Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  “Yancy Lazarus—former wet-works man of the Guild of the Staff—I know you. You’re angry, disagreeable, prideful, self-confident, despicable. You’ve even resorted to compelling one of my minions.” He swung his arm lazily through the air, and the binding I’d placed on Stumpy fell away.

  “You,” he said, looking at my former gnome tour guide, “are dismissed. Go see to your fallen brothers and sisters out in the chamber.”

  The gnome bowed and scooted out of the room, chattering angrily at me the whole while.

  “Yes,” he redirected his gaze at me, “really quite deplorable. I very much like those things about you. They remind me of myself as a young man, and they are exactly the kind of traits I cultivate in my own hired help. I have no quarrel with you, nor even with your friend here.” Old Man Winter nodded at Ben. “He is simply a casualty in something much greater.”

  He paused, drumming his fingers against his crook, tat-tat-tat. “Change is coming, the old way of doing things will soon be done with and you … you, Yancy, are exactly the kind of talent we’d like in the new order. So walk away, back through the portal.” He waved a hand toward the shimmering gateway. “Or stay here and die. It matters not.”

  I glanced at Ben, his shoulders tight, his face bunched up in anger and fear. If I left he’d be dead, no question, and the kid with him. If I stayed, there was a good chance we’d all end up dead. Despite his crusty and frail appearance, Old Man Winter was a literal force of nature to be reckoned with—maybe not at the top of his game, but probably still throwing around enough power to hand Ben and I our collective asses.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said after a second, holstering my iron, and putting my hands up in resignation. I walked toward the portal, keeping my eyes on Old Man Winter the whole while.

  “Smart too,” the old fae said. “Willing to see the winning side and play accordingly—even better. I’ll be in touch, Lazarus.”

  “Yancy,” Ben said, panic creeping in. “You can’t leave me down here … my grandson, he’ll kill us.”

  “He’ll kill me too if I stay. Nothing personal, Ben. At least I tried, more than the Guild would do.”

  I edged past Old Man Winter, keeping well clear, hands still up, no sudden movements to trigger an attack.

  “I guess I know where your loyalty lies,” Ben spat. “To yourself. Fine, I can do this alone.” He spread his feet and lifted his hands into something vaguely resembling a fighting stance. After a moment a small orb appeared above each open palm: one a bobbing ball of purple-red flame, flickering from color to color. The other, a faint blue mist that smelled like the breeze of a new spring day.

  Woo boy. Those weren’t regular Vis constructs. The power in each little orb was fae magic, the friggin’ things were Tokens … kinda like a loan I guess, probably from someone high up in either the Spring or Summer Courts. I let out a low whistle—Ben must’ve called in a huge favor to get those puppies. He must’ve known more than he’d let on when he’d told me about the kidnapping.

  "Listen,” Ben said, “I am young and strong. You cannot frighten me. Surely you know who I am?” He intoned the words, his voice caring the rhythmic quality of an ancient Native American chant. “Do you not feel how warm my breath is? Wherever I breathe, the plants grow and the flowers bloom. Where I step, the grasses sprout and snow melts away. The birds and the animals come to me. See how long my hair is? Your hair is falling out now, Old Man. Wherever I travel I bring the sunshine and you cannot stay. Do you not know me, Old Man? Do you not hear my companion, the Fawn? She is the South Wind.” He held up the hand with the blue orb. “She is blowing on your lodge. It is your time to leave."

  Rage contorted Winter’s mug, screwing up his paper-thin lips and nose, his ice-chip eyes honed in on Ben.

  I edged closer still to the portal, seemingly forgotten for the time being. That’s the thing about creatures like Old Man Winter—they simply don’t understand how someone could act against their own best interest. Beings as old and powerful as he rarely take the time to try and see from another perspective; for them, everyone acts in exactly the same fashion they themselves would. He dismissed me because he assumed I was like him—willing to turn tail to save my own skin. I edged closer still.

