Death Match (The Lazarus Codex Book 5)

by E. A. Copen

  “I’m aware. Unfortunately, Khaleda needs to heal, and you’ve indicated your non-interest in participating in that process. Nicole, however, is quite willing.” He smirked.

  The bastard. Well, that explained a few things. He was using Nicole as a food source for Khaleda since he’d failed to back me into it. According to Khaleda, the more times someone slept with her, the higher the chance of them losing their grip on reality. Having been there, I believed it. She’d slowly gnaw away at Nicole’s sense of self until there was nothing left but the desire to serve and please her mistress.

  “Does Nikki know you’re slowly draining away her free will?” I asked Morningstar. “Because when I tell Darius, you can bet he’ll be pissed.”

  “I’d be much more willing to reject her advances if Darius was up to date on his payments. As it is, I’m just so strapped for cash, I’ve no other way to pass my time.” His smile was taunting. It was utter bullshit and we both knew it.

  “I thought you said this had nothing to do with Darius?”

  “Did I?” He shrugged. “I suppose everything is related in one way or another. Enjoy your evening, you two.” Morningstar went to the bathroom door and rapped on it twice.

  I crossed my arms. “What about Loki’s banquet? Were you planning on going?”

  Morningstar rolled his eyes. “Mead, meat and raucous behavior? Normally, I’d never be able to decline, but seeing as how Loki dislikes me, I think it would be unwise to be in his presence when there’s drinking and debauchery involved. It wouldn’t go my way.”

  Khaleda opened the bathroom door and Morningstar slid in, kicking Spot back to keep him from muscling his way in. If the dog had wanted, he could’ve crashed right through the door, but he just sat and whined at it instead.

  “So,” I said turning back to Emma, “should we finish fighting or just awkwardly pretend we’re good?”

  Emma made a frustrated sound and collapsed onto the bed pulling the pillow over her face. “I hate you.” Her voice came out muffled from beneath the pillow.

  “Okay, awkward pretending it is. Look, I’m going to go to Loki’s party, but it’s so I can talk to some people on the remaining teams. I’m pretty sure I know who our killer is, but I need to find evidence before I can make a formal accusal.”

  Emma lifted the pillow off her face. Guess my bet that work would be a safe conversation had paid off. “Do tell.”

  So, I went into the room, closed the door and brought Emma up to speed on everything I could. I didn’t tell her about the whole apocalypse thing because I couldn’t, but I did drop some heavy hints that killing another Horseman would be bad for everybody. She didn’t question it, which was a relief.

  By the time I’d finished, we were both sitting cross-legged on our respective beds, facing each other.

  “Okay,” Emma said, “it should be less work if we split things up. I’ll ask a few people at the party too.”

  “You can’t tell Loki,” I said, shaking my head. “He’ll act first and probably start a war. This has to be handled delicately.”

  “Delicately?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Since when do you do anything delicately?”

  “Which is why I brought this to you.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, because I’m a delicate little flower.”

  “Queen of Thorns is close. A hell of a lot closer than me. Apparently, everyone is afraid of me.” I shrugged.

  We sat in awkward silence for a minute. It was the first time since I’d come into the room that I didn’t have anything work-related to say.

  Emma focused on her hands, refusing to look at me. “You know, I don’t care about Khaleda.”

  “Then why’d you bring it up?”

  “Because you didn’t trust me. You could’ve told me everything back then, and you didn’t. Relationships are built on trust, Lazarus. If you don’t trust me, I don’t know what else there can be.”

  I scooted closer to the edge of my bed. “I do trust you.”

  She shook her head. “Not completely. Not with everything. You can’t keep me at arm’s length and still have me. That’s not how this works.”

