"Wait," he told the Reel. It inclined its head, listening, obeying. Seth went inside. It was a small shop, with jars of candies and toffees and striped mints on display, newspapers laid out on the counter, and a few everyday essentials on the shelves. Barclay was in conversation with the shopkeeper. For last words they were inconsequential, a back-and-forth about the game the night before. Something and nothing. Seth joined them at the counter.
"Can I help you, mate?" the shopkeeper asked with a welcoming smile.
"Just a copy of today's paper. I want to remember everything about today."
"Then maybe you want tomorrow's instead," Barclay Raines said. He tapped two fingers on top of the headlines. "This is all yesterday."
Seth smiled at that. "Maybe I do. Sorry, don't I know you? You're Boone's lad, right?" He nodded. "Thought so. I want you to know something before you die. I'm not the monster here. He is. It's all on him. He had a chance to make this all go away. I begged him to, for your sake. But he didn't think you were worth it."
"I don't understand. . . ."
"That's okay, you don't need to. You just need to die today. That's more than enough for you to worry about." Seth took the top copy of the newspaper and left without paying. At the threshold, he looked back to see the two men looking at him. Neither moved to stop him from stealing the paper.
Seth sent the kid in to kill his nephew's only child while he made his way back to Hell. And as he walked those lonely streets, he caught repeated reflections of himself in the windows, and saw again how many years had been stolen from him by that damned illusion, by Glass Town, and knew that the only hope he had of ever having anything approaching a real life would be if that damned magician could do the impossible and give them back to him. And that was the problem with impossible things, they were impossible.
He wasn't sure he'd ever make his peace with that.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN DECEIT AND DELUSION
DOMINO FINN
Black Magic Outlaw kicks off with a hero in trouble and on the run through the blood-soaked streets of Miami. Those particular events, however, were set into motion many years earlier. Various criminal elements, some not altogether human, have long flourished in a city ripe with vice. "The Difference Between Deceit and Delusion" is a rare look at the backstory of one of the villains who started it all.
The man sobbed. His thin mustache was sticky with phlegm, the tender skin around his eye swollen and purple. Dribble ran down his chin as he pleaded for his miserable life.
It was my life now.
"My name is Tunji Malu," I said. Measured, calm, patient. As if speaking to a third-grade classroom. "There. You see? That's how easy it is to give a name."
"I don't know any names."
"Let's start with yours."
The man paused, wary of betraying any information. Given his dire situation, he must have decided cooperation couldn't hurt. "Marco," he confided. "Please, just kill me."
His arms were bound together above his head. A shimmering line hung from the ceiling and wrapped his wrists so tight it bit into his flesh. The man's toes barely scraped the floor if he extended himself. An hour hanging like that will leave a man a wreck.
And that was without the torture.
"Now why would I kill you," I growled, "before you've answered my questions?"
The attic was dark. A hastily constructed cubby above a warehouse loft. The wood floor creaked and groaned under my weight as I paced back and forth. It was past midnight and there were no lightbulbs up here, so a single candle rested on the floor by his feet. It lit the room dramatically, the two of us in a circle of light with the walls and ceiling left ominously black. It was my kind of room.
I came to a stop, towering over the human, flexing my muscles. Then I leaned in and bared my metal fangs.
"Oh, God," he said. "What are you?"
I smiled, which only unsettled him more. I was a scary sight by any measure. Broad shoulders and barrel chest. Thick, leathery arms and legs. For all this man knew I was an ogre.
But that was only half-right.
I glanced at the open bite wound on his neck. "I can give you another demonstration if you require."
He shook his head furiously.
Interrogating humans was easy. Getting in their heads was easy. But my compulsions were having trouble with this one. This guy was making me work. This guy was special.
Not spectacular, mind you. But special. Marco wasn't like everyday humans. He was an animist. A tapper of spirits and user of spellcraft. Not the most powerful I'd seen, but not altogether useless. He could project force fields of a sort. Great for gunfights. Horribly lacking when confronted by a West African vampire and his trickster pet.
