Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Three) (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

by James Hunter

  “The kind of benefactor who lets her underlings nearly perish in the filthy sewers beneath the Hub,” I said, deadpan.

  She ignored the jibe. Out came another picture, this one a snapshot of the hotty-totty princess-bling the Wendigo had been sporting. “To beat the Kinslayer, you need only undo the hold he has on the Chiye-tanka. Take out the tiara and you take out his base of support. It’s also imperative that you get the tiara away from him because with it under his control, he will not only be able to compel and control the People, he’ll also be able to exert his will on all the lesser Wendigo made from his blood.”

  Ferraro tensed beside me. “He’ll be able to control the zombie army,” she said.

  “Again, not really my place to say. The rules and all,” Fortuna said, the whole while nodding energetically and silently mouthing the word “yes.” So maybe Lady Luck wasn’t so bad—I’ve always had a fondness for people who break stupid rules.

  “Okay, but there’s another problem,” I said. “I can’t touch the tiara with my power—it’s got some kind of Vis-resistant field protecting it and the wearer.”

  “The tiara is a powerful artifact,” Fortuna said with a shrug. She pulled out another glossy picture. A photo of a painting, which featured a delicately wrought golden laurel wreath complete with a fat ruby at the center. “It has quite a long history, this tiara, dating all the way back before the Greeks.” She tapped on the photo of the laurel crown. “Here it is in its original form, circa eleventh century BC as forged by Hephaestus. Though its appearance has altered over time, one thing remains true: it is a dangerous weapon. One which should be locked tightly away in the Guild’s vault.

  “Sadly, it has found its way into the world once more, so you’ll just have to deal with it. As you say, Mr. Lazarus: ‘Improvise, adapt, and overcome.’ True, the tiara does provide its wearer an unmatched level of protection from your power, but, as with most things, it has a weakness. Unfortunately, that weakness is known only to the original owners.”

  She held for dramatic effect—lady was so theatrical it hurt my brain—and dropped one more photo onto the hood.

  Except this time the melodrama was appropriate. I stumbled, my legs like wet noodles beneath me, before tumbling onto my ass.

  Ferraro was at my side in a second, wiggling her hands beneath my armpits and helping me to my feet. “You okay?” she asked, eyeing me for some unseen injury.

  “No.” I took several deep breaths, trying to get my thoughts in order and my body back under something that sorta resembled control. “Not even a little.”

  Ferraro wedged her shoulder further underneath me, now holding the majority of my body weight. I waited a few minutes, then gradually made my way back over to the hood and the picture: it was an old, grainy, black and white photo, taken years and years ago. Three beautiful women stood in the shot, each dressed like a 1920s flapper. An otherworldly big band fanned out behind the trio.

  “Who are they?” Ferraro asked.

  Fortuna said nothing, only stared at me with a knowing half smirk.

  “The Sirens,” I said, feeling my knees shake again. “We’ve got some history.”

  I rarely told anyone about my final days in Vietnam, or the terrible events which resulted in the massacre of my squad and the awakening of my gift. But the Sirens were at the heart of that tale, and I suspected Fortuna, at least, knew the truth of things.

  “The tiara used to belong to the sisters,” Fortuna said, cutting the mounting silence. “Mind you, this was back when I still held favor in Greece. Back in those long-ago days, a young, headstrong man—very, very cunning, this fellow—named Jason bested them and made off with the crown. Quite the scandal as you might imagine. Sadly, the extent of the tiara’s secrets belong to the Sirens and the Sirens alone. So if you hope to defeat the Wendigo, you’ll need their assistance, I should think.”

  “Don’t screw around with me,” I growled at her. “I’ve been hunting the Sirens for forty years. Forty years. It can’t be done. They’re ghosts. They move constantly. I’ve only ever heard murmured rumors about the shows they put on for the Fae Courts. If our success relies upon finding the Sirens, we should just pack our bags, head for the beach, and watch the end of the world from a hammock.”

