using my cell phone and made the switch. Now that one problem was solved, I focused on getting out of here.

  My position was no good. I could roll over and force my hands and knees against the lid, but Berna was too shaky a base to provide stable traction and she was too big to give me decent leverage.

  "I hope you like spooning," I muttered, squeezing by her and rolling her to her side.

  This position was much better. We were both on the bottom of the crate, though I couldn't square my shoulders flatly. The extra vertical space allowed me to get decent pressure against the lid. I wasn't sure if it was enough to lift the nails from the wood, though. I took a deep breath and heaved again before realizing what my problem was: the box or boxes piled on top of us.

  Okay, time for spellcraft. I was a fair hand at knocking things around with shadow. I let the cell phone screen go out and braced the darkness against the top and bottom of the box. The wood boards creaked. I could feel the weight above us rocking slightly but it still didn't give.

  Man, sometimes being a shadow charmer was a real downer. The problem this time was that Berna and I were in the box. We ate up a lot of the space and thus a lot of the shadow. On top of that, any overt pressure I applied against the lid would return in equal and opposite form back down on us. There simply wasn't anywhere else for the pressure to escape.

  Think about it like dropping a live grenade in here. Opening the box wasn't the problem at that point. It was getting out in one piece. Back to the drawing board.

  Barring some kind of Iron Man armor or Luke Cage strength, I was in a tight spot. And then it dawned on me: Who said I didn't have Luke Cage strength?

  I went to work immediately. I wasn't in a position to use my full suite of voodoo paraphernalia, but I had my belt buckle fetish, the good old skull and pentacle. That gave me sufficient access to the High Baron. The rest of my voodoo was a cocktail of shadow. Opiyel whispered through me and woke the flesh. The process was a little time consuming but eventually my roommate was a little less dead.

  "Berna," I said. The light of my cell phone illuminated the side of her face.

  "Hunhh," she answered. It was more than she usually said.

  I crawled back on top of her so she could lie flat on her shoulders. "You wanna do the honors?"

  The ex-animist-turned-zombie slapped her large mitts against the lid of the box and flexed. She grunted as wood shredded and nails bent out of the frame. With a final heave, the lid, the two crates on top of us, and the strap holding us all together snapped and tumbled to the side. The stale air of the coffin gave way to the stale air of the submerged submarine.

  "I could kiss you," I chuckled.

  On second thought, that was gross. And illegal. And... Berna.

  I crawled out and stretched my back. One of my shoulders was sore from the exertion of trying to force my way out. Berna stood without complaint.

  We found ourselves in a small hold. Six coffins total and a closed hatch. I considered raising more undead but hours had already been wasted and I wasn't sure how much time I had. But I couldn't ignore them completely.

  One by one I cracked the other crates open, dreading the sight of the flashy red bob of Darcy's hair. After checking the last body, I sighed in relief. No dead teenagers. Or senior citizens, for that matter. Winthrop had apparently escaped retribution as well.

  Just me and Berna then.

  We were stuck in a larger coffin of sorts now. Buried deep underwater and trapped with South American mercs, enthralled Bone Saints, and zombie servants. Even given that I could get past all of them, there was still the Spaniard and Connor Hatch to deal with.

  My best strategy was to recover the Horn of Subjugation. Turn one of my enemies back into an ally. Hell, with the wraith beside me I could turn half the crew back to my side.

  For now, though, it was just me and Berna. I opened the hatch and creeped ahead. My companion's zombie steps were a bit less furtive.

  Chapter 39

  The submarine passageway was compact, accommodating only the minimum amount of space for two crew members to squeeze past going opposite directions. The grate on the deck was metal, the bulkhead and deckhead were metal. I was getting a real serious tin can vibe. Still, after my alone time with Berna, I couldn't slam the leg room.

  The passageway was somewhat rounded. Pipes ran along the tunnels, a combination of form meeting function. Dotting the bulkheads every so often were random gauges and valves. It was all very technical, to be sure. Very comforting. I put my complete faith in Soviet-era technology and ignored the unbelievable amount of water pressure the hull must've been under.

  I didn't really know where to go, of course. I'd had the pleasure of stepping aboard this sub before while it was docked, but that tour only took me down a single corridor. I was somewhere else altogether now, without a clue about how deep I was or how many levels I needed to traverse.

  The bridge, right? That's where Connor would be, sitting in his Captain Picard chair with the Spaniard playing Commander Riker sans beard. (Sans face, really.) I had a better than fifty-fifty guess as to which way to go so I started walking.

  Boots echoed on the grate ahead of us. I yanked Berna into a side passage and ducked behind some kind of electrical box. I whisked my shotgun from the nether and cracked it in half. Empty. The mercenaries spoke Spanish in hushed tones before they were in view.

  "This new blood is creeping me out, bro. They're like animals or something."

