Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 5)

by James Hunter

  The guy was a phenomenally nasty bastard, after all. The king of dickhead demons.

  That anger returned in force, burning up those other feelings like furnace flames. I snarled and stomped forward, the sound of my footfalls heavy on the tiles, until I stood in front of one of the servants. A man with sea-green eyes who was missing his left arm, just above the elbow. The slave slouched in on himself as though he could will himself invisible with enough effort. I cupped his chin and lifted his face. The feel of slick, wet muscle against my fingers was revolting, but I steeled myself and schooled my face, pretending it didn’t bother me.

  The slave flinched, reluctant to meet my eye.

  “Whatever you think,” I said, voice low and somber, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  I slipped my hand down to the collar snapped tight around his throat.

  The metal was fiery hot to the touch; not enough to leave blisters, but it had to be agony against tender, raw muscle. The collar looked to be a single piece of metal with no lock, no hinges, and no way to open it, but that was all an illusion of sorts. Strands of earthen power, fiery Vis, and cancerous Nox thrummed beneath the metal, powering the torturous device. And it was torturous. The collar tapped into the wearer’s mind, compelling them to perfect obedience and subservience while simultaneously inflicting terrible pain.

  Worse still, I sensed subtle workings that reminded me of artifacts the Guild of the Staff regularly used: Vis Dampeners. There were specialty sigils built in to prevent magi from tapping into the cosmic forces churning below the visible world. One of those collars might well prevent even the most stalwart mage from so much as lighting a candle with the Vis. I’d spent some time without my power not so long ago—cursed by an ancient poison, courtesy of an upstart named Randy Shelton and an undead Lich named Koschei—and I still had nightmares. Was it possible some of these Skinless men were magi?

  I didn’t know, but it seemed possible.

  The construct fueling the collar was both ancient and powerful, but relatively straightforward.

  Building one of those collars would’ve taken years of practice and a mage far more studied than me, but opening it was as easy as taking a tire iron to a plate glass window. I drew on the Vis and crammed a thin weave of raw force into the delicate pattern of energy. The construct in the collar fizzled and groaned; the ember script guttered and died as a fissure appeared in the metal—a hair-thin opening—along with a hidden hinge along the back. The collar popped free with a groan and landed on the floor with a thud.

  The slave’s eyes widened in shock bordering on wonder. His jittery, skinless fingers rose, probing at his neck and the raw area of flesh where the collar had been a second before.

  I grinned and nodded my head. “Yep. That’s right. I’m not here to hurt you. Not any of you—”

  Before I could get the next word out, the slaves surged forward almost as one, groping at their collars, hope burning bright, hot, and hungry in their faces. Optimistic for the first time in a long, long, long time. I needed info, and I needed to move quickly—who knew where Levi was or what horrors Tezrian was inflicting on him—but I couldn’t leave these people to suffer. I was a bad man, maybe, but not bad enough to do that. So, I went to work, moving from body to body, leaving a trail of collars on the tiled floor in my wake.

  The whole process took only a minute or two.

  When I finally finished, the slaves turned expectant, thankful eyes on me. Waiting for me to tell them what I needed. What terrible price I would ask—and those stares told me they sure as shit expected to pay something.

  This was Hell, and in Hell there were no free meals.

  “Look, guys,” I said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, “all I want is a little info, okay? Seriously. I’m looking for the lady running this joint. Tezrian. Either her or a weapon. A scythe. Might be one of you guys has seen something like that during your rounds?” I hedged, scanning their faces. “I’m just looking for someone to point me in the right direction, then I’ll be on my way, and you can be on yours. No muss, no fuss.” They glanced at each other, still unspeaking before a man in the back nodded and shouldered his way past the others.

  He was beanpole slim, and like me, he was missing an eye.

  “Alright,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “What can you tell me?”