  “Defiler,” the fae being swore, “you would dare to bring tokens of Spring here to my home? Dare to incite the words of my enemy, Kokopelli, Young Man Spring? You would bring the breath of Lady Fawn here? You will suffer a never-ending winter, Benjamin Altschuler.” He said the name with the force of a bomb, the words reverberating in my chest. “You will live entombed in ice, frostbite gnawing at every patch of flesh, every limb, every bone. You’ll watch me raise this child.” He waved toward the cage. “I’ll teach him to hate you, flesh of your flesh will torture you night and day, until I kill him before your eyes and take his body.”

  I was close to the portal now, close enough that a solid leap would carry me through to the other side, back to the Big Easy. I was also damn close to Old Man Winter, close enough for a down and dirty cheap shot, right to the kisser. I reached into my coat and brought out one of my two pocket aces: a Ziploc bag full of iron filings. Cold iron filings.

  Old Man Winter thrust out his crook, a beam of arctic light zipped toward Ben like a lightning bolt. Ben’s globe of flame danced and weaved, blooming into a sheet of flame like a bonfire on a cool summer’s eve, cutting the room in half with Ben on one side, Old Man Winter and me on the other. The beam of frozen death fizzled on contact, steam leaking off and freezing into a soft rain of sudden snow.

  Timing couldn’t be any better. I leapt, not toward the portal and safety, but toward the distracted Old Man Winter. I conjured a column of air—heated with a faint pulse of flame—opened the Ziploc bag, and let my gust catch up the fine shavings into a mini whirlwind of fae doom … well, fae discomfort at least. Like I’d ever bow out of a fight when a friend and a kid were on the line. Gramps was gonna find out what this ‘washout’ could do.

  SIX:

  Fist Fight

  The Old Man turned as the cloud of iron dust bowled into him, each speck igniting with a blinding flash of white as it struck frail skin. He stood from his chair, arms and legs whipping back and forth, lashing about with his crook. Gust and gales of freezing air swirled and danced as he howled in rage and pain. We wily human folk might be outgunned in the magic and muscle department, but damn if we aren’t tricksy little hobbitses. Maybe I couldn’t kill this glorified snowstorm, but he’d be feeling the burn for a good long while. Score one for team awesomesauce.

  I darted around Old Man Winter’s flailing form, barely avoiding the wild and random zaps of energy from his staff, angling toward the frozen cage containing Michael on the other side of the throne.

  Old Man Winter continued to howl, raking at his skin, desperate to beat the iron specks away. “Stop them!” he shouted, though damned if I knew who he was talking to—

  A giant fist, all snow and ice, collided into my side like a friggin’ Mack truck, lifting me from my feet and launching me back toward the entryway.

  Ben’s wall of fire leapt into my vision as I reeled through the air, its heat pressing up against my chilly skin. At the last moment, the wall parted, allowing me to pass through unsinged, before melting back into place. I crashed into the floor near Ben, and though the snow wasn’t exactly freshly fallen soft powder, it was still a damn bit softer than concrete or granite. My face-first landing hardly hurt at all. Nothing compared to the fire in my ribs.

  I pushed myself back to my feet, shaking my head to clear the specs of white floating in my vision. Must’ve knocked something loose there, because I was seeing things. Flanking either side of Old Man Winter lurked a pair of abominable snowman, presumably conjured up to beat Ben and I into meat paste. Great. And these fellas weren’t your typical yetis, and absolutely nothing like the brooding and tragically misunderstood Bumble, who might just help you hang the star on the Christmas tree.

  No, these guys were mindless fae war machi
nes. No thought or feeling. Just big, mean, ugly, fearless, sons of bitches. Towering beasts of solid snow and razor-honed ice—not to mention they were probably immune to most types of Vis attacks. True, out in the real world, I could probably turn these fellas into a couple of tepid puddles, but at the heart of winter? Naw, my fire wouldn’t do so good here—I wasn’t slinging fae power like Ben.

  Ben kept up the wall of Spring flame containing the baddies on the other side, while the orb in his other hand—a token of the South Wind, and the Springlands—gusted out, blanketing the room in an unnatural heat, making sure Old Man Winter and his cronies weren’t operating at full capacity. So at least there was that.

  “You okay?” I shouted to Ben.

  He nodded, eyes still locked on Winter. “Just get Michael.”

  “On it,” I said.