  "Animals?" scoffed the other. "They're slaves. Notice how they never make eye contact? The boss must've made a deal with the Haitians. Think about it. They can smuggle whoever they want from that piece-of-shit country and force them into work."

  I found the single shell of birdshot in my pocket and slid it into the shotgun's breech. Two mercs and one bullet. Perfect. The men were so close I didn't close the shotgun for fear they'd hear the click.

  They walked by us and the other guy hissed. "That's fucked up, bro. But it's more than that. They don't talk. They don't complain. They don't eat. It's like they're lobotomized. I'm telling you, this isn't worth what they're paying."

  The voices faded into the distance. The South Americans were the veterans. The regular Agua Fuego muscle. Now the jinn's priorities were shifting and they were spooked. I waited until the boot steps were gone to snap my shotgun closed. We continued do
wn the hall.

  Ahead, I saw what must've spurred the previous conversation. A single thrall was standing guard at a choke point. No gun. No relaxed posture, crossed arms, or comfortable lean. The Haitian thrall just stood straight and watched the passageway.

  It was a good zombie job. A fresh corpse. The spellcraft masked the stench and decay. No reason for the average person to conclude it was a zombie. But it was tough to fool a necromancer in these matters.

  I had Berna march forward to draw its attention. I was curious what the zombie's response would be. Surprisingly, he didn't do anything except follow her movement. The zombies must've been programmed to ignore their fellow dead. I wondered if they'd ignore the entire crew as well.

  When the guard turned to watch Berna, I stepped out and approached. I had a good look. Got pretty close too, but there's only so much you can muffle cowboy boots on steel. The thrall heard me and spun around and...

  Only watched me. He was a creeper too. One eye open wider than the other in some sort of prison-yard scowl. It was a tough visage but not one followed by an equally tough corrective action.

  In other words, a lapse in security.

  I walked right up to the guard and smiled. He watched without a mind for suspicion or trickery. Connor must've trusted the whole crew. And why not? They had no idea I was on board.

  I curled my fingers around my belt buckle and grabbed the forehead of the zombie. Kinda like you might do to a younger sibling to keep them from punching you. I didn't have the reach advantage to do that with the zombie, but I only needed a few seconds. I looked into his head, spied the connection between him and his necromancer master, and severed it.

  Properly raising new zombies from corpses was a lot of work and took time. With my skill level and the current situational proximity, making an existing one switch teams was a much more efficient process.

  The downside, of course, was that any good necromancer would sense their control being ripped away. If they'd had a fix on their pet beforehand, they could even pinpoint my location. That's the great thing about zombie security. Disabling them sends up alarms anyway. But I wasn't dealing with normal, coherent necromancers. Chevalier had probably stared at that blank TV screen for hours. They were mostly wights now, thralls themselves in a sense. I was banking on them not running on all four cylinders.

  After a minute without yelling or stomping or flashing red lights and air sirens, I figured I'd stolen the zombie with no strings attached. So Creeper and Berna and I strolled down the hall, emboldened in our mission.

  Okay, we weren't exactly Seal Team Six, but we could take care of business.

  We came upon a ladder. I sent the thralls down first, then grabbed the rails, set my boots on the sides, and slid to the bottom. I clapped my hands together, impressed with myself. Then I turned around right in the face of two slack-jawed South Americans. They didn't have guns in their hands but one of them reached for a radio.

  Too slow. At my mental command, Berna and Creeper hefted them headfirst into the wall. Bones cracked. Their cries of panic abruptly ended. We carried them to the nearest doorway—crew quarters—and dumped them inside. I was surprised how little space was inside. Their bunks were like little metal coffins. It seemed fitting.

  Killing mercenaries was no problem for me. They weren't thralls like the Bone Saints. The only thing enslaving them was money. They'd have me killed in a heartbeat if it meant another zero on their paycheck. They were well trained too. Arguably my biggest threat now. Drug runners with guns, sure, but the radios they carried could blow the whole operation. I had to make sure none of them raised the alarm before I had the Horn.

  The room was sparse but I found a machine pistol under one bunk. Nothing else was useful besides the radio. I grabbed it too, lowered the speaker volume, and clipped it to my belt.

  As we stepped out, another crew marched down the hall. I shoved the zombies back inside and closed the hatch all but a peep. Bone Saints traveled past in a long line, barking short orders in English and Creole. Even though they must've seen us duck inside, the Bone Saints seemed to be leaving the mercenaries alone. A clear pecking order was emerging on this cursed submarine: Connor, the wraith, the cartel mercs, the wights, and the zombies. Strange company indeed.

  You can add Cisco Suarez to the very end of that list. But hey, at least I had Berna and Creeper to boss around.

  "We must be ready soon," came Chevalier's voice. "Work on the stock below and meet at the unloading deck. No bokor without a body."