  She was right. That’s how I’d screwed things up with Beth. There was a time after Lydia died that I could’ve gone to her for help. If I’d just told her my plan and what I was going through, maybe things wouldn’t have gone down like they did. With Odette too. I thought I had loved her, but I’d never really known her. I didn’t want to know her. Deep down, I knew she’d just leave. Everybody left. I’d already accepted long ago that I’d die alone. Anything contrary to that fact didn’t fit into my world. I hadn’t even let myself really get close to Remy because I knew that one day I might not come home. I didn’t want to hurt her. The only way to make sure no one around me became collateral damage when my life fell apart was to keep my distance. My head knew that. Problem was, my heart had missed the memo.

  “I’m just afraid of other people getting hurt because of me,” I said. “I can’t shake this feeling that it’s my fault all these bad things are happening. If not for me making a stupid mistake, you’d still have your soul. If I was just a little quicker, Remy would still have her mother. If I’d been more rational than emotional about Lydia’s death, I wouldn’t have a record and I’d never have lost Beth. Hell, Lydia might still be alive if I had stayed out of her life. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a rotten kid, my parents would still be together. Things fall apart around me, Emma. Everyone I love gets hurt. I don’t know how to stop it.”

  She nodded. “Well, that’s a start. First step to solving any problem is admitting there is one. That’s what my therapist says anyway.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, when this is all over, you and me have a sit-down. We talk. Honestly. And let’s go on a proper date. How’s that?”

  Emma smiled. “I think I can live with that. For now, how about we go see what we can shake out of the guests at Loki’s party?”

  “I’m down for that.” I stood, collected my staff and went to hold the door open for Emma.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Loki’s banquet was held in a massive rectangular room, bigger than if all the rooms in our apartments had been combined into one big room. Torches wrapped in iron baskets provided the light. More iron curled from the ceiling in stiff arms, each grasping a wax candle.

  A huge table took up the center of the room piled high with meat, mead, and bread. People ripped into whole boars and speared the bodies of decapitated fish. At the head of the table, Loki sliced into the body of a huge buck, portioning it for those seated near him. His Valkyries stood guard at all entrances and exits to the room. On a balcony above us, a live band played music that could only be described as Viking folk metal.

  Emma and I split the room in two, her taking the right side of the table and me the left. Over the dull roar of the crowd, it would be difficult to question anyone, so I resolved to put that off. Better to develop a rapport with a few people first. I spied a few fighters I recognized from the arena a third of the way up the table sitting in front of a huge pyramid of sausages and closed on them.

  Let’s see. There was the guy with the dark, curly hair and the Roman nose. He had fought in the qualifying round if the swelling over his left eye and nose was anything to judge by. No one at the feast was armed aside from the Valkyries, so it was hard to say what position on his team he occupied, but I pegged him as a swordsman or a mage.

  Next to him sat a slight blonde woman with sharp features. She laughed often and loud, but never with the dark-haired man. Mostly, she seemed interested in the man across from her, a muscular jock type. He leaned on the back of his wrist while pulling apart some grapes and tossing them into her mouth to catch. He tossed one and I reached out to catch it before she could.

  I palmed the grape and made it disappear, flashing my hands to show it was gone.

  The man across the table sneered. “You think your parlor tricks amuse us, wizard?” He had an accent. Middle Eastern maybe?

  “No wizard
ry needed.” I reached into my sleeve and pulled the grape back out. “Just sleight of hand. I can teach you if you’d like.”

  The dark-haired man drew a dagger and buried it in the table. “Fuck off, mage. This table is for real fighters.” His accent was recognizably Italian.

  “Don’t be like that, Antony.” The blonde smiled up at me and grabbed at my arm. “I like magic.”

  “Magic is cheating,” said the Middle Eastern guy. “This tournament would be much more interesting without it. Just skill and strength.”

  “Spoken like a man who doesn’t know the first thing about real magic,” I said with a wink at the pretty girl. “You don’t have a mage on your team?”

  “Of course I do. But he knows his place, and it’s at the end of the table. I suggest you go and find him, wizard, before someone notices you.”

  The Italian stood and turned on me, chest out, forcing me back a step. “I noticed you. You’re standing too close to my wife, wizard.”

  “For the record, I’m a necromancer, and I didn’t know she was your wife. Usually, people lead with that.”