  Looked like it was up to me. Also looked like we were gonna have to do this the hard way—because, let’s face it, my life sucks and I always end up doing things the hard way. I slipped my hands into my pockets, pulling on my second ace in the hole: fae beat-down gloves. Really, they were just fingerless biker gloves, with a bit of padding along the fingers and knuckles. I’d added a few extras though—a little steel plating crafted into place over the finger padding, short silver studs protruding from the knuckles. These puppies were perfect for tangling with fairies or shape shifters.

  Kind of like Lex Luthor’s Superman-killing kryptonite gloves … well, Lex’s gloves if he were a gambling degenerate instead of a highfalutin corporate billionaire. And fighting fairies instead of spacemen … yeah, kinda not the same at all, I guess.

  I wiggled my hands into place, the gloves cold and rigid, iced over in spots and fighting against me. Damn it, why hadn’t I put those in a Ziploc too? Idiot. This would’ve looked a lot cooler in the movies—hands go into pockets and come out decked in spiked-gauntlets of badassery. Instead, I just stood next to Ben and spent a good five seconds wiggling the things into place over my winter gloves, feeling pretty stupid the whole while.

  At last, I got my gear into place. “Cover me, Ben,” I shouted as I ran toward Winter, toward the abominables, toward Michael.

  Ben just grunted his response, his face stiff with concentration. The shifting wall of orange opened once more to admit me into the fray before snapping closed. I had to give the guy props, keeping a group of ice fae at bay in the middle of their seat of power wasn’t small beans and birthday balloons.

  As I waded back into the thick of things, the first abominable—Frosty the Unfriendly Snowman—swung a colossal fist which I ducked under with ease, darting in and throwing a series of quick jabs to the creature’s midsection. Bright flares of light flashed with each blow, the crack-hiss of a static burst, followed by the scent of ozone.

  I danced under another sweeping blow, keeping in tight, circling toward the outside, keeping my gigantic sparring partner squarely between me and the second abominable. The creature lashed out with a low kick that took me in the shins, sweeping my legs out from under me. I crashed down onto my side, and immediately barrel-rolled right, avoiding a crushing, though cumbersome, stomp from my frosty foe.

  Oh shit—

  I rolled back left, passing right beneath Frosty’s upraised foot as a set of vicious ice spikes sprouted from the ground I’d occupied a split second before. Old Man Winter, tossing around a little power. He must’ve nearly recovered from my dirty face-full-of-iron ploy. Damn, like taking out Frosty all by my lonesome wasn’t tough enough.

  I pushed myself into a crouch before launching myself back toward the snowman. Another massive kick. This one I avoided, stepping inside the strike, pumping my fists as fast as I could throw ‘em, working Frosty’s torso and kidneys—not that this thing had organs, mind you—like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.

  The creature fell back from the onslaught, pieces of his conjured body falling away with each blow. An elbow the size of a dinner plate zipped past my face. I ducked low and grabbed hold of the passing limb like a little kid hitching a ride on Papa’s oversized arm. The creature tried to shake me loose, but I held fast, scampering up hand-over-hand until I could wrap an arm around its neck in a sleeper hold.

  I wasn’t gonna try to choke him out, more like I was taking a little piggyback ride. Frosty twirled and shook before backpedaling toward a wall. I’d seen exactly how well this particular maneuver had worked for the gnomes who’d tried the same trick on the spriggans: smashed flat, guts and gore decorating the cavern wall like some grisly art deco piece. So I needed to be quick before I met the same fate.

  I conjured a flow of fire around my gloved hands—my fists suddenly surrounded with an uncomfortably warm pocket of air—and began to pummel the creature’s exposed neck and skull with my free hand. Snow and ice gave way like butter in a hot skillet, sizzling and melting. A fist-shaped trough formed in the creature’s neck.

  Still, Frosty streaked toward the cavern wall, speed accelerating with every step. A final blow punctured all the way through its neck—I’d punched its head off, kind of a cool trick, actually—and the body went limp, falling into a pile of snow and ice chunks. I tumbled down, landing with a poof in the powdery corpse of my former enemy. I’ve been around the block a few times, and this was still a new one to check off the bucket list.