  Fortuna drummed her fingers on the hood of the car once more and frowned at me, her irritation plain for anyone with a pair of eyes. “I am Lady Luck,” she said after a moment, “and more than equal to the queens and kings of the Fae Courts. As it happens, I know the Sirens are scheduled to perform for Arawn the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae”—she glanced at a slim gold watch on her wrist—“in approximately thirteen hours’ time. That’ll be 7:00 AM your time, though local time in Anwnn it will be 8:00 PM.”

  “So what?” Ferraro asked. “We just crash this party and ascertain the information we need? Sounds simple enough to me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No way it’s that easy—there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. Do you even remember the Hinterlands?” I asked Ferraro while eyeballing Lady Luck. “I mean, Arawn the Horned isn’t exactly friendly to … like anyone. Especially not humans. Guy’s a total nut job—his name is Arawn the Horned. Not Bob the accountant or Dave the schoolteacher. Arawn the Horned. He’d obliterate us off the face of the map because it’d be fun. Not to mention we aren’t simply gonna waltz in and play twenty questions with the Sirens then ditty-bop outta there. The Sirens are thousands of years old and thrive on death, mayhem, and bloodshed. So”—I looked at Fortuna—“what’s the deal?”

  “I think you’ve done a nice job summing up ‘the deal,’ actually,” she said. “Yes, Arawn is insane and the entire High Court of the Unfettered is likely to be present. Any one of whom could destroy you all. And, as you mentioned, the Sirens are a formidable danger to overcome in their own right. A very risky affair …” She folded one arm across her chest, tucking her hand up under her armpit. Then, with her free hand, she tapped a finger against her chin in thoughtful reflection. “You’re definitely going to need backup. A few old friends should do the trick, I think.”

  Her eyes grew unfocused and started flickering back and forth, like she was reading something at a thousand miles an hour. “Greg Chandler and James Sullivan are both musts. Ferraro obviously. You’ll certainly need Chief Chankoowashtay and Winona. Yes, that should do it. With the six of you together, your odds of survival increase by twenty-one percent, bringing your overall odds of success up to thirty-six percent. Quite good really, as far as odds go.”

  “Thirty-six percent,” Ferraro said. “Those are the chances of success?”

  “Yes—well, assuming, of course, your recruiting efforts go smoothly,” Fortuna replied. “Now, I can’t offer you any guarantees that Arawn will not decapitate the whole lot of you and serve your corpses up as appetizers, but if you make it known you are working as the Hand of Fate”—she shrugged—“well, he might not slaughter you all, I suppose. One of the perks of the job.”

  “What a perk,” I mumbled under my breath. “Like sending me into a combat zone with a cork gun and a butter knife.”

  “Aside from that, there is just one other little catch.” She grimaced. “I happen to know where the Sirens are, but, sadly, I’m not permitted to tell you. If I divulged that bit of information, it would result in your certain death. But …” She paused and gave me a small, devious grin. “I may have let the exact location slip to a mutual acquaintance of ours, a certain Hub Dweller and collector, whose name seems to have escaped me at the moment. I’m certain he will know the Way.”

  Since I wasn’t a complete moron, I knew she could only be referring to Harold the Mange—a disgusting, morbidly obese dwarf living in his own pocket dimension connected to the Hub. The guy was a revolting creep-bag, but a useful creep-bag who could manipulate the Ether—the substance between worlds—to create custom Ways, folds in space-time, which could be travelled through. Lady Luck had pointed me in his direction the very first time we’d met, back when I’d been work
ing a case involving an unbalanced rogue mage with plans to kick-start a Hindu version of the apocalypse.

  “Wait, so that’s it?” I asked. “That’s all the help you’ve got for us?”

  “Yes. That’s it. I think I’ve been supremely helpful,” she replied. “You wanted a lucky break and I’ve provided one. Now, Winona dearest.” Fortuna turned, placed a hand on her hip, and surveyed the Bigfoot over the top edge of her glasses. “Please load that poor chap in your arms into the backseat.” She folded her arms and gave a slight shake of her head. “And, for heaven’s sake, try to avoid getting any of that blood on the upholstery. Human beings are so messy.” The last, she mumbled mostly to herself.