  The other wights laughed with a kind of eerie groupthink. The combination of subject matter and gleeful hoots was unsettling. It was clear Connor needed a vast stock of undead for something. The necromancers alone weren't enough. Between the Bone Saints and the wraith, I was looking at a small army. No way could I dink and dunk them one at a time. That's why the Horn was so important.

  I waited until the crowd dispersed, unwilling to shred the Haitians with automatic rounds. Every Bone Saint on board was being mobilized and moved out. That meant it was only a matter of time before they discovered Berna's empty coffin. On the plus side, they were heading away from my destination. With any luck the wights would be out of my hair for a while. In a morbid way, that simplified things.

  After they'd been gone a few minutes, Connor's voice crackled over the radio.

  "Herrera, Gomez, I need you two in the control room."

  A moment of static before a hesitant voice answered. "Uh, sure. Right now?"

  "Of course, now," snapped Connor. "You want to make it up to me? Be prompt."

  The radio cut out. I could picture Herrera and Gomez whispering about the order. They must've been in Connor's doghouse for some reason and understandably creeped out by recent events. That's the problem with a crew of mercenaries. Money can only motivate so far. Cash doesn't have the same pull as heart.

  A hatch opened down the hall.

  "Let's just go," said a voice. "Leave it."

  "But Carter hasn't gotten back yet."

  "Screw Carter. Let's go up before we piss the boss off even more."

  The two men mumbled and hurried toward the ladder. Herrera and Gomez, heading to the control room.

  "Do you," started one of the men, disappearing to the next level, "ever get the feeling this ship is haunted?"

  I couldn't hear the reply, but it didn't matter. I already knew the answer.

  I took my two sidekicks down the passageway after them. Herrera and Gomez were gonna lead me straight to Connor Hatch and the Horn of Subjugation.

  Chapter 40

  It turned out we didn't have much further to walk and I could've skipped the detour to the crew's quarters completely. Live and learn, but this was a happy accident. The Bone Saints were out of the way and the mercenaries would be a distraction. Herrera and Gomez were too worried about their destination to notice us following them.

  On the way, we passed one more zombie checkpoint. This dead Haitian was old but stout. I named him Baldie and pulled him into my ranks. The four of us were quite the sight if anyone had cared to notice. I held a machine pistol in my left hand and a loaded shotgun in my right. One wrong turn, one wrong encounter with a wight or crew member could've sent it all to hell, but things were finally starting to come up Cisco. Ahead, Herrera and Gomez disappeared into what I figured to be the control room. We'd made it.

  I was reasonably certain I could barge in guns blazing, zombies tearing, and make something happen. I had half a mind to do just that. But as long as we were still ghosts on this ship, I wanted to keep out of sight. At least until I knew for sure what was going on.

  "Ah," called out Connor's pleased voice, "the prodigal sons arrive."

  We crept forward as the two mercs muttered something in response. Other voices filled the background. Russian. I peeked around the hatch wall and saw the Russian crew sitting at the consoles. It made sense. This was a Soviet vessel. Connor had probably enlisted their services when he'd purchased the sub.

  I released a slo
w breath of relief. So far, not a Bone Saint in sight.

  The crew coordinated with each other, ignoring Connor and Herrera and Gomez and sticking to their control panels. Sonar. Navigation. To be honest, I couldn't guess what half the instruments were. And the crew members were just redshirts, waiting to be taken down in a hail of gunfire.

  I inched forward and spotted the backs of the two South American mercs. Connor faced us, attention on them.

  "I'd promised you sights unseen," said Connor. He paced around the men in a circle, disappointment in his words. "I asked for nothing but dedication."

  As he rounded their back, both men swiveled their heads to keep an eye on him. One of them nearly shook in terror. I focused on the Horn of Subjugation on a strap around Connor's neck. It hung low at his side like a messenger bag.

  After a full lap, the jinn paused in front of them. "I pay you enough, do I not?"

  They nodded, hesitantly at first but then arduously, as if the whole situation was resolved and agreed upon and they'd be able to turn around and walk out of here.

  Connor clicked his lips. "If I do indeed pay you enough, then my end of the bargain is upheld. Your shirking of duties means you owe me."

  "Boss," said one of the men. "We thought—"

  "Do not think!" boomed Connor. The redness of his face held long enough to stymie any confidence the mercenaries had left. They lowered their heads and Connor released all the tension in his face and body language. His demeanor went cool again.

  "Service is an underrated asset," he noted. "Perhaps I've been too hard on you. Gotten too used to working with mindless drones."

  The two men traded a silent glance.

  Connor snapped his fingers. An idea had just come to him. "Maybe what the two of you need is positive reinforcement. Not punishment, but reward." Connor got very excited and circled the men again. Their eyes still watched him.