by E. A. Copen
A knock on the door made him turn toward it and growl.
“Be civil, Bo.” Lou placed his pen on the table slowly. “Yes?”
The door cracked open and a thin, twenty-something boy with glasses and dark hair poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ganner, but I got those financials you wanted. I just need you to sign off.”
Lou waved him in. “How many times do I have to tell you, Ed? It’s just Lou. Mr. Ganner was my father.”
“Yes, sir.” Ed pushed open the door and stepped in, balancing a laptop on one arm along with a red folder. He walked to the end of the table and placed it in front of Lou before handing him a stylus. “Just need you to sign here, here, and here,” he said shoved his glasses up his nose when they slid down.
“Ed, you know Bo.” Lou gestured to Bo, who stifled a snarl. “You know his son as well, if I recall.”
Ed kept his eyes firmly on the tabletop like a smart werewolf and nodded. “Sal is my alpha.”
“If he is, what the hell are you doing up here?” Bo grumbled.
“Now, Bo, don’t be hard on the boy. We’ve all got our own cares to work out.” Lou finished signing and handed the stylus back to Ed with a smile. “Now, how about those life insurance forms?”
Ed handed Lou the folder.
Lou looked over it and announced, “Everything appears to be in order on this end. Bo?”
Bo patted his pocket. “Just say the word.”
Lou flipped the folder closed and handed it back to Ed. “Go and bid our friend Justice Godspeed, Mr. Wheeler.”
Bo nodded and left the room.
The walk down to the medical theater was different than his normal walk. All the way, questions consumed his thoughts. Jackie had so much to learn if she was going to take over for him. Right now, he wasn’t even sure she knew the full extent of what he did for werewolf kind. Only Lou knew. Soon, he would have to share those secrets with his daughter.
Would she hate him when she found out he wasn’t the honorable assassin she thought he was? Maybe she should hate him. It would make it easier when it came time for her to make her first lone kill.
The doors to the medical theater were locked, as per Lou’s instructions. Bo opened them with a blank keycard Lou had given him. He’d long ago ceased to ask how Lou managed all the things he did. A werewolf as old and powerful as Lou had the pull—and the cash—to grease any palm he wanted. For the right price, anyone would look away from murder. He’d probably made a sizable donation to the hospital to sway them. Doctors and nurses cared a lot more about saving children dying of cancer than criminals like Justice. Even though the paper trail he and Ed had invented assured that Justice had committed no crime in the eyes of the law, he had been judged guilty by the only jury that mattered: Lou Ganner, the most powerful werewolf in all of North America.
He entered the theater and made sure the doors locked behind him.
Justice lifted his head, panting with fear. The nurse Lou had paid off had already inserted the IV and Justice was getting a steady drip of saline. The first thing Bo did was turn that up ever so slightly, increasing the pace at which the fluid went in.
“What’s happening?” Justice said, his voice as panicked as his breathing. “Where am I?”
“Anchorage,” Bo answered. “Transported by private plane at the request of Lou Ganner.”
Justice’s eyes widened as he put two and two together. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked, then. “Holy shit, man. You can’t! What about a trial? I get a trial!”
Bo pulled over a stainless-steel tray and pulled three vials from his pocket along with three hypodermic needles. “You put an entire pack at risk, Justice. People are dead because of your games. And that’s to say nothing of any personal vendettas I have. It was thanks to you I spent a day and a night suffocating on my own laughter.”
“Fuck, it wasn’t like that, man! She made me do it! Come on!”
“It’s not up to me.” He filled the first syringe as Justice began to cry. “You’re lucky it’s not up to me, of course. My daughter nearly died because of you. Were it my choice, you wouldn’t be getting the first syringe. It’ll make you feel real nice. The kind of high every junkie kills for.” He filled the second syringe. “This is the fun one. Paralyzes every muscle in your body but your heart. I could just give you that one. You’d suffocate. Slowly.” He placed the syringe on the tray and filled the third. “But this is the kicker. Stops your heart. Now, I could just give you the third one. That’s what I’d do if I didn’t want to wake you. Right under the thumbnail.” He leaned in and whispered, “But I don’t like you, Justice. You’re lucky I liked your grandmother. It’s for her sake I’m not letting you suffer. After all, you did just take out a rather large life insurance policy and leave your dear old gran-gran as the beneficiary.”
Justice begged when he inserted the first needle into the IV port and depressed the plunger. It fell on deaf ears. Once, the tears and begging might have moved Bo, but those days were long past.
By the time he got to the second syringe, Justice was silent, pupils dilated, focused on the viewing area above. Bo followed his gaze and saw Lou standing there, watching with a glass of whiskey in one hand. He raised it in a toast and Bo finished with the third injection.
He discarded the needles in the sharps container when he was done and left the room. Lou’s cleaners would take care of the rest.
Jackie waited for him outside the room. When he saw her, he paused. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be resting?”
She crossed her arms. “Who’s in there?”
“You’d better talk to Lou about that.”
“I’m talking to you.”
He met her glare head-on. If he’d wanted, he could have stared her down until the end of time, but his time was running out and he couldn’t protect her from the hard truths forever.
