my truck was a stubborn one. A weak shadow of his old self. In time, the frequent tune-ups would no longer be necessary.
I made my way along Biscayne Bay and parked outside City Hall. There I sat. And sat. And waited. And sat. All for a man named Rudi Alvarez. He must've gotten an early start because I didn't see him roll in. When lunchtime came around and the city commissioner didn't emerge, I realized he was playing hooky. Where would he be if not at work?
I started the truck on the first try, headed to Pinecrest, and circled the block of Rudi's manorial home. The place looked nice. Groundskeeping staff was busy restoring the property. New flowers planted, the pond cleared and refilled. The metal skeleton of a new greenhouse frame was already being rebuilt.
It was fast work, and a far cry from the barren battlefield of two weeks ago. The one that had drawn me into the public eye and earned me a most-wanted poster. But now, evidence of that little scuffle was nearly erased. Interesting how easily life rolls on with money.
Even more interesting was the state of security—or rather, the lack of it. After the incidents at his house and City Hall, the politician's security was beefed up. He'd surrounded himself with bodyguards. Not animists, though (from what I could tell). Rudi didn't have the juice for that, which is what made his situation so curious.
Believe it or not, I don't play Miami politics. I don't watch the news. I don't vote. I leave all that to the huddled masses. So why my interest in a city commissioner, one of five who control their own tactical police unit?
Rudi was just a pawn, really. No spellcraft, no smarts. Just a handsome face and a firm handshake. He was a puppet for my true enemy: the Covey.
One day, ten years ago, I boarded a boat to meet the Covey. They dragged me off it half dead, and later finished the job. The Covey was a ragtag band of misfit animists and Nether creatures who conspired to grow powerful. Best I could make out was they wanted the Horn of Subjugation to make inroads into the Miami voodoo community. They used me to find it, and then gutted me and turned me into their undead servant. But not before I hid the artifact from them.
It was a small win, but life as a zombie hit man did a number on every relationship I ever had. But what would life be, or death for that matter, if it couldn't surprise you?
As a budding black magic animist myself, I surprised everybody with a secret spell on my dying breath. It was Cisco spellcraft, with a capital C. Not the curse of a Spanish wraith. Not the voodoo or obeah or vampiric compulsions. Those all worked me over good all right, but the kiss of black magic that hung over my life for the next ten years was my own.
Spellcraft not to rise from the dead so much as to fake it. Or welcome it temporarily. I killed myself to keep others from doing so, to protect myself and the Horn from prying supernatural eyes. Sure, I was their zombie bitch anyway, but it was a charade put into motion by my magic.
Now that spellcraft is done. Dried up like an old well. The various hexes I was under were predicated on my being dead—when that was no longer true, I was me again. Cisco Suarez. Alive, and stronger for it, but with a hot mess of baggage. A best friend who'd married my girlfriend to help raise and protect the daughter I never knew. The girlfriend who was part of the Covey, who'd manipulated me from the beginning to find the Taíno artifact. Worst of all was the smothering guilt I felt for murdering my own family at the behest of an unrelenting and uncompromising undead compulsion.
That was what the Covey did to me. That is who they are. And that's why I'm going to destroy every single one of them.
The obeah man was the first to die. I killed him while he spun his dark ritual, before I ever cursed myself to death.
The anansi trickster spider fell after I returned to life, burned down in the house of my murdered childhood associate.
Next came
I made my way along Biscayne Bay and parked outside City Hall. There I sat. And sat. And waited. And sat. All for a man named Rudi Alvarez. He must've gotten an early start because I didn't see him roll in. When lunchtime came around and the city commissioner didn't emerge, I realized he was playing hooky. Where would he be if not at work?
I started the truck on the first try, headed to Pinecrest, and circled the block of Rudi's manorial home. The place looked nice. Groundskeeping staff was busy restoring the property. New flowers planted, the pond cleared and refilled. The metal skeleton of a new greenhouse frame was already being rebuilt.
It was fast work, and a far cry from the barren battlefield of two weeks ago. The one that had drawn me into the public eye and earned me a most-wanted poster. But now, evidence of that little scuffle was nearly erased. Interesting how easily life rolls on with money.
Even more interesting was the state of security—or rather, the lack of it. After the incidents at his house and City Hall, the politician's security was beefed up. He'd surrounded himself with bodyguards. Not animists, though (from what I could tell). Rudi didn't have the juice for that, which is what made his situation so curious.
Believe it or not, I don't play Miami politics. I don't watch the news. I don't vote. I leave all that to the huddled masses. So why my interest in a city commissioner, one of five who control their own tactical police unit?
Rudi was just a pawn, really. No spellcraft, no smarts. Just a handsome face and a firm handshake. He was a puppet for my true enemy: the Covey.
One day, ten years ago, I boarded a boat to meet the Covey. They dragged me off it half dead, and later finished the job. The Covey was a ragtag band of misfit animists and Nether creatures who conspired to grow powerful. Best I could make out was they wanted the Horn of Subjugation to make inroads into the Miami voodoo community. They used me to find it, and then gutted me and turned me into their undead servant. But not before I hid the artifact from them.
It was a small win, but life as a zombie hit man did a number on every relationship I ever had. But what would life be, or death for that matter, if it couldn't surprise you?
As a budding black magic animist myself, I surprised everybody with a secret spell on my dying breath. It was Cisco spellcraft, with a capital C. Not the curse of a Spanish wraith. Not the voodoo or obeah or vampiric compulsions. Those all worked me over good all right, but the kiss of black magic that hung over my life for the next ten years was my own.
Spellcraft not to rise from the dead so much as to fake it. Or welcome it temporarily. I killed myself to keep others from doing so, to protect myself and the Horn from prying supernatural eyes. Sure, I was their zombie bitch anyway, but it was a charade put into motion by my magic.
Now that spellcraft is done. Dried up like an old well. The various hexes I was under were predicated on my being dead—when that was no longer true, I was me again. Cisco Suarez. Alive, and stronger for it, but with a hot mess of baggage. A best friend who'd married my girlfriend to help raise and protect the daughter I never knew. The girlfriend who was part of the Covey, who'd manipulated me from the beginning to find the Taíno artifact. Worst of all was the smothering guilt I felt for murdering my own family at the behest of an unrelenting and uncompromising undead compulsion.
That was what the Covey did to me. That is who they are. And that's why I'm going to destroy every single one of them.
The obeah man was the first to die. I killed him while he spun his dark ritual, before I ever cursed myself to death.
The anansi trickster spider fell after I returned to life, burned down in the house of my murdered childhood associate.
Next came
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