  He frowned and shook his head before opening his mouth, revealing a gaping maw absent of teeth and devoid of a tongue. Even more disgusting awfulness to pile onto this dumpster fire. He turned to the group, hands flashing through a lightning fast series of signs, then turned, grabbed my bicep, and drew me back down the hallway toward the utility room across from the pantry. I shot a glance at the rest of the Skinless crew over one shoulder. They were scouring the kitchen, grabbing knives, meat cleavers, anything sharp, pointy, and good for killing.

  Getting ready to make a break for freedom no doubt.

  That’s what I would’ve done in their shoes.

  I dismissed them and turned back to my guide as he dragged me unceremoniously inside the cramped room. A sturdy shelving unit ran along the left wall, loaded down with cleaning supplies—spray bottles, rags, bleach, mops, and brooms. Apparently, even in the Inferno there was still housework to get done. An eternity of scrubbing toilets and mopping floors sounded pretty hellish to me. Against the right wall was a massive metal door, fitted snugly into the wall. A walk-in freezer. Skinless popped the latch and ushered me into a metal box, the sides frosted over with a layer of white rime.

  Shelves of perishable goods lined both walls while thick slabs of meat, fat ol’ pigs, dangled from meat hooks along the center of the room. At the very back was a trio of giant fans, buzzing with electric life, blasting out a constant stream of frigid air. Beneath the fans, set into the wall, was a square ventilation shaft with a grate over the top, sucking some of the chilly air out and recirculating it. The grille looked tightly bolted in place, but ol’ Skinless wedged his finger into the metal slats and gave the whole thing a wiggle, prying it free with a soft scrape.

  The inside of the duct was a helluva lot bigger than I’d imagined it would be, but I supposed cooling a place like this would require an impressively large HVAC system and a vast network of ducts. The freezer obviously played some role. The lip of the vent shaft was six feet from the floor. But Skinless—you know what, let’s call him Jim because Skinless feels too impersonal—hopped up with ease, latching on with his fingers then hauling his body into the shaft like he’d done the damned thing a thousand times before.

  His feet disappeared a moment later as he scampered deeper into the vent work, moving as silent as a kitten on carpet.

  FIFTEEN:

  Jackpot

  I followed good ol’ Jim, hooking my fingers over the edge and using my fancy new muscles to pull myself into a shaft, three feet by three feet. It was a tight, uncomfortable squeeze, but there was just enough room for me to prop my arms beneath me and wriggle forward. I craned my head up, catching sight of Jim’s skinless feet ahead, and began to slowly, tediously worm my way after him. After fifteen feet, I faltered. The horizontal shaft dead-ended, connecting to a vertical shaft running both up and down.

  Jim clung to the far wall, perched on a set of crude rebar ladder rungs, which looked like grafted-in additions. I gulped and peered over the edge—below was one long drop into darkness, and twenty feet down whirled a steel fan big enough to chop suey the shit outta me if I fell. Good to know. Jim shrugged, there’s no other way, pal, then jabbed one finger skyward and began to climb. I didn’t have any choice but to follow. The shaft ascended for ten feet before connecting at a central junction with more ducts jetting out like bike spokes. Jim didn’t hesitate for a second; he bounded from the ladder rungs into a tunnel on the left and disappeared.

  Once more, I followed.

  It continued like that for a good ten minutes.

  We navigated vertical shafts, bypassed grates removed long ago, and scampered over vast gulfs via jerry-rigged rope
bridges. Every inch of these ducts must’ve been mapped out—used for getting around, or maybe spying on their Derby girl masters. Eventually, Jim led me to a ceiling vent that peeked into an unoccupied room, somewhere in the upper portion of the mansion. I glanced through the metal slats, letting a wave of cool air wash over my back, and the breath caught in my throat.

  The room below was a sprawling affair with plush carpet, dark wood wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, while a hulking desk occupied another. An antique globe rested between a pair of burnt leather club chairs. This place was my dream office, and as far as I knew, it only existed inside my head. It was a special place where I went to think and commune with my inner man.

  And by “inner man,” I mean Cassius, the shit-talking water-elemental who lives inside my head, permanently bound to my subconscious mind by the Vis.

