Read Online Dead Man (Black Magic Outlaw Book 1) by Domino Finn - Free Book Online Page B
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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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 the 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
"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 the 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
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