  She faced us once more. “Okay, you are all likely to be busy, busy, busy if you hope to make it to Arawn’s party on time, so I’ll get this fellow to the hospital for you. The least I could do, really. Oh!” Her eyes took on that far-looking trance again. “Formalwear. Arawn will be twelve percent more likely to spare your lives if your team is dressed in formalwear.”

  Fortuna snapped up her briefcase as Winona gently placed the rescued prisoner into the back of the sedan. Lady Luck slipped back into the driver side seat and started the engine.

  “All right you kids, best of luck and all of that.” She sniggered, rolled up her window, and pulled back onto the thoroughfare.

  Luck. Boy were we gonna need a battleship worth to pull this clusterfuck off.

  NINETEEN:

  Old Wounds

  I lounged in the passenger seat of Ferraro’s sedan, watching the night-darkened forest flicker past on either side as we drove. The trees were silent, unmoving things, yet in the headlights they seemed almost alive; the high beams, passing over their limbs and twisted bodies, lent them the appearance of movement. They were crying out to me, their boughs reaching toward the roadway, pleading for me to save them from the evil presence which had possessed their guardians, the Chiye-tanka.

  I put the trees and the Chiye-tanka out of mind—there was nothing I could do for them right now. We’d deal with the Wendigo when the time was right, when we had a good hand to play. Winona was on her way back to the cave to chat with her father, and Ferraro and I had other things that needed to be done. Namely, we needed to prepare for our encounter with Arawn and the Sirens. I’d already tried to get in touch with Greg, but the call had gone straight to voicemail. Annoying, sure, but not troubling. Greg was the most reliable person I knew, but he was never great about keeping his cell phone charged.

  For once, no music played in the car. Quiet filled the cab instead, which suited me just fine. The space to think was welcome.

  I stared down at the clear crystal orb in my hand, the scrying stone I’d used to eavesdrop on the sheriff. Once upon a time, scrying stones were all the rage among magi. I mean in the days before cell phones, being able to talk at a distance was a huge advantage, so you can just imagine the edge magi held over the Rubes of the world. Nowadays, most of the magi have gotten on board with tech—but sometimes the old ways were still the best, especially if you needed to talk in a place where cell reception was nonexistent. Like, say, the far-flung reaches of Outworld or the mountainous backwoods of Montana.

  Really, the orb was nothing special, just a shiny piece of glass, but it’d been imbedded with a complex weave of earth, fire, spirit, and magnetic force. The construct created a certain resonance frequency—think of it as the Vis equivalent of a phone number. James had one which was almost identical, and since I knew the frequency of his stone, I could call him up anywhere—assuming he had the stone on him. But I knew he did. Considering all the crazy goings-on these past few months, there was no way he wouldn’t have it.

  I needed to call him.

  I needed him for this mission, but I also needed him to answer some tough, uncomfortable questions. The kind of questions that could end a friendship. And when I say “end a friendship,” I’m talking about the nuclear-bomb-blast-which-leaves-no-survivors kind of ending. Those questions could wait, though. Even if James was the villain—which I still didn’t fully accept—he didn’t know that I knew, which meant I could still string him along for a while longer. Use him to stop this business with the Wendigo before I had to kick his ass up one side of the street and down the other. Assuming, of course, I could manage such a feat, which was no sure thing. James was a better battle-mage than me by a fair margin.

  “Are you sure bringing James in is the right move?” Ferraro asked, giving the scrying stone a sidelong glance before returning her attention to the road.

  “Am I sure about James?” I paused, thinking long and hard, my thoughts tumbling and churning in my skull like white-water rapids. “No. I’m not sure about anything. Everything seems backwards in my friggin’ head, but it’s not like good choices are raining down on us by the bucketful.” I traced one finger over the smooth surface of the orb. “And I do trust Fortune. She drives me batshit-crazy, but so far she’s steered us right. Her and Lady Fate, both. So if she says we need James to survive this mission, then my guess is we need James.”