But not today, he thought and stepped away from the door.
He’d never been much of a father; never had the desire to fill that role. With the time he had left, he was going to do his damnedest to be there for her, and his son if he’d allow it.
“Why don’t I pour you a drink to celebrate a job well done?” Bo put an arm around his daughter’s shoulder and led her away from death.
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A special preview of Death Rites, book 1 of The Lazarus Codex
Old gods die hard.
Professional necromancer Lazarus Kerrigan knows all too well that the Big Easy is anything but. Crime is up, business is down, and someone--or something--crushed an innocent girl to death on his doorstep.
After the search for the murderer brings the police to his front door, Laz must prove his innocence by hauling in the real killer with help from the dead.
When the sun sets in New Orleans, more than monsters go bump in the night... And what Laz awakens in his quest for answers might just get him--and everyone else in town--killed.
Chapter One
I locked the door to the shop and turned around to meet trouble. I jumped at the sight of her. A minute ago, the porch outside had been empty. She was blonde with a slight build, a little on the short side. I pegged her age between twenty-two and twenty-five, old enough to know better than to sneak up behind a guy like that.
“Mister Kerrigan,” she said, big doe eyes pleading, “I need your help.”
I leaned forward, peering out into the gray evening, looking up and down Magazine Street in case someone else was waiting for me. No one was there, so I pocketed the keys and stepped aside, jabbing a thumb toward the sign on the glass. “Come back tomorrow morning, miss. I’m done for the day.”
I sidestepped her and made for the sidewalk. If it’d been any other day, I might’ve opened the door and inv
ited her in to unload her troubles. Being a medium and occult shop owner isn’t exactly a lucrative profession, and it’d been a slow day. Whatever help she needed, it’d probably lead to a sale, which meant money in my pocket. Unfortunately for her, I was already running late for a very important date.
“Please, Mister Kerrigan. I need protection.”
Her words brought me to a halt on the bottom stair. With a sigh, I turned my face skyward and counted to three. It took her that long to come to my side, wringing her hands and looking up at me. When I lowered my gaze, her eyes were big and wet. More importantly, her hand held a wad of cash.
She thrust the cash at me. “I can pay.”
“Talismans take twenty-four to forty-eight hours to charge,” I said. “Come back in the morning, and you can pick one out of the shop. Write down a detailed description of what sort of passive effect—”
“I’m not talking about talismans.” Her outstretched hand trembled until her fingers tightened around the wad of bills. “Someone’s trying to kill me, Mister Kerrigan.”
“First of all, my name is Lazarus. Laz if that’s easier. Mister Kerrigan is my grandfather.” I stepped past her without taking the money. She fell into step behind me on my walk down the block to my car. “Second, it sounds like what you need is the police, miss, not a medium-slash-occultist. The nearest police station is about two blocks that way.” I pointed in the direction I was walking.
My car waited just a few spaces ahead, yet so far out of reach. I didn’t want to climb into it and just leave her stranded on the sidewalk, especially if what she said was true and someone was after her. It wasn’t that much of a reach, considering the state of things in New Orleans these days. Crime was up, incomes were down, and she was a pretty girl with a wad of cash. Everything about that screamed she was in danger, but I wasn’t the one to help her.
“I’m no bodyguard,” I continued, stopping and facing her. “What made you come to me for this anyway?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’ve been to see every other medium, palm reader, or witch in the city, Mister…I mean Laz. They’ve all turned me down. I can’t go to the police. They’ll think I’m crazy!”
I looked up and down the street again, jamming my hands into the pockets of my jacket. The streets were empty, not unusual for five-thirty in the evening in a commercial district. The area was all little boutique shops and mom-and-pop joints, little guys like me trying to eke out a living in an era of big box stores. They all closed shop around five and headed home. Unless a phone call from a disgruntled client kept me on the phone after hours, I normally joined them in the mass exodus from the neighborhood on my way home. On a normal Friday afternoon, I’d be halfway back to my shitty apartment by now.
Whatever this woman thought was after her, I wouldn’t be any match. My day job was selling scented candles and doing tarot readings in the back room. Occasionally, I put together a séance for some grieving widow, but even those were mostly a sham. I could call up the spirits of the dead, I just preferred not to. Even that was a whole different game than protecting some woman I didn’t even know from a nameless, faceless supernatural threat.
“Look,” I said with a sigh, “I’m not the guy you want helping you. I don’t do that kind of magic. I’m no good for it. Best I can offer you is a ride to the station.” I walked up to my car and opened the passenger door for her.
Her eyes widened and glistened. For a second, I thought she’d try to use her tears as a negotiation tool. Instead, her fist closed around the cash, crumpling the bills. She jammed them into her pocket with a shaky breath and said, “I’m very sorry to have wasted your time.” With that, she spun on her heels and marched back down the block and around the corner.
I watched her go, wondering if I should go after her. Maybe what she needed was a listening ear more than anything, someone to take her seriously. While the world was a crazy place, and I knew all too well that supernatural threats were a real concern, the likelihood that your average gal on the street would have their life threatened by the supernatural were slim to none. Sure, things could go bump in the night. They might spoil your coffee or eat your cat, but most supernatural entities were more afraid of humans than anything. I spent enough of my waking hours trying to coax them to tell me their names to know. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this girl, whoever she was, had felt like there was a legitimate threat.
