Lamar Lee was dead. He had been beat up, cut up and then nailed to the wall like an upside down crucifix in his living room.
I knew what to expect before I walked into his crappy little apartment in Harlem. Calls were made, orders were passed out and I was prepared for what I would find.
I told myself that this was just another body in Harlem, some burned out tweaker, squatter, or other lowlife, but it was still Lamar. And Lamar was a friend.

Jimmy Franks walked up and stood next to me, his hands sliding through his greasy hair. ?Damn, Slate. I am glad you are here," he said. I?ve been sittin? here for a couple of hours, staring at that.? Jimmy was from Alabama, no matter how hard he tried to sound tough, all I could ever hear was an extra from Deliverance. ?I ain?t ever seen anyone crucified, and that gash in his throat? Hell, Slate, they damn near took his head off, just to bleed him out.?

?Go to church,? I said. ?You?ll see someone crucified there.?

Jimmy looked at me, then to the corpse. ?Anyway, I?m just glad yer here, Slate. It has been too damned quiet, sitting here with him.? Again his hands slid through his hair, and I swore that I could hear the slick, stickiness of the oil. ?Damn man, we were going for breakfast.?

Jimmy was wiry, and always eating. I thought he must have a tapeworm or something, but the drugs, and running on scraps of magic kept the weight off him, and for the most part toned. He moved from Alabama in 2006 and hadn?t stopped taking sh*t since. The guys in the gang called him Jumping Jimmy. I didn?t consider myself one of those guys, so I just called him Jimmy.

The body was naked, of course but a strip of the day?s paper was laid across his groin. I looked closer, and it was Family Circus.

?Jimmy, the Comic Strips are stapled to his body.?

?Just cover,? Jimmy said, as he pointed to the paper on the coffee table. ?Shit man, I was tired of looking at his dick.?

?Well, take it off,? I said, looking at the spikes used to pin him to the wall. ?I need to see him like you found him.?

With Jimmy out of the living room, away from Lamar and I, I could get a clearer view, and head. I don't know why Lamar was drained, he didn't have much magic to begin with, but he was a damn good gangster. What bothered me was the fact that he was drained, and there wasn't so much as a drop left.

No blood anywhere.

From the jagged cuts to the clean slices. Someone had taken the time and power to clean what was surely to be a hell of a mess. You didn't see this kind of power used on someone like Lamar. He was a small timer, and this was some slick, ritualistic sh*t. Usually if you needed a guy like Lamar dead, you shot him, point blank with a small caliber pistol, behind the ear. Less trouble and time than what this was.

"Why's Lamar like this, Slate? I mean who would do that to him?"
"That's why I'm here, Jimmy. Now, tell me what happened." I said, leveling my dark gaze on him, and smiling as he shifted nervously from foot to foot. A lot of the guys in our outfit said that I had the eyes of a demon. Black as night, and twice as dark. It wasn't true, my eyes just happened to be a dark shade of brown.

"Lamar and I were goin' to breakfast, then run the route, you know?"
The route was their section in our territory for shake downs on all the illegal activities within. The Fatman was kind, only taking fifteen percent, and hell, you tip good waitstaff at least that. For that Fifteen, he kept the random acts of crime to a minimum, and if something happened, the people were caught, and made example of, either by myself, or one of my underlings. "I was going with him, just in case." By that, he meant in case someone gave Lamar a hard time, usually Jimmy was wicked fast with the draw on a pistol, and could spin a little magic to make himself out to be the baddest mother f*cker that walked the earth. "So I talked to Lamar last night and he just said he was tired, and goin' to bed, at like Nine. So I figured he'd be up by now and we could get an early start. I got here to this, Slate. I swear I ain't never thought Lamar had enemies like this."

Jimmy looked at me while I leaned in close. "Did you say somethin', Slate?" He was snapping his fingers at a Zippo, trying to light it in one shot, like he'd seen them do in the movies.

"Nothing that matters, Jimmy," I said as I stood. "Have you told Fatman?" Jimmy's eyes widened and he nearly choked on the smoke as he'd finally taken a deep drag.

"Tell him what? One of his sons was dead? The guy that kept his pockets partly lined was juiced?" He started pacing the floor, watching me, but thinking of what Fatman would do to him.

"I told you to call him, after you hung up with me, Jimmy." I was irritated, and he knew it.

