Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  “Ol’ Sappy there ain’t certified,” the barman said. “A queer-fish too, but he gets the job done.”

  “It’s alright, partner,” I replied. “I’m just meeting someone here, then passing through.”

  “Damn shame,” he said, “I could find you work here—ask around at the other saloons. There’s always call for a Union Slinger.”

  “Thank’ye,” I said, nodding again. “But we’ll just take a couple of whiskeys and wait for our friend.”

  Ferraro, nudged me hard in the ribs. “Your lawyer just walked in,” she whispered in my ear.

  NINETEEN:

  The Hog’s Head

  I turned in time to see the batwing doors swing closed; Fortuna, Lady Luck, who had also briefly served as my legal counsel, stood just inside. Thin-faced with black-framed glasses, brown hair tied up behind her head, and wearing a charcoal suit—professional to her toes and completely out of place in these parts. She would’ve fit in nicely on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan or in any courtroom or board meeting. Here, however, a place where dusty western attire was the norm, she looked downright suspicious. Almost certain to draw unwanted attention and trouble along with it.

  “What’s your lawyer doing here?” Ferraro asked, voice low and sorta threatening-ish. I got the feeling that Ferraro was more of a planner by nature—probably liked to know everything and have all the details before going in. Not really the way I did things. I’d kinda neglected to mention all of the nitty-gritty specifics. Specifics like, say, Lady Fortuna.

  “Not my lawyer,” I whispered. “She’s our contact here, must’ve forgotten to mention the connection.”

  Ferraro stared daggers at me, I could practically feel her eyes boring through my skull and into my brain—lady could mean mug with the best of ‘em.

  “You can kill me later. For now, just smile, play along, and don’t make a scene.”

  I walked toward Fortuna, who’d already claimed a small open table not far from the stairs. Ferraro growled under her breath behind me, but followed along without any overt threats.

  “Mind if I sit?” I asked, pulling out one of the two free chairs without waiting for a response. Ferraro followed suit, turning her chair so she could keep one eye on the meeting and one eye on the room full of potential inhuman threats. “I’d say it’s good to see you,” I said, “but I’m trying to lie a little less these days.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Lazarus—”

  “Not Lazarus.” I grabbed her wrist, hard, though she didn’t seem to notice. “You’re mistaken. Name’s Bobby Haskell …” I said it real slow, making sure to emphasize every syllable. “I know you don’t seem to mind nearly killing me, but maybe a little discretion would be nice, eh?”

  “As you say, Mr. Haskell.” She rolled her eyes as though exasperated with my silly human desire not to be murdered horribly. Old Powers like Fortuna, nigh immortal beings, just don’t seem to understand that dying is something we humans really care a great deal about.

  “And Agent Ferraro.” She positively beamed. “I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t certain whether you’d accompany Bobby.” She gave an obvious wink. “Freewill is so difficult to predict—but I’m glad you made it. Your presence in this matter increases Mr. Haskell’s overall chance of success by thirty-one percent. Great news, really great news. Additionally, his overall chance of survival bumps up by a noticeable twelve percent.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked. “My chance of success increases by thirty-one percent, but my overall survival only increases twelve percent? For me, surviving is success.”

  She nodded, as though there were absolutely no discrepancies with these figures. “Yes you are thirty-one percent more likely to recover the Grail and prevent a nightmarish future from unfolding. Whether or not you live past collecting the Grail is of secondary importance to me and my Patron, Lady Fate.” She said it as if she was reading off a memo sheet at an office meeting.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ferraro, “I’m not tracking here. Start over.” It wasn’t a question. Good for her; usually people lose their minds—quite literally—when they stop being a plain ol’ Rube, and get clued into the supernatural. Ferraro hadn’t just adjusted, she’d even managed to keep her take-no-crap-from-anyone attitude. Even a woman like Fortuna, who was somewhere in the minor godling power range, wasn’t safe from Ferraro. Nice.

