Read Online Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) by Domino Finn - Free Book Online
Authors: Domino Finn
Tags: Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Paranormal, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Vampires, Contemporary Fiction, Sword & Sorcery, Paranormal & Urban, Superhero, Thrillers & Suspense, Vigilante Justice
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around, moving between the cookhouse and the house. I entered. The laundry room and adjoining kitchen were quiet. The whole house was.
"Martine?" I called out.
I didn't expect an answer this time and didn't get one. A half-full glass of water on the counter caught my notice, though. The contents were still cool. Beside it, a pound of ground meat defrosted in a plastic bag. Nothing disgusting; it was just beef. (Sheesh, necromancers need to eat too.) But it did tell me that someone was around. Today. Now.
My arrival became a cautious search of the house. The living room and Florida room were clear. I winced as I climbed the creaky wooden stairs, but no one heard the noise. I didn't get jumped by a Haitian voodoo gang. Martine and my friends didn't surprise me with a welcome-back-to-life party. The whole house was empty. She wasn't here.
Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her Volvo outside. She must have stepped out for hamburger buns or something. I wiped my brow in relief, wondering why I'd gotten myself so worked up. I returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and popped a Corona. A Tupperware container full of rice gave me a great idea.
"Screw hamburgers," I decided aloud. I could start my own welcome-back-to-life party, and I was gonna do it with some of my trademark Cuban cooking. I grabbed a small paring knife and chopped onions, green peppers, and garlic. Then I heated some oil in a pan and tossed the veggies in. For a while I leaned against the counter and waited, enjoying my beer. Just as the sofrito was starting to smell good, I got a bad feeling.
I hadn't searched the whole place yet. The house, yes, but not the property. I glanced out the window to the cookhouse and wondered. Something told me not to go out there. To just walk away, forget about Martine, forget about voodoo, and just move on for good. But I didn't listen to that voice. I never did.
I shook up the pan to stir the base and headed outside with my beer, not bothering to close the door behind me. I tried the oversized door to the cookhouse, but it was locked as expected. Locked from the inside. I knew I needed to get in there. For others, with the wards and fortifications, that might be difficult. Not so much for me.
The shed was shaped like a barn, complete with a double-wide door that swung outward. There was about an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor to allow the door to swing over the ground freely. It wasn't much, but it was enough space for me to get through. At least as long as the tree overhead cast its shadow on the entrance.
I stepped on the shadow and phased within it, as I'd done before with the wall in the alley. This time I slipped down into the ground and slid forward.
This kind of movement is limited. It only works along short lengths of shadow and doesn't let me actually go through anything. Not really. But the space I need for passage becomes minimal. Me and my possessions, even the beer in my hand, slid under the door and were inside.
When I phased out again, the faint smell was the first thing to confirm my suspicions. It wasn't strong, but a necromancer gets used to these kinds of things. My boot cracked a piece of glass. It was too dark inside to see, so I let the black seep into my eyes. Dried animals and fish oils weren't all that greeted me. Multiple body parts in varying states of decay were scattered across the cookhouse. Research, I hoped. I mean, a guy's luck needs to kick in at some point, right?
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
"Martine?" I called out.
I didn't expect an answer this time and didn't get one. A half-full glass of water on the counter caught my notice, though. The contents were still cool. Beside it, a pound of ground meat defrosted in a plastic bag. Nothing disgusting; it was just beef. (Sheesh, necromancers need to eat too.) But it did tell me that someone was around. Today. Now.
My arrival became a cautious search of the house. The living room and Florida room were clear. I winced as I climbed the creaky wooden stairs, but no one heard the noise. I didn't get jumped by a Haitian voodoo gang. Martine and my friends didn't surprise me with a welcome-back-to-life party. The whole house was empty. She wasn't here.
Come to think of it, I hadn't seen her Volvo outside. She must have stepped out for hamburger buns or something. I wiped my brow in relief, wondering why I'd gotten myself so worked up. I returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and popped a Corona. A Tupperware container full of rice gave me a great idea.
"Screw hamburgers," I decided aloud. I could start my own welcome-back-to-life party, and I was gonna do it with some of my trademark Cuban cooking. I grabbed a small paring knife and chopped onions, green peppers, and garlic. Then I heated some oil in a pan and tossed the veggies in. For a while I leaned against the counter and waited, enjoying my beer. Just as the sofrito was starting to smell good, I got a bad feeling.
I hadn't searched the whole place yet. The house, yes, but not the property. I glanced out the window to the cookhouse and wondered. Something told me not to go out there. To just walk away, forget about Martine, forget about voodoo, and just move on for good. But I didn't listen to that voice. I never did.
I shook up the pan to stir the base and headed outside with my beer, not bothering to close the door behind me. I tried the oversized door to the cookhouse, but it was locked as expected. Locked from the inside. I knew I needed to get in there. For others, with the wards and fortifications, that might be difficult. Not so much for me.
The shed was shaped like a barn, complete with a double-wide door that swung outward. There was about an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor to allow the door to swing over the ground freely. It wasn't much, but it was enough space for me to get through. At least as long as the tree overhead cast its shadow on the entrance.
I stepped on the shadow and phased within it, as I'd done before with the wall in the alley. This time I slipped down into the ground and slid forward.
This kind of movement is limited. It only works along short lengths of shadow and doesn't let me actually go through anything. Not really. But the space I need for passage becomes minimal. Me and my possessions, even the beer in my hand, slid under the door and were inside.
When I phased out again, the faint smell was the first thing to confirm my suspicions. It wasn't strong, but a necromancer gets used to these kinds of things. My boot cracked a piece of glass. It was too dark inside to see, so I let the black seep into my eyes. Dried animals and fish oils weren't all that greeted me. Multiple body parts in varying states of decay were scattered across the cookhouse. Research, I hoped. I mean, a guy's luck needs to kick in at some point, right?
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
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