  “Tony!” The lady found her feet. “Come on. Sit down. He didn’t do anything. He’s harmless.”

  I focused on the enraged Tony. “Oh, now I wouldn’t say that. As the Pale Horseman, I’ve killed my fair share of gods. Human like you? No contest.”

  Tony’s eyes widened. He gave me an appraising look up and down, adjusting his initial assessment of me. “You’re a Horseman?”

  That’s right, asshole. Back it up. “Death at your service.”

  The wife’s fingers curled around her husband’s oversized bicep. Fear touched her eyes for a moment and then faded, replaced by confidence. “What do you want, Death?”

  “About a million bucks and a comprehensive guide to understanding women. No offense, miss.”

  She shrugged. “None taken.”

  Her husband grunted. “Don’t we all?”

  Score one for the Pale Horseman. I’d won their attention. Now, to capitalize. “I’ll settle for a bit of information and an ear to the ground. Before you get a bug up your butt about us being rivals, this has nothing to do with the tournament. I’m sure you heard about Chernobog and the dead Valkyrie?”

  All three nodded.

  “I’m tracking the killer. You guys happen to see a blonde about so high with a stick and a bad attitude? Goes by Pestilence or Felicia. I need to keep an eye on her movements. You see her, you let me know.”

  Tony frowned. “And what do we get out of it?”

  I looked him square in the eye. “Your lives if we meet in the arena. I’ll give you my word that my team fights to wound, not to kill. So long as you have my back, you don’t have to worry about dying at our hands.”

  He glanced back at his partner who shook his head.

  “Before you say no,” I said, holding up my hands, “consider this. Both War and I are here, advancing to the next round. Chances are good it’s my team against his in the finals, meaning you’ll fight him or me eventually. You’ve got a fifty percent chance of it being me. Accept my offer, and you get a fifty percent chance of going home. Decline, and your odds drop to near zero.”

  “Not good enough,” said Tony, his face hardening.

  “Tony, take the deal,” his wife hissed through her teeth.

  He pushed her away and stepped up to me. “You will talk to War. Get him to agree to the same. Then I keep an eye out for you.”

  No way would Haru agree to no killing, but I might be able to get him to hold back if I strongly suggested it would help. Holding back likely wouldn’t cut down on the severe injuries, but maybe he’d think twice about fatalities.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said, “but no guarantees.”

  The woman gripped her husband’s shoulder and squeezed, the plea silent.

  I watched his face contort as he considered it. Come on, Tony. Take the deal. Don’t die for this.

  He thrust a stiff hand at me. “Very well, Horseman. If I see her, I will get a message to you.”

  “That’s all I ask.” I took his hand, shook it firmly, and nodded to his wife, tipping an imaginary hat. “Take care out there.”

  They didn’t return the sentiment, but I didn’t expect them to. We were on rival teams, after all.

  The next group of fighters I found was made up of shifters. I could tell because two of them were in a half-form, looking more wolfish than man-like. They stood in a corner, speaking in hushed voices over their drinks. I grabbed a pint from a passing tray on my way over so we’d automatically have something in common. I see you’re drinking. So am I. See? I’ve got a cup and everything. Unfortunately for me, they were even less welcoming than the first group.

  One of the half-form wolves growled at my approach, and a ruddy-skinned man twisted in his seat. He was a big fella, built like a heavyweight boxer. Too many people looked at guys that size and discounted them, thinking their lack of a six-pack didn’t make them dangerous. In reality, if he decided to throw even a tenth of his weight behind a punch, it’d be lights out for me. I took in the crooked nose—broken one too many times to heal right—and the sizable scar under one eye. It made one of his eyes look bigger than the other. Someone had rearranged this guy’s face hardcore. Since he was probably a shifter like his pals, the guy who’d done that much damage probably hadn’t lived to tell about it.

  As I closed, I caught the tail end of a quick conversation in Spanish.

  “Que pasa, amigos?” I said, raising my cup. “How’d the qualifying round go for you?”