"How do you tell a man his son's dead?" Jimmy asked, while he avoided my gaze.

"You know what? Fu*k it, I'll tell him." I brushed my hands off on my jeans as I stood, looking at him like I was about to rip his head off. I wouldn't, because the gods only knew what kind of sh*t would splash out of him and onto me.

"Damn Slate, tell him I'm sorry huh?"

"Tell him yourself," I growled as I turned and walked from the apartment and back to my car.

The drive to see Fatman, was the longest drive I'd taken in a while.

Fatman kept his office above the club that he owned in Manhattan. Rumor around the campfire, says he won the club in a poker game. I was there, and there were no cards. He walked in and went straight to the office, the bouncers made no move to stop us. Fatman used his own magic on the simple minds that made up your average musclebound bouncer, and they didn't even seem to notice us.

I called it his Jedi Mind Trick.

"Your club, is now my club," He told the shocked man behind the desk. He was in the middle of white lines and lies with a couple of bimbos from the crowd below, and was nearly too stoned to realize what he was doing.

"This is my club. My Father left me in charge while he does the time," Yoric spat. His English was improving, but coming from Russia, meant they usually liked to keep the accent, as it made them sound tougher. Fatman wasn't impressed.

"Your Dad is jailed, and he's not got the power to keep this place from belonging to me." Fatman was a Pacific Islander, I heard that he was born sometime around the turn of the century, and he had the look, as well as the power that flowed through him to not let me doubt that. "So, my lawyers have drawn up the papers, for you to sign, if you do not sign you will die, and the club is mine anyway." He nodded at me, and I knew that was my cue.

All I had to do was see the .500 in my hand, and it was there. Most guys that saw me do that, swore I was born in the Old West and had to be a gunfighter. The thing about a pistol that size, is even though it only holds five shots, it's the bore of the barrel as it pointed your way. It was nothing short of frightening, and to my enjoyment, it worked it's magic on Yoric.

"Beat it," he told the girls as he wiped his nose, and cleaned his desk. "I have much business."

Fatman was sitting at his desk when I walked into his office. He looked at me and held up one hand, a signal that he was busy, and in a moment later, a young woman stood from her knees. I hadn't seen her, or what she was doing, thanks to the big, old desk, but I had a damn good idea. I watched him peel a few bills from his roll, and then I pulled open the office door for her with a curt nod and tight-lipped smile.

"Eddie, what is it?" He asked me, as he turned to zip his fly. For an old guy, apparently he still had needs and desires.

I was never one to beat around the bush, so I just leveled my gaze on him. "Lamar is dead." Fatman's eyes narrowed on me when I said the words.

"Did you...?" He asked.

"No, Boss, I had nothing to do with it. Jimmy found him, and someone pulled quite the number." He knew there was bad blood with us. He knew I held Lamar responsible for my time on the inside, but I thought he knew me well enough to know, I wouldn't kill my boss' son. "They drained him. There's no blood, no magic, nothing."

Fatman leaned back in his large office chair, the wood and leather creaking in protest. He steepled his fingers in front of his chest, and lost himself to thought.

"Maybe someone is moving on us? Or sending you a personal message?" I offered.

"Eddie," he looked at me again, and for the first time ever, I saw a flash of sadness in the old man's eyes. "Find them. Find the people that decided my son needed to die."

"I'm already looking," I said as I turned on my heel and walked out of his office, leaving him to mourn in peace. I pulled my cell phone and started making calls. If there was a war coming, we needed to prepare.

I made the calls, telling the various members of the outfit to up their securities, and keep an eye on enemy movements. If they were being crowded, they were to let me know, immediately.

The day had been long, and tiresome so I never even made it to my bed, and sleeping in the chair was fine, until I woke up. I've never been a morning, or even a day person. If I woke up with someone beside me, I was generally a little better, because I knew there would be more to follow, but alone, I stayed that way until a pot of coffee and a few cigarettes were in my system.

I know, people frown on smoking, but like gunshots, road rash, stab wounds and every other thing that comes at me, just twist a little juice, and there's no way I'm coming down with the ill effects. It comes in handy, but doesn't always work.

The banging on the door matched the banging in my head. Just one dull thud followed by another and another. I rose to my feet, and twisted to shift everything back into place. I looked at the clock on the wall, and immediately my mood soured, as I had only been asleep for two hours. The door was jerked open to two men in suits, holding their bibles and staring up me. After their initial shock, they plastered on their smiles.