  Except, here the room was, as real as the nose on my face. My head swam, blackness crept in on the edges of my vision, and for a moment I felt light-headed. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Azazel had been here—he’d made this place, my place, real. It was eerie. Surreal. Like walking over your own grave. Hell, I could almost see myself tooling around down there, bare feet shuffling over the carpet, one hand tracing over the spine of an ancient book while the other held a shot of good bourbon. A voice floated up in the back of my mind, raising the hairs on the nape of my neck to rigid attention.

  “You belong to me, disciple.”

  The words were harsh, deep, and primal like the rumble of an earthquake. Azazel. They were no more than a muffled whisper, likely a figment of my imagination more than anything else, but they still shook me. He’s locked away, I reminded myself. Still, Levi’s words of warning bubbled up in the back of my brain: Don’t ever forget, they’re still in you. That means you can access their power, but the more Nox you draw, the more the ichor has to work to hold them back. I glanced down at the golden tattoos riddling my arm. They were dull—ugly and brown like drying mud.

  Just how much power had I used, and how much was too much?

  There was jack shit I could do about any of that at the moment, however, so instead I turned my attention back to the room. I nodded at Jim, who immediately went to work, loosening screws with nimble fingers before propping the grate up against the side of the duct. I inched up to the edge and dropped my legs through, feeling painfully exposed as I dangled there. This vent shaft opening was a wee bit narrower than the opening in the freezer, and it took some seriously awkward acrobatics to get my shoulders through. Finally, however, I dropped down, landing on the carpet with a soft thump, which still felt ungodly loud in the otherwise quiet room.

  I half expected Skinless Jim to follow me down, but the man popped his head out for only a brief second, offering me a thumbs-up before disappearing out of sight. I cupped a hand around my mouth. “Hey, hold on,” I hissed, a flicker of panic filling me. “How the crap am I supposed to find my way out?” My question hung in the air, unanswered.

  The asshole was gone. Vanished.

  Shit. Well, I was still better off than I’d been half an hour ago, and with the chunk of Levi in my pocket, I’d find my way.

  I turned slowly, scanning the room.

  Although this place was certainly Cassius’ office, Azazel had added a few touches of his own. A dark wood bookcase ran behind the desk, loaded to the gills with ancient manuscripts and grimoires, no doubt filled with profane, demonic knowhow. Either that or hellish cooking recipes. Additionally, the wall-mounted flat screen was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a glass-fronted curio cabinet showcasing various relics. There were iron figurines, covered in golden, Hebrew script. A bronze-bladed, rune-etched dagger—clearly ceremonial. A black-coated mirror in a worn, gold-edged frame.

  On the other side of the room, near the club chairs, were sets of shelves filled with weapons. Old weapons like medieval poleaxes, Roman gladiuses, and hulking warhammers, plus a spattering of new ones, too. A host of pistols dotted one shelf—Berettas, Glocks, Colts—some big and flashy, others compact and practical.

  Another shelf housed a MAC10, an AK, and a sawed-off shottie, which looked a helluva lot like the one slung around my body. Some of the other goodies left me salivating like a starving puppy: flashbangs, frag grenades, a trio of Claymore mines, and a sprawl of gleaming cutlery. Everything from the classic K-Bar to curved Kukri.

  Jackpot.

  Apparently, Demon-me had the same taste in weapons as regular me.

  Unfortunately, the scythe was noticeably absent from the mini-armory.

  Still, I wasn’t about to ignore a perfectly good opportunity to load up before moving on.

  There was a black tactical flak jacket with a drop pouch on a nearby rack, just waiting for some industrious, forward thinker like myself to come along and load it up with all the tools necessary to raid a demon stronghold. I took my regular holster off, strapped the vest on, and promptly went to town like a kid in a candy shop. My shoulder rig went over the top of the vest like a dream, and I slipped a flashbang and a frag grenade into a pair of pouches on the front.

  I picked out a sleek black Beretta M-9 and stashed it in the belt at the back of my pants.

  The tactical shottie, I held.