  Lady Fortuna seemed unruffled. “Yes, yes, I suppose proper introductions are in order here. I’m Jessica Fortuna, Lady Luck—agent of Lady Fate, the Three-Faced Hag—and Bobby,” she nodded at me, “is temporarily acting as Lady Fate’s mortal agent, her Hand.”

  “Wait, the Lady Luck?” Ferraro asked, even more perturbed than before. Yeah, maybe I should’ve mentioned Fortuna earlier.

  “Yes,” Fortuna said, “do try to keep up—I’ve got places to be, as do you. Now”—she looked at me—“is it at least safe to assume that she knows about Randy and Koschei?”

  I nodded.

  “Right, well, at least there’s that. Now, before you two can redress the issue with Randy and the Lich, you must first restore his,” she nodded at me, “power. Hold on a minute.” She reached down into a briefcase—the same one she’d been carrying when I’d seen her at the jail—and fished out a dossier. She pulled out a glossy photo of what almost looked like a drinking flask.

  “This,” she pointed at the photo, “is the Holy Grail. Ancient and holy relic of the Church and the White King. It was once a cup, the one Jesus drank from at the Last Supper, but which was later used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect Jesus’ blood during the crucifixion—obviously it has been altered a bit, but the Grail it remains.”

  “Jesus, Joseph, Mary,” Ferraro said, not as a curse, but more as an invocation, crossing herself as she spoke. “This is real? The real Grail?” She put out a hand and touched the photo.

  “You a true believer?” I asked Ferraro. Now, I’m kind of a believer myself—though I’m not exactly on friendly terms with God, I absolutely believe in Him—but I wouldn’t have pegged Ferraro as being the religious type. Not that there’s anything wrong with having belief or conviction in something better—especially if that conviction leads you to be a less shitty human being. But it’s not my cup of tea. My cup of tea suspiciously resembles a dirty shot glass full of Gentleman Jack. And Ferraro, well, she seemed too … I dunno … too no-nonsense I guess, to have religion.

  “I’m a recovering Catholic,” she replied. “But this …” She touched the photo again. “The Grail?”

  “Yes,” Fortuna said. “It’s a big deal, obviously.” She quirked an eyebrow at me, as though to say, Pay attention, this is important. “Now, the Grail has long been a sought after artifact—Joseph of Arimathea brought the cup to England, as legend holds, and eventually Sir Galahad, son of Lancelot, knight of King Arthur’s court recovered the item—”

  “Alright,” I said, “I’m just gonna stop you right there.” I spread my hands flat against the table, trying really hard not to throw something—like a saltshaker maybe—at the living incarnation of luck. “I got the scoop. There’s a magic—”

  “Not magic, holy,” Fortuna corrected.

  “Fine, ‘holy’ drinking flask. Whatever. Check. And we need to find it, I’m all up to speed here, so let’s move this horse and pony show along, huh?” I lowered my voice. “I want to spend as little time as possible here—I’ve got a bad feeling that things are gonna get messy if we cool our heels in this shit-hole too much longer. Just a hunch, but it pays to listen to your hunches.”

  Lady Luck stared at me over the top of her narrow glasses, her face the very expression of exasperation—it was the look an exasperated librarian might offer to some unruly school kid. “The history of this matter is quite important, so the less you interrupt me, the faster you can be on your way.”

  I sat back in my seat with a sigh “Yeah, fine,” I mumbled, annoyed. “Whatever.” I crossed my arms. Some people.

  “As I was saying,” she continued, “S
ir Galahad recovered the Grail, and was charged with returning the cup to the holy city of Sarras. The Grail never made it. During the last leg of the journey, Sir Galahad received a vision of Joseph of Arimathea, who charged the knight with protecting the Grail. Galahad was granted life unending to fulfill his task. You will need to both find the Chalice and free its Guardian, Sir Galahad, from whatever predicament he’s managed to get himself into. Understand?”

  “Wait, so you’re telling me this poor schmuck got bamboozled into taking care of this cup until the world stops spinning?” I asked. “Man, did that guy get a shitty deal.”