But I had a hot date, and the girl was gone, beyond my help.
I closed the door and sighed, looking over my car. She wasn’t what you’d call a stylish model, even when it was new in the early 1990’s. My little Accord might not have been stylish, but it hasn’t been the bestselling car every year for over two decades for nothing. It’s cheap to repair, cheap to drive, and even cheaper to gas up, all positives for a broke guy like me. The little Accord was mismatched, with a red hood, yellow body, and green doors. Silver duct tape kept the mirrors attached.
The other cars on the block were much nicer, middle-class cars with anti-theft devices. Every once in a while, I’d hear a car alarm go off as if to remind everyone of that fact. Me, I relied on duct tape. The going theory was that any would-be car thieves would see my hunk of junk and move on to jack the two-year-old sedan in the next spot. So far, it seemed to be working.
I got into my car and coaxed her to life. Just to be sure the woman didn’t meet a grisly end around the corner, I did a U-turn in the street and pulled around the block, noting there was no sign of her, before cruising down the street.
My office was on the southeastern edge of Touro, so it was a five-minute drive to Paula’s on Pleasant Street, Paula’s being the name of the bar I lived above. Paula’s was a bit of a dive, a hole-in-the-wall place frequented by locals. My apartment had a private entrance in the back, but that meant running up a flight of narrow, metal stairs and fighting with the deadbolt. I preferred to go in through the front and check in with Paula.
The place was mostly empty. A few cars belonging to the regulars sat parked out front in the tiny lot, taking up most of it. I slid my car into the narrow space between a beat-up GMC truck and the front walk and headed inside.
The two guys propping up the bar sat up and glanced my way along with the bartender, Paula. She was a jaded old soul, whose cocktails were almost as mean as she was. She gave me the side eye as I came in late and paused wiping down the bar to grab a handful of envelopes from behind it.
“Any letters from my fan club?” I asked, walking over to collect my mail.
Paula made a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. “Not likely. Visitor came by lookin’ for you. I sent ’em upstairs.”
I looked at my watch and cursed. My date was early.
“No cussin’ in the bar,” Paula shouted after me as I sprinted for the stairs.
I took the steps two at a time on my way up, a stupid grin plastered on my face. Even if I was late, Odette would forgive me, especially since I’d scored reservations at Shel, some swanky restaurant in the French Quarter she’d been dying to go to for the last few months.
When I made it to the top of the stairs, however, it wasn’t Odette waiting outside my apartment. Two guys in red tank tops prowled around the narrow, undecorated space, their footfalls softened by thin carpet. One sported a series of tattoos on his biceps and a scar on his left cheek. He was packing a .45 tucked into the waistband of his jeans, which hung loosely over some brand name sneakers.
I recognized the man pacing with him. He was smaller, more jumpy-looking, springing into each step on the balls of his feet, letting his dreadlocked hair flow behind him like a mass of black tentacles from under the ball cap.
“Darius,” I exclaimed before they saw me, fixing a smile on my face. I figured I’d be better off opening negotiations. The last time I’d seen Darius, it’d been as a client. In fact, that’d been the only time I’d seen him, which meant he wasn’t here for a social call.
Darius stopped pacing and turned, a sneer on his face. “Well if it
isn’t the magic man himself. You’re late, Magic Man.”
I raised my hands. “Got held up. What can I do for you fellas?”
“Last time I saw you, you told me my mamma’s spirit told you she left her cash under the loose floorboard in the kitchen.” Darius pointed angrily at me.
I tilted my head to the side, trying to recall exactly what he was talking about. He’d come to me after the death of his mother, looking to recover something important of hers that was hidden. Kid had been broken up, a mess really. Just the kind of person most mediums in town might have taken advantage of to squeeze away his life savings. But he didn’t want to talk to his dead mother to make amends for some past argument, or to say his last goodbyes. Darius came to me with a sob story about how his mother had hidden away her most valuable possessions, and he needed to find them. To remember her by, he’d said.
Apparently, he thought her most valuable possessions equated to money.
I took a step toward Darius. “I’m just the messenger, Darius. I just tell you what they tell me. If there was nothing there—”
“Oh, there was something there, alright.”
I grimaced and braced for the worst when Darius reached into his pocket, but instead of bringing out a gun, his hand came out gripping a folded stack of lined paper. He unfolded the paper and held it up, revealing a hand-drawn picture of some superhero in a cape, all colored in crayon.
Suddenly, I understood exactly what had happened. Darius asked for the location of his mother’s most treasured possession, which he believed would be money. Instead, she led him to a stack of his childhood artwork, exactly the kind of thing an aging mother of a gang-banging youth might hold onto to remember his more innocent days. It was heartwarming…and hilarious. I couldn’t help but snicker when Darius showed me the next picture in the stack, a homemade Mother’s Day card with half the letters written backward. When he showed me the next page, a badly drawn comic strip, I lost it and doubled over, laughing.