  Once I felt sufficiently loaded up and ready to rock and roll, I headed over to the curio cabinet housing all of Azazel’s weird collectibles. Most of the stuff was your standard mysterious demon fare, but one particular item on the bottom shelf caught my eye.

  There was a withered hand, the flesh dry and cracked, with candlewicks protruding from the ends of each finger. An honest-to-God Hand of Glory. A cursed, demonic artifact, made from the hand of a thief, hanged until dead. The trinkets were like urban legends: everyone knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew another guy who’d seen one. Or maybe owned one.

  But it was always bullshit, as urban legends so often are.

  The closest I’d ever come to a Hand of Glory was a shitty tourist shop over at the Brokers of Iskdarla Shopping Emporium, Hub-side. The emporium was like the bastard child of the world’s biggest garage sale and a sprawling third-world outdoor market, and you could find just about anything there. Just about. The Hand I saw was a cheap knockoff for suckers with more money than common sense. Real Hands of Glory were powerful dark artifacts, empowered by the souls of the dead and damned. No self-respecting mage would truck with that kinda hoodoo.

  Legend said the candles would only shed light for the person holding the Hand, and there were even rumors that it could open any door or any lock.

  It wasn’t what I’d come looking for, but I couldn’t pass it by—no one would ever believe me otherwise. Besides, I was in Hell, and if I couldn’t find a way to use an artifact that could unlock any door, I was doing something wrong. Gingerly, I picked it up as though it were a live rattler and unceremoniously shoved it into the drop pouch at my hip. Then, I wiped my palm on my jeans, trying to scrub away the oily residue—touching the Hand felt like running my skin under a stream of rancid sewage.

  Next, I ransacked the rest of the room, checking and double-checking every nook, crevice, and hidey-hole Azazel might’ve used as a secret stash. I looked under chair cushions, flipped tables, and pulled all the books from the shelves. But my searching turned up nada, which was more than a little concerning. Where would that asshole have put it, if not here?

  I highly doubted the scythe would be in the desk, but there might be other clues. I mean, a desk like that looked custom-built for stashing incriminating evidence. I beelined for the wooden behemoth and pulled open the top drawer. As expected, no giant, demon-killing weapon, but a black book looked nearly as promising. I plopped down on the edge of the office chair, a fancy leather number, and leafed through the papers, scanning the details. Once more, I felt a giddy excitement bubble up in my gut. Jackpot número dos.

  The book was a treasure trove of valuable info. Blueprints. M
aps. Guard rosters.

  No doubt, this was the culmination of all the details Azazel had turned up while eliminating the other demons of Asmodeus’ court.

  With a grin, I tucked the book into the drop pouch next to the Hand of Glory—

  The soft rasp of metal on metal drew my attention in a flash. I shot to my feet, the chair squeaking in protest, bringing the shottie up and to the ready, the sights trained on the entryway. But it wasn’t some Derby girl making the rounds. Instead, ol’ Skinless Jim’s face popped back into view, his forehead furrowed, his lipless mouth puckered into a grimace. Holy shit was it good to see him again. Jim shot a hand out and waved me up, the gesture clear even if he couldn’t speak. Time to move, I’ve got something to show you.

  I grunted a reply, lowering the gun, then hoofed it over to the vent.

  It took a bit of doing to get back into the air ducts, but eventually, I was inside, low-crawling after Jim, sweating up a storm the whole time. Moving through the shaft before had been uncomfortable, but now—with the added body armor and extra hardware—it was downright miserable. Almost impossible. Still, I soldiered on. We took a left, then an immediate right, followed by a switchback before creeping to a stop at another ceiling vent, nearly identical to the one letting into Azazel’s spacious office.

  I scooted forward, repositioning myself to get a glimpse of the room below.

  From my limited vantage, I could only see one wall, but it looked far closer to a medieval torture chamber than a good place to kick up your feet, drink some whiskey, and plot the downfall of a demon king. The wall was old gray stone, peppered with specks of crusty brown and sporting black wrought-iron torches, burning with lurid red fire that fluttered and danced in the breeze coming from the vent. Two steel-topped tables lined the wall.