Still, the man himself had been unexpected. Miami is an international city, but one with tendencies. One particular infestation is the new-world voodoo, a perversion of my mother country's mysticism. That was the kind of bastardized magic I'd expected. Not this.
But the type of spellcraft was academic. What mattered was animists were often able to resist my vampiric compulsions. At least for a time.
"I swear," he sputtered. "I told you what I know. It was only about Namadi."
Namadi Obazuaye. Esteemed Nigerian businessman. My boss. I was his bodyguard, but it was me who had picked him rather than the other way around. His was a rags-to-riches story, and I needed a foot in this world. I clung to him, protected him, and rode his good fortune all the way to America. He'd found great success with the small African community here. And my work had been easy. To date I'd only needed to threaten a Haitian gangbanger or two. Kid stuff. At least until this guy.
"What is Namadi to you?" I demanded.
"I told you."
My voice went low. "Tell me again."
He took a few stuttered breaths and nodded. He'd given me the story before, but he didn't mind a repeat performance; it was either story time or sharp metal teeth.
"We just wanted your boss to clean our money through his businesses."
"Legitimate businesses," I reminded. "You wanted your filthy drug money to come through the esteemed Nigerian community."
The drugs were something I had expected from Miami. International port of call for the Caribbean and Latin America. This man certainly fit the bill. South American with a heavy accent. Bronzed skin, wild hair.
"Wrecking Namadi's storefronts. My storefronts."
I paced a lap around him so he had to spin on the line to keep sight of me. He gritted his teeth with the effort. The man's shadow encompassed me on his far side. I lingered there just long enough to make him wonder what I was doing. Just long enough to let his imagination do the torture for me.
I emerged from the darkness, but turned and addressed the black corner. "I wonder what he planned to do with us?" I curled my lip and laughed at the ensuing silence. "I have an idea. He was gonna shove us around a little. Piss all over our people, like we wronged him."
I caught the glint of light from my teeth in the reflection of his eyes.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked.
I waited a laborious breath. "I bet you were gonna offer us a way out. A way to get on your good side. After your boss declared war on us, you were gonna have us make it up to you by laundering your cash at rock-bottom rates. You were gonna make it seem like you were doing us a favor while we took a ridiculously low percentage for our trouble."
"The terms are negotiable," he said with a hint of hope in his voice.
That was disappointing. That meant I hadn't broken him yet.
"Not with you," I countered. "It would be your boss we'd be negotiating with, no?"
"S-sure."
More pitiful hope.
I snarled. "How do you expect me to do that without telling me who he is?"
The mage flinched away from me. His eyes blinked quickly as he pondered his words. "H-he . . . doesn't have a name."
I didn't move. I waited for Marco to retract his statement. To read my face and realize he made a
mistake. But the man just stood there on his tiptoes, sticking to his story. A line of blood trailed down his arm from a cut on his wrist.
"You know what I hate?" I asked placidly. I leaned in so the wavering light illuminated my face. Black eyes. Sweaty skin the color of bark. I pulled my lips clear of my metal fangs. "Tough guys," I said.
"It's true--it's true."
I turned to the dark attic corner again. Clenched my jaw in a scowl. "He would have us believe his boss is a ghost. As incorporeal as the spirits he channels for his spellcraft."
The man's eyes darted to the dark area.
I walked to the opposite wall and stopped with my back to him. I hefted two hooked blades. Near-complete loops of sharp metal, perfectly balanced with a small handle. One for each hand. With his eyes on my back, I scraped the knives together. Metal on metal. There's something visceral about that sound. Primal.
I took my time, too. That's one thing he had, at least. Not the kind of time to enjoy a long, fulfilling life. But enough to reflect on his predicament. To come clean. Enough for me to not misstep in haste. So I used that time to sharpen the blades against each other and let them do the talking for me.
When I finally turned around, the South American was sweating profusely. That hope of his was evaporating. Giving way to my venom. It would only be a matter of time.