"Good Morning, Brother! I'm Pastor Gerrard and this is Deacon Frye. We are here to ask you about your soul. When you die, will you bathe in the eternal glory that is God's love?" then he narrowed his eyes, looking from my tattoos and scars to my face. "Or will you drown in the fires of Hell, a new plaything for the Dark One?"

The bastards didn't know I've already died twice according to the doctors, and on that note, I didn't see a bright light with family trying to welcome me. "I'm not interested," I growled and tried to shut my door, only to have him start talking fast, and putting a hand on the door.

"Come on, Brother! You aren't worried about your eternal soul?" This time Frye was speaking.

"My mother didn't have any other sons." I said, leaving him to figure that out.

"Come on, let me read to you from our good book..." The pastor started then. "Matthew, Chapter Two..."

"I'm not interested, now get out of my doorway." I was reaching for the .500, another part of my aches and pains from sleeping on it. "I sold my soul for a cuban cigar and Latina Twins."

"Oh Son, that's no way to joke, now just a few words from the good book?"

I'd had it. "Is that a good book?" I asked, to which he nodded his head, smiling. "Really good?" More vigorous nodding followed.

"I believe that this is the best book ever. Worldwide Best Seller!" he was raising his hands, and I could see the Rolex and gold bracelets he'd bought, weaving his promises over suckers that looked for answers.

"So what you are saying is that you love that book?" I asked again.

"Yes, Brother, I am!" He was smiling until I pulled that pistol and stepped out at my full height to look at him.

"That's good, Brother, because you are going to eat that mother fu*ker, if you don't get out of my doorway." I growled and pulled the hammer back.

They looked at me, then Frye was off like his pants were on fire. The Pastor just stared at me, then his eyes fell to the gun.

"Have a nice day!" And he broke into a run after the Deacon.

"Idiots." I slammed the door and walked to my bedroom, intent on getting more sleep.

The Port Richmond area of New York, had become known as Little Mexico. The people that lived there on average, made little to nothing as a yearly income, so that meant crime rates were high. Even in this part of The Big Apple, Fatman's protections were strained. That's where Cheech's crew came in.

They were Mexican immigrants, moved up illegally and obtained citizenship through fixed marriages, false IDs, or some just didn't even care. They owned restaurants that boasted The Best Mexican Food Outside of Mexico, and that was where the crew mostly hung out. They had apartments above with their closest of family and friends.

Driving a Range Rover in that part of town drew interest. People that drove those sorts of vehicles were either Mafia, Drug Dealers, Pimps, or a lost tourist, and usually, the citizens hoped for the latter. When I stepped from my ride, the guys that had been eyeballing my 'Rover all looked the other way. I had a rep, even in a nearly uncontrolled area.

Cheech met me before I got more than a few paces from my ride. He wasn't smiling, and in fact he rattled off a line of Spanish to the onlookers that sounded no where near friendly. "Come on Homes, we gotta drive into the bad part of town." He said, as he walked past me, and if I hadn't been so damned tired, I would have laughed at the way he was dressed. Beanie Cap, Green Flannel Shirt, over his wife-beater tank, green suspenders that held up his several size too large, beige Dickies, and black and white Converse hi-tops. I just shook my head, and unlocked the doors, so he could get in. "I don't like it, Amigo. We got to work our asses off for scraps, and then someone does this? They left him out in the park, Homes."

"The Park?" I asked, surprised that they were that bold.

"You'll see," Cheech said and then fell silent for the rest of the ride, only pointing the directions to turn and lead us to an old burned out, boarded up school, that still had a little of the playground left. "He's over there, on the swings, Man." And he pointed again, like I wouldn't be able to see the young, Mexican Gangers all with Sub-guns, keeping my area clear.

"Good work, Cheech," I said. "I mean that."

"You got to fix this, Homes, like yesterday."

We exited my 'Rover and made our way toward where the man hung from the swing poles, his neck at an unnatural angle, his tongue out, and his eyes bulging. Cheech Crossed himself, and walked away to let me have the scene.

"Hey, Handsome," the man said, while I was on the rec, lifting weights. "I heard what you did to my homey, Beane." I knew when I heard that punk's name, that there was about to be trouble.