  “The Grail,” she said, “is a tremendously powerful artifact—among its many attributes is its ability to cure any sickness, heal even the most egregious wounds, and treat any poison. It’s very important and the task was a blessing bestowed upon Galahad, not a curse. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you need to get the Chalice and the knight—he is the only one who knows how to use the Grail. You get cured and get your powers back, Lady Fate gets to prevent an unfortunate future, and I get a little good will from the White King above for freeing his Guardian. It’s a win-win-win.” She smiled.

  “So let me see if I understand correctly. We get to rescue a knight, save the Holy Grail, and track down the murderer responsible for killing Kozlov and those officers?” Ferraro asked. “I got into the wrong line of work. Does Fate have an internship program?”

  I wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking or not.

  Fortuna just smiled, a big goofy grin that looked strange on a being as powerful as Lady Luck. “I’m glad someone realizes what an honor this is,” she said after a beat.

  “Yeah, honor,” I said. I turned and looked at Ferraro. “Before you get all gung ho and sign up for the mailing list, Ms. Smitty McSmiterson, you should really look at the fine print. It’s all fine and dandy to say, Yeah sure, we’ll get your cup. But here’s the thing—Fortuna, here, wouldn’t ask us to do it if she could do it herself. Which means getting the holy drinking flask back isn’t gonna be a school trip to the art museum.” I turned and stared at Fortuna. “So how do we find it and what are we up against?”

  Fortuna smiled, her narrow face pinching up, the grin mischievous and telling. “Perhaps you’re not quite as dumb as you look. Finding it won’t be so difficult, just ride east from here—toward the Salt Marsh—and into the Bog Fog.”

  “The Bog Fog.” My voice was flat, unamused, which mirrored my face and general attitude perfectly. “The Mists of Fate. You’re sending us into an alternate Time Lap.”

  “Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically, apparently not picking up on my obviously bad attitude. “In legend, Galahad is purportedly taken to Heaven, but in reality, he was transported to the Mists of Fate, wandering through endless dimensions, always guarding the Grail. He has been trapped in a possible future, which is becoming increasingly more probable due to the presence of the Grail. You see, the Grail is extra real, granting the holder—and thus his reality—more weight, more pull on the present.”

  She reached back into the folder and withdrew a small printed map, apparently taken from Google, showing a few square city blocks in Seattle. “Finding the Grail should be the easy part. Ride into the Mists, Lady Fate will exert her will and bring you to the right Time Lap, and then you do your part from there.” She pointed at a little red X drawn on the map.

  She stuck a hand into her pocket and rooted around for a moment, before bringing out a smooth stone, carved with an ancient rune that shimmered like a trapped moonbeam. “Once you have freed Galahad and have used the Grail, weave a little spirit into the rune—Lady Fate will extract you from the Time Lap and send you on your way. Easy, really. You won’t even have to travel back through the Hinterlands or the Hub.”

  “I hate you,” I said, staring at the map, tracing my finger along the streets. “If it was easy you wouldn’t need us. What else haven’t you said?”

  “Well …” She shrugged. “You might find a little resistance. A small army of genetically altered zombies. An insane cult led by a mutated psycho named Cannibal Steve. Just a few minor details, nothing you can’t handle.” She offered a small apologetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll both do fine.”

  The loud crack of a gunshot rang out, followed by a brief shriek, before the bar grew silent—the gentle background piano music gone and the barroom chatter stilled.

  “Sakes alive!” The bartender shouted. “Now why in the Sam Hill did you go and shoot ol’ Sappy? You know damn well how hard it is to get a musician out in these parts, Fast Hands.”

  A gruff, stocky man—though only a man in the most liberal sense of the word—with a blunt flat face, complete with a flickering snake’s tongue and matte black eyes, grinned at the barkeep. His fangs were sharp and deadly looking. He flexed massive arms covered in copper scales, muscles rippling, and twirled a six-shooter back and forth in rapid arcs. Back and forth it went, the weapon passed from hand to hand in a blur of movement. Eventually, he tucked the revolver back into a black leather holster at his hip.

  “All right,” Fortuna said, “I’ll leave you to it. Best of luck.” She quickly stood, popped her folder back into her briefcase, and ducked out of the bar, all without garnering a hint of unwanted attention. Lucky her.