I crossed my arms over my broad chest, resting each blade on a shoulder, and regarded the man coldly.
"Do you know the difference between deceit and delusion?" I asked.
"W-what?" he stammered.
"It's a simple question," I said plainly. "Deceit and delusion. Have you ever thought about the difference?"
The man's eyes fixed on my blades and he shivered.
"Deceit," I explained, "is when a man lies to others. Delusion is when he lies to himself."
I watched his face expectantly. He was too scared to ask.
"Like right now, for instance. Is it true you don't know the name of the man who sent you? Are you lying to me? Or is it that you're somehow convinced that whatever your boss will do to you if you talk is worse than what you're facing right now? Because that, little human, is pure delusion."
I tapped into my innate magic and charged. In a fraction of a second, I moved from the wall to inches away from his face. It took him longer to register my motion than it had taken me to complete it. I waited until he jumped, startled by my sudden shift, calm and methodical though it was. Faster than humanly possible.
Marco let out a scream as sure as if I'd buried my blade in his chest.
But that was too easy for this one. He'd long ago relieved himself of the right to a quick death. I let him shake and sniffle until he opened his eyes a peek, disappointed to see he was still alive and unharmed.
"I could flay you alive, mageling. Stem the flow of your blood with my magic so you wouldn't bleed out. I could get in your head and convince you to beg for it. I could make you chew your own fingers off. Believe me, anything your boss can dream up is a pale comparison to what I can do."
"I believe you!" he cried. "I'll tell you what you want to know--I'll tell you everything."
I grinned, metal teeth inches from the open wound on his neck. I inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet scent of his beating heart. His blood was fouled now. Poison from my bite pumped into every inch of his quivering body. It was biological betrayal. His own flesh and blood working against him.
His mind was the last holdout. Sheer willpower, emboldened by the practiced channeling of spirit energy. But even that defense was crumbling before my eyes.
"What is his name?"
He swallowed hard. "I don't know that. I swear to Christ."
I lifted a blade to his ear.
"But I know where he is," he hastened to add.
I paused. New information, at last.
Marco nodded his head conspiratorially, overeager to make a deal. "He's expecting me. Waiting for my return. I'll tell you where he is if you let me go. You have to let me go."
I grinned. Delusion again. But I supposed fair was fair.
"If you tell me true, I won't kill you. You have my word."
An intake of air caught in his throat. He couldn't believe his good fortune. He was afraid to let that hope back in for fear it would betray him, too. He spoke before I could renege my offer.
"He keeps properties along the coast for when he needs them. He doesn't come often, but he's here now. For a couple of days at least. He's here."
For the next several minutes, I pumped the broken mage for information. Location. Security. Procedure. Expectations. It all sounded professional enough. Concerning, even. Exactly the type of thing I needed to personally take a look at myself.
"So, you're gonna let me go?" Marco finally asked.
I leaned in and dangled my black tongue over my teeth. I lapped at the blood pouring from his neck. Already coagulating. It would get infected, perhaps, but it wouldn't bleed out. "I would've liked to drink your life into mine."
"No. You said you wouldn't kill me."
I pulled away and licked my lips. "He wants to live," I announced to the room. "And a deal's a deal."
I watched him and waited for it. That glimmer of hope to return. That twinkle in the eye. I waited and when I saw it, I ground it to dust: "I won't be killing you, because I've already promised you to the Anansi."
I stepped away from the man. Backward. Watched the fear dawn on his face. He spun on the tight wire holding him up. Laser focus on the darkest corner of the room. The thing I'd been talking to.
"Don't worry." I backed away farther. "He won't kill you immediately. Just chew on you a little."
Marco spun to the other corner, then wildly to me again, kicking over the candle by mistake. The fire flickered in the dark, lighting us with a menacing sway.
"His venom is very different from mine," I continued. "It will liquefy your insides. Make a good soup out of your bones and organs. Then he'll drink you in over the course of days until you're nothing more than a dried husk."