"Did you hear that it was self defense?" I asked as I pushed the bar upward again with a smooth motion, and extension of my arms, before I locked it over my head. "He started it, and I just finished it."

"You didn't finish sh*t, Pretty Boy. I'm here to finish it!" He lunged at me and I moved just in time to leave him bouncing off of the weight rack.

It had been three weeks, and I was hoping that some of the buzz would have died down about the new guy, but apparently hope was something you kept to yourself while locked up.

"You don't want to do this, man." I said, putting my hands loosely to my sides, watching every move he made, and readying just enough juice to keep me a step ahead of his swings and blade I noticed shoved into the toe of his shoe.

"You are wrong!" He kicked that foot at me, a powerful roundhouse kick that was high enough to catch me in the throat, but I'd dodged it with relative ease. "You hurt one of us, you hurt all of us!" He was making a show for people on the yard, who had already started to gather.

There was another one of those high kicks, and I could hear the whistles of the guards running our way. I knew I had to make a showing, to keep myself safe, so I dropped down and back, before I brought my fist up, hard into the man's groin, picking him up off the ground. I heard the men gathered all groan in a collective pain. No one likes a shot to the junk, no one. He went down, whimpering and holding himself as I picked up the bladed foot, his eyes widened.

"This is what happens when you come looking for trouble," I twisted his ankle until the bones popped and he screamed out in pain.

"Let him go, Slate!" I heard again over the shouting in tongues.

"He's got a blade," I pointed out.

"And you don't need one," The guard known as Childers said as he slapped the cuffs on my wrists, and started me toward Solitary.

"Boss, there were two more hit, down in Port Richmond," I said as Fatman answered the phone.

"Why are you calling me, Eddie?" He asked suspiciously. "You usually come into the club to discuss business."

"Two of Cheech's crew." I didn't answer him right away. "One a no name tagger, just putting our mark around town, the other though, Jose Rodriquez."

"Street mage?" He asked.

"That would be him. They shot the tagger, left blood and brains all over the place, but Jose, they hung in public, naked and bled him too." I pulled a cig from the pack, listening to the man's breathing, trying to tell if he even was.

"Nothing left?" He finally asked.

"There's a spot, washed away with rain now, but that spot was old Mojo, Boss. Like your kind of weave, only dark. Any ideas?"

"Were there any witnesses, Eddie?" His turn to avoid my question.

"I don't know, Boss, I was there to investigate another bled mage."

"Find out, and come by the house later, Mikhail will be cooking dinner."

As soon as he mentioned his private chef, two things happened. First, my mouth started watering, and second, I knew we wouldn't be dining alone. He had company coming in, but company that he didn't mind talking business with. "Okay, Boss. I'll ask around, kick over some rocks, see what I find."

"I knew I could count on you, Eddie."

The day wore on, and partially due to lack of sleep, the weather, or the combination of the two, my mood really didn't improve. The woman behind the counter watched the Spanish Soaps, looking at me once in a while to be sure I didn't need anything, or that I was still there, I wasn't sure which. I stared at her a long time, seeing if she was like Cheech, had any of the power at all, but she was just part of his family a normal, everyday, working class woman.

"Need something?" she asked in very guttural, broken English. I just shook my head. What I needed, she couldn't get me, and that was to be at home, in my bed asleep.

"You going to find them, Slate?" The haunting echo of a voice was right beside me, and I turned with the pistol in my hand, only to find myself staring at Jose.

"Great, another ghost, just what I need." I grumbled and slid the pistol back into the folds of the New York Post.

He was in his wife beater, and chinos. Hair was slicked back, away from his pale face, and his eyes seemed lit with fire. He was flipping a knife over in his hands. "They caught me in my bed, Man. They killed my girl, then got Jorge. I never even heard them, or felt them comin', Essay."

"Wait, they came into your house?" I asked, turning to look at him then.

"Yeah, Man. You even listening to me?" He shoved the knife into the wood of the table, making jagged marks.

"You didn't have the place warded?"

"Of course I did!" His voice strained and pitched in the echoes of the room.

"They didn't set them off?

"No man, it's like they were like me, now."

"Take me to your place," I said as I stood up and drained the beer.

I holstered the pistol back under my arm, and as I picked up the paper, I saw what he'd been working on. Carved into the wood of the table was one powerful word, Vengeance.