  The big guy stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.”

  “Actually, you do. See, I’m selling five ‘get out the arena alive’ passes, and you and your buddies get to pass Go and collect ’em.” I took a big swallow of the drink and almost spat it back out. Mead. Yuck. Tasted like someone left honey out in the sun and sucked all the sweetness out before spitting a bottle of rubbing alcohol in there. Because I didn’t want to spit onto the big guy’s shoes, I forced myself to swallow.

  He looked down at me, his face fixed in a scowl. “Is that a threat?”

  “Nice scars. You get them boxing?” I waved my cup around, pointing them out. “Must not be very good at it to get the shit beat out of you like that.”

  He showed me his teeth. “I was the best luchador in Mexico. Held my title for eighteen months before the network made me give it up.” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “I could break your spine over my knee, cabrón.”

  I waved my finger at him. “See that? That was a threat. Hear the difference?”

  His lip twitched. “What do you want?”

  I laid it out for him, just like I had the other group. To sweeten the pot, I cut them the same deal I had with the others. In exchange for keeping an eye out for Pestilence and reporting her movements to me, I’d promise not to let anyone on the team kill them, and I’d speak to War. They made me do some kind of elaborate handshake to seal the deal, but they took it.

  Once I’d finished with them, I glanced over at Emma who seemed to have hit it off with a group of ladies with lots of facial jewelry and skin the color of coffee grounds. They were laughing and having a good time. Seemed she was having better luck talking to people than me.

  “Amazonians. Mean as hell in the arena. Tough to beat, but if you can get them in the sack, you’re a convert for life.”

  I jumped when Haru clapped a hand on my shoulder. He strode up next to me wearing a big grin and his blood red blazer over a t-shirt and black jeans.

  I gave him my best scowl. “Is that all you think about? It’s a wonder you can fulfill the duties of your office.”

  He shrugged. “Fighting. Fucking. Drinking.” He lifted his cup. “Nothing like a good fight to get the blood pumping for a good fuck, and nothing like a good fuck to make you want to fight. It’s true. There’ve actually been studies done. Getting laid the night before a competition or a fight makes you perf
orm better. Fight harder. I’m telling you, it’s true.”

  “I can’t decide if you’re trying to be helpful or just being a smartass.”

  “Both.” He took a drink, draining half the glass. “So, I couldn’t help but overhear you bringing up my name while talking to the Lobos back there. You plotting or planning?”

  I eyed him and considered not explaining myself until I had spoken to all the teams. He might object and try to stop me, which would really put a damper on things. “What’s the difference?”

  “If you’re plotting, I’ll have to kill you.” He smirked. “But if you’re just planning, I can help.”

  “I’m cutting some deals,” I said, keeping my voice low so that only he could hear me. “Getting eyes and ears everywhere I can. The deal is, they keep an eye on Pestilence and let me know if they spot her, hopefully allowing me to track her movements. In exchange, I agree to keep my team from killing them, and I try to talk you into the same.”

  He chuckled. “We’re sharks among piranhas, aren’t we? Everyone knows it’ll come down to us. It’s why they were all clawing to get us on their teams. But I’m War, Lazarus. If I take a vow of no killing, I won’t get very far.”

  I’d expected him to say that. Good thing I’d already prepared my counter argument and tailored it just for his giant ego. “You telling me you’re such a poor swordsman you can’t control your blade? I mean, even a second-rate hack can disable an opponent. I thought you said you were good.”

  A silver sheen flashed over Haru’s eyes, and his face went blank. He took a step forward and swung around so he was standing directly in front of me. “Oh, that’s clever. And how many gods have you killed?”

  “More than you. More than anybody, as I understand it, which gives me a unique perspective on this. You want to stop Pestilence? We need proof.”

  He glared at me a minute before taking another long drink. “I don’t give a damn about Pestilence. Let her kill everyone. Fewer people for me to fight to get my victory. The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. In other words, let my enemies kill each other. I’ll be there to take out whoever’s left.”