The man swiveled around, taking in all of the attic, trying to keep whatever was in the darkness at bay. He pulled frantically at the invisible line ensnaring his wrists. It bit into his flesh, threatening to slice the skin off like a glove.
But there was nothing in the room to see. Just him and the candle and me, leaning against the open doorway on my way out.
He forced a nervous chuckle. "Oh, damn, you're kidding. Right? Please tell me you're kidding."
I disappeared into the shadow. "Delusion," I said. "He thinks we're kidding."
A chittering sound above the man snapped his head upward. Eight bulbous eyes of uneven size reflected his screaming face back at him. A tarantula larger than his head crept down the translucent spiderweb binding his arms. When the first furry appendage brushed his skin, Marco recoiled, nearly severing his hand.
It was too late for that.
The trickster spider lunged onto the man's head, extending spindly appendages. Fangs swung open like switchblades and sunk deep into soft flesh.
My boots stomped down the creaky attic steps, a sound overpowered by the man's terrified howls. A moment ago, his worst fear had been the curved blades in my hand. Now he realized those would've been a mercy.
"You sure about this, Tunji?"
My eyes narrowed as I studied the dock. It was bright tonight. Biscayne Bay reflected the full moon. That complicated things a bit. The two armed mercenaries outside the boat complicated things a hand more.
Jaja and Pim huddled at my side. They were West African, like myself. Only human, of course, but they were both capable. Obeah men. Not the voodoo charlatans of Haiti who worship Christian idols in the names of their gods. Obeah men were true spiritualists. Respectful of the land and the ways of the Old World.
"You afraid of automatic weapons, Jaja?" I asked.
He snickered and adjusted his feathered top hat. It was a concession to the New World. His only one. The rest of Jaja was rough and drab. A brown leather
vest over a midnight-black chest. Strong in a lean kind of way. Capable without being showy.
"I don't like boats," was all he said in reply.
I smiled. The salt water would interfere with their spellcraft. But the boat, I reminded myself, wasn't the destination. Just the means to it.
We were ready for war. As such, I had my full battle dress on. Metal breast-and shoulder-plates. My blades. Even my boots were metal, with long shin guards that ran up to my knees and ended in sharp protruding spikes.
"Do your thing," I commanded.
Jaja lifted a wooden figure to his lips. A one-legged idol. His spellcraft fetish. He kissed it and spoke a word of Igbo, his mother tongue. The air surrounding us grew unusually muggy, even for Miami. It crossed the grassy clearing on an unnatural breeze and hit the dock with a gentle roll. The two gunmen trembled.
"They are weak," I observed with satisfaction.
The gunmen looked around and traded sharp words. Then they gave each other hard stares. A curse. Another. A shove. Within half a minute they were in a heated argument.
I nodded for Jaja and Pim to go. They skittered along the sidewalk in a half crouch before starting down the marina driveway.
I stood from behind the bush, vaulted over it, and made a steady gait for the boat. It was a straight line, right over the public lawn, trampling the flowers in manicured pockets of dirt.
The arguing guards spun at the sounds of laughter to find Jaja and Pim stumbling drunkenly, leaning on each other for support, booming voices carefree in the wind. The spellcraft had distracted the guards enough for the obeah men to get halfway down the driveway. Now that they were noticed, the gunmen straightened up and addressed the problem.
"Private marina," announced one of them. "The dock's closed."
Pim lifted his eyebrows and spoke in Igbo. The tone of his voice was appeasing and confused, but the words were a common Nigerian insult involving a mother and a donkey. I grinned, because the obeah men were only a distraction themselves.
"Hey!" barked the other guard, raising his compact weapon against the intruders. "This is your final warning. Back off."
I leaned forward, almost into a fall. Then I kicked my boots under me and went from zero to sixty in a blink. The first guard had his gun halfway pointed at my companions when I took both their heads clean off. Two curved blades, two slashes that spread my arms into an impressive wingspan. The headless bodies listed momentarily before crumpling to the floor.