The bedroom was like the rest of the small apartment, and aside from the blood soaked sheets, and splatter patterns on the wall, was livable.

?Where the hell is she?? Jose asked, looking at me, then back at the bed, where apparently he had seen her last.

?Why are you asking me?? I asked.

?She was right here!? His agitation grew and the lights of the room dimmed and flashed. ?Jose, calm down, before you short out the building.? I was trying to keep my voice calm, and low. ?You remember her here...?

?Dude, I didn?t let anyone in the place.?

?What about the tagger??

?He was capped in the hall, Homes!?

That explained the over powering scent of Pine Sol. ?What do you see, Jose? Concentrate.? I heard that ghosts were some of the best trackers, even heard of a guy in Seattle that was a detective with a Native American Tracker he picked up somewhere in Oklahoma.

?What do you mean?? Jose looked at me, confused.

?What I mean is you can see things I can not. If they passed your wards, maybe they have someone like you working for them.? I walked over and pressed my fingertips into the sheets, feeling for any residual power, and the only thing there was Jose?s lingering magic, and the tacky, coppery twang of his girlfriend?s blood.

?What are you doing?? He asked me, watching over my shoulder.

?Waiting for you to tell me what you see, dumbass.?

He frowned at me, but then turned to look at his place. I was curious to know if it worked.

?Hey, there are footprints, Slate,? He said, trying to contain excitement. ?I see your big tracks, mine, and some that aren?t ours. It?s hard to explain, but they are dark, and old. Not like old Homie?s tracks in parties and stuff, but like OLD.? he emphasized the last word, and I smiled.

?So you can see them, great.? I shook my head, and looked at him. ?Jose, I?m sorry about your girl, and your friend. Mostly, I am sorry for you, but I think you and I will be able to find out what?s going on.?

Old power. That?s what he?d told me he saw before he moved on to the other side. The last words were just an echo of his thoughts. He wanted to avenge his family, and his friends, but the juice that held him here long enough to help me was all he had left.

The chair was too small for me, nothing like being in my home, at all. I sighed and finished the beer before I pushed to my feet and walked to the center of the room. The line of power was one of the main feeds for Kaine and ran beneath this building. It?s why he hired the taggers and kept the place tiptop. I placed the beer bottle on the coffee table and held my arms out, welcoming the power.

Everything changed.

I was back in time. Long before the tenements, the crime, the filth that filled Port Richmond even came to be. There were small homes from the Dutch and French settlers and as I walked the old streets one house was covered in the same power that still clung to Jose?s apartment. The weave was old, and complicated beyond anything I?d dare to try. I knew it was a French colonist?s home. I don?t know how I knew, but I did. I could tell that the colonists were dead inside and I wasn?t going to go in and see what killed them. The place gave me the chills, and I don?t spook easily.

?You are in the wrong time, Welp.? The voice was from behind me. I turned to see swirling shadows that formed a man?s face. I didn?t know him, but I knew he was old, older than this colony, older than the Fatman. I felt his power blast into my mind, probing, and seeking. He was trying to rip my mind apart. I ground my teeth to the point of breaking and slapped my hand onto my bracelet, activating the flame burst to bring me back to the here and now.

I fell into the floor of Jose?s small apartment, my wrist stinging and blistering from the small spell?s flame but already starting to heal. It was nothing more than a bit of juice to bring me out of a mind attack, should I need one and apparently it just saved my life.

The smell of burning leather, hair and flesh filled my nose as I pulled my phone from my pocket to dial Kaine.

?Hello, Eddie.?
?What time are we being joined for dinner??
?I take it you found something.? It was a statement.
?Something that should stay between us. I?m on my way.?

The phone was shoved back into my pocket and I rolled over to push myself up from the floor. Something caught my eye as I was lying in the floor. A glint from beneath the chair I?d been sitting in. I reached out and slid my hand beneath the chair and wrapped my fingers around the small, cool piece of metal. I withdrew my hand and opened it to reveal a gold, partially melted crucifix. I got back to my feet, and stretched my neck, studying the mangled depiction of Christ.

Standing finally I walked over to look at pictures that hung in the hallway for one in particular. I found it quickly and recognized the cross in my hand as the same one worn by Jose?s woman. Whatever attacked her was partially harmed and sought to destroy a holy symbol. Maybe I?d found my way of dealing with it.