  I slogged free of the snow pile, readying myself to repeat my stunt again with Frosty Number Two—Revenge of the Snowman—but Ben had things well in hand. In fact, he was doing a helluva job handling both the abominable and Old Man Winter. And here I’d been worried about him, thinking I’d have to baby-sit. Sure, he was using the borrowed power of some ancient fae beings of Spring to get the job done, but still. Go Ben.

  What had once been a flickering wall of flame was now a pair of fire serpents, each with a long body, covered in flashing emerald scales of flame, and monstrous snapping jaws. The tails of both creatures led back to the orb floating above Ben’s outstretched hand. One of the serpents twined around Frosty Two, encircling its legs, torso, and arms, melting thick, coiled grooves into the creature while simultaneously sinking fangs into Frosty’s thick neck. Nice.

  The second serpent-of-awesomeness harassed Old Man Winter, striking from one side and then the other, always moving, always harrying. Grandpa’s crook flashed out with a surprising amount of vigor and strength, turning each blow before the serpent could land a strike. Maybe the snake hadn’t closed the deal yet, but he was sure keeping Old Man Winter on his toes, leaving absolutely no time to think about little ol’ me.

  I called up more Vis, pulling power into my body as I constructed a quick illusion to mask my movements. This little number made me into an amorphous white blob that kinda sorta blended in with the snow. Hey, better than nothing, and with the Old Man so distracted I probably didn’t need it anyhow.

  I sprinted forward, muttering “gladium potestatis” under my breath, bringing forth my Vis sword—a thin, single-edged, azure blade, about three feet in length, and looking as fragile as lace.

  I couldn’t kill Old Man Winter—like literally not possible—but I could end this. Just needed one solid blow, quick and decisive. I raised the sword to waist level, elbows slightly bent, blade canted to the right of my body, legs still pumping, breath too loud in my own ears.

  The old man thrust out his crook to turn another strike, his twig-thin wrist stretched out. A perfect target. With a heave, I twisted the blade through the air, throwing my hips and shoulders into the attack, yoko-giri. The horizontal side-slash technique was meant to disembowel an opponent, spill their guts onto the floor, but it would do just fine for Old Man Winter’s bony wrist.

  Grandpa was so preoccupied with Ben’s fire snake that he didn’t even notice until my blade passed through his arm with a slice and his staff clattered to the floor—hand still firmly attached. I let my blade disappear, dismissed my rough illusion, and dove through the air, snagging the staff from the floor and rolling back to my feet. I pivoted bringing the crook to bear. Old Man Winter
had fallen onto his throne, legs sprawled out, amputated wrist held up as he looked on in bewilderment.

  The wound should’ve bled—cutting off someone’s hand is major surgery—but no blood flowed, not even a trickle. Just a frosty rim of red coated the end of his arm.

  The second snowman crumbled to the floor, gone as quick as it’d come.

  “What have you done?” He suddenly sounded his age. Gone was his cackling merriment, and I knew why.

  The loss of a hand wasn’t such a big deal to a fae being—he’d regrow the appendage in a couple of months. But losing the crook? That was big. It was a friggin’ portable powerhouse of energy. Fae power pumped through the reedy stick, which pulsed with cold life, waiting to be used, eager to freeze and kill, to bring on the black and cold. The thing was alive, possessed by a sort of shark-like sentience, a thing of living purpose, and it didn’t give a rat’s fuzzy ass who it served.

  The sentience reached out toward my mind, offering me scenes of endless winter: frozen spires reaching up to the sky; the whole Earth carpeted in thick, flawless snow; a field of endless white sparkling in chilly sunlight; bodies without number, petrified in perfect crystalline stillness. The world a mimicry of life—all of the beauty and none of the mess. No child would ever laugh there, but no child would ever cry. No one would smile or be warmed by a hug, but neither would anyone starve or feel the gnawing pain of cancer. Everything and everyone, beautiful forever. Everything and everyone, surgically sterile.

  The shepherd’s crook wanted these things, and it urged me to want them. It bartered with the things it knew I wanted, calling to the darkest part of my heart.

  The power to crush the Morrigan who’d wronged me, who’d robbed me of Ailia years ago. You could have her back, it whispered. It could show me how.

  The power to crush the Guild of the Staff, exact retribution for people like Ben who’d been denied help and justice because it would’ve been too messy, too difficult.