  “Come on,” I said to Ferraro, “let’s beat feet, huh?” I nodded toward the door.

  The gunman, Fast Hands, belched and swayed a little. “That ol’ queer fish been past his prime for a long while now. Couldn’t even play me ‘The Piano Man’ by Billy Joel. What kinda piano-man can’t play ‘The Piano Man’?” He turned his flat reptilian gaze on Ferraro and I just as we were standing to go. “‘Sides, who cares ‘bout Ol’ Sappy, we got us a new Song-Slinger.”

  “Sorry, Slick,” I said, offering my most winning smile, “but we were just going.”

  In a blur of movement, his gun was out of the holster and leveled at my chest. “That ssso?” he asked, his voice a raspy thing that drew the sss’s into a hiss. He ambled up to me, his face mere feet from my own, his black eyes staring into mine, his flickering tongue inches from my skin—guy obviously didn’t know about personal boundaries. He also didn’t seem to know about dental hygiene since his breath was rank with the smell of fetid meat.

  “And it ain’t ‘slick,’ name is Fast Hands Steve … You smell wrong,” he said, his tongue whipping around.

  “Funny,” I replied, “I was thinking the same thing.” I backed up a step, keeping my hands low, but preparing to draw my hand cannon—tucked away beneath my coat—if needed.

  “Some kinda of comedian, huh?” More men—some humanoid, other clearly halfies of one variety or another—stood, taking the scene in with suspicious eyes, hands moving uncomfortably close to weapons of all shapes and sizes. Bad odds, those. Folks out here could be a little twitchy; a lot of them had records, many were fugitives, and most just didn’t trust a soul. “You smell like magic, like Vis. Sick though, polluted. What are you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Just another halfie—a changeling,” I said trying my damnedest to play things cool. Just needed to be cool. “Pop was a fir darrig, outta the Spring Court. I got a touch of the fae in my blood is all.”

  He flicked his tongue out once more, breathing deeply through silted nostrils. “You don’t look like no fir darrig I ever saw.”

  He was right about that—fir darrig were about five and a half feet tall, all whipcord muscle, and burnt red hides of tough leather. No fir darrig would ever grace a model runway, that was for damn sure. But as a halfie? I could pass for a halfie. There was never a “standard” way for a halfie to come out: sometimes they looked like Mom, sometimes like Dad, sometimes it was a little bit of a mix. And sometimes—like with Fast Hands himself—halfie babies popped out looking like nothing no one had ever seen before (though my guess was that Fast Hands had a dash of naga somewhere in his lineage).

  “What can I say, I got all of Mom’s good looks,” I replied.

  He stepp
ed closer, now half a foot from being chest to chest with me. “Could be, could be.”

  “Look, bud,” I said, “I’m glad we had a chance to talk about my folks—really, I am, but like I was saying, partner, we’re going.”

  He pressed his gun into my chest, its barrel digging in even through the fabric of my shirt. “How ‘bout instead of doing that, you shut yer cock holster and play me ‘The Piano Man.’”

  Ferraro reached toward her waistband where she had her Glock secreted away. Couldn’t say that I blamed her, the guy was obviously drunk and clearly dangerous, plus he’d told me to “shut my cock holster,” which warranted a punch to the nose on general principle. I waved her down though—she was a good shot, sure, but I didn’t think she could draw, shoot, and kill Fast Hands before he did us both in.

  Well … maybe she could draw, shoot, and kill him before he shot her, but I’d be shit outta luck. He’d moved that pistol awfully quick and he already had gun in hand. Plus, there had to be a damn good reason why his nickname was ‘Fast Hands.’ Challenging him to a fast draw would be like challenging a four hundred-pound guy named Eating-Machine Doug to an eating competition. Just not a prudent move.

  Sometimes holding your tongue is the very best policy, though damn if my pride didn’t take a licking. As I’ve said before, though, it’s better to let your pride take a hit, than to actually get hit—in this case hit with a bullet. Plus, what’s the point of