  “So what are you waiting for?” she asked, not harsh, but pushy, insistent. “There’s a lot of moving parts and not a lot of time to make things happen. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid, Yancy, better to get it over with quickly. Otherwise you’ll just prolong the pain.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “This is stupid. You’re right. I just need to call him, already.” Instead I stared at the orb, unmoving, and did all of jack shit. Of all the terrible things I had to do today, this was the one I was looking forward to the least.

  “What’s the real issue?” she asked, her voice low and soothing. “You believe James is innocent, right? So why the hesitation?”

  I gazed out the window, not answering for a good long while, letting the quiet of the night reign supreme as I turned her question over in my head, examining it from every angle. What the hell was the issue? I did trust James, didn’t I? So why the hell was I worried about picking up the phone—well, scrying stone, anyway—and calling? I sighed.

  “Look, I do trust him.” I shrugged, trying to find the right words. “But what if James really is the asshole behind this mess? Shit, but I don’t think my delicate psyche can handle that.”

  She snorted a short laugh. “Delicate psyche. That’s exactly the way I’d describe you. Delicate.”

  I frowned, scrunching up my nose in frustration, and fell silent.

  “Don’t pout,” she said.

  I set the orb down between my legs, crossed my arms, and turned away, offering her my shoulder. I wasn’t pouting.

  Sulking, maybe.

  Possibly sullen—sounded manlier that way—but definitely not pouting. Pouting was for moody teens throwing a temper tantrum.

  “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. “Just level with me, tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  I swiveled back around, muttering obscenities under my breath. “It’s not like this is easy for me, you know? I have a hard time opening up to people. Believe it or not, but I wasn’t always the cynical, jaded asshole I am today. This is the result of a lifetime of shitty people doing shitty things to me. Of me trusting people only to have them turn around and stab me in the friggin’ back over and over again. My delicate pysche is the direct result of fifty years of dickheads taking advantage of me, using me, pissing on me at every possible opportunity. That shit takes its toll, okay?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m having trouble envisioning you as a happy-go-lucky ray of sunshine.”

  “Well, let’s not go overboard.” I drummed my fingers on the scrying stone. “I mean, I’ve always been a sarcastic jerk—that’s built right into my DNA. Not nearly so jaded, though. Once upon a time, way, way back, I used to trust people. Used to have something that almost, kinda, sorta resembled a normalish life. You shoulda seen me back before the Morrigan snatched Ailia.” I clenched my fists, the thought instantaneously bringing my blood to a low simmer. “Back before the G
uild turned its back on me and her. You probably won’t believe this, but back in those days I used to like the Guild—hell, I would’ve given my life for the Guild, which should tell you pretty much all you need to know.”

  We were quiet, the buzz of the rubber over the asphalt the only sound in the otherwise silent night. I watched more trees zip past for a time, before catching a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. Blood and gore stained my skin. Puffy bags underlined my eyes. My rough beard was getting too long and itchy—definitely time for a shave. I looked like a warmed over bag of shit. I looked old, not as old as my sixty-six years warranted, but older than I had just a few short days ago—as though all this madness had sucked the life right out of me, like some kind of vampire.

  “I’ve heard you talk about Ailia before and about the Morrigan,” Ferraro finally said, pulling me away from my thoughts. “What happened?”

  I turned my head away and waved a hand through the air, dismissing the question. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist,” she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “But I think you should talk about it. To me, this sounds like a watershed event—a trigger which caused a serious personality shift. Talking about it might help you to work through your feelings about James, because I’ll bet they’re connected.”

  Stupid, no-good, FBI-trained, nosey Nicole. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. “You want to know what happened? The swamp-donkeys in the Guild betrayed me”—I sat forward and slammed a hand onto the dashboard—“that’s what happened. Hung me out to dry, hung us all out to dry.” I paused, the sudden violence leaving a ripple of unease between us. “Ailia was a Judge,” I said, my voice softer, “a senior lieutenant. One of our Guild operatives went missing, guy had been working deep ops in the high courts of the Tuatha Dé Danann—old Irish gods. Major movers and shakers, those cats.” I leaned back, glanced down at my fingers, and picked at a hangnail.