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I laughed. A deep, throaty laugh. It resonated in my lungs. My shoulders heaved and the pain from the bullet wounds seared across my back. Then I laughed harder. A booming and boisterous thing that made more noise than the pain.
I grabbed the dropped weapon and pulled it toward me slowly, blade scraping against tile.
"Bulletproof or not," I grunted, "your weapons cannot kill me."
I got my feet under me and stood. The woman's eyes quivered as she watched, locked in a mental struggle with Pim. Jaja rushed in from the front of the house. She spun as he tackled her. Pim broke free and charged her as well, raising his blade for a killing blow.
"No!" I boomed.
Everybody froze. Jaja on top of the whimpering animist. Pim towering over her mid-strike. In the background somewhere, a man quietly begged to die.
Once again I didn't hurry. I studied the black blood on my hands. Wiped my blades clean on my pants. When I spoke, my voice was colored by annoyance.
"All night I have promised my kills to others, or left them behind to be scavenged. But not with you." I strolled around the furniture and ran my eyes over the pathetic woman. "Now I finally get to feast. What a delight."
I knelt over her, opened my jaw, and crunched down on the tendons in her neck. They ripped easily between my metal teeth. Human blood washed into my mouth, warm and full.
The obeah men waited as I ate. It didn't take long. I wasn't a trickster spider who meticulously wrapped my victims in webbing. This was primal and naturalistic and raw. I drank the essence of the woman and chewed whatever flesh and bone got in the way. Then I rolled her lifeless body over and wiped my mouth.
The house on Star Island was silent now. No heavy steps. No gunshots. No yelling or sirens. It was as if life had never existed here at all.
We made our way through the house. The first floor was clear. The stairwell by the front door the last holdout. The final South American mercenary lay there, dead. He was propped up against the steps, knife still in one hand, a deep scoop of flesh and intestines tugged out with his other. Self-inflicted. Jaja had dreamed up a real nightmare for that one.
I nodded to the obeah men and made my way up the stairs. They crept silently behind me and fanned out in the hallway. I nudged a door open with my weapon. An empty bedroom. Jaja and Pim cleared another and a bathroom. All our eyes fixed on the single door at the end of the hall, a sliver of bright light shining through underneath. The last place to hide.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Pim was the closest. As he reached for the doorknob, a stream of light blazed right past him. The obeah man grunted and was knocked to the floor.
Behind me, Jaja yelped. I spun around to see him being flung through the air. He bowled through a wide second-story window and careened to the ground below.
I stepped forward and felt it coming. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight. Every open wound on my back tingled.
I dove into a roll. The wall where I'd been smashed apart. I swung my blade backward in an expeditious arc. It whiffed and dug into the hardwood floor.
The ghostly attack didn't let up. A punch to my shotgun wound. But I was fast as well. I dashed away and defended with a sweep of my metal boot. Again I hit nothing.
Pim cursed in Igbo and swiped at something with his machete. The blade sunk into the wall and he stopped short with a gurgle. He looked at me, eyes wide, and then suddenly burst into flames. The obeah man screamed and kicked until he toppled over the banister and plummeted to the floor below, ashes in his wake.
I scanned the hall, both weapons ready. The darkness was alleviated by the unnatural fire below.
I could see I was alone.
I breathed silently, patiently. Waited for another attack. It never came.
I peeked downstairs. Pim was a charred crisp. The magic that had done him in was powerful. Efficient. I smelled something in it that I hadn't encountered in a long time. As the flames died to a smolder, the hall darkened. The bright sliver of light under the b
edroom door taunted me.
I am here, it said. I am waiting.
I snarled and barged inside.
"In Nigeria, Ghana, and all along the Ivory Coast," came a disembodied voice, "they speak of a creature with hooked arms and legs. One impervious to weapons, who sinks sharp metal fangs into unwary wanderers. Those without homes or futures. The asanbosam, they call you."
My boots stomped heavily on the floor. I studied the bedroom. Large by most standards. A king-sized platform bed opposite a fireplace. Desk and writing chair in the corner. Long balcony with a view of sparkling Biscayne Bay, the lawn, and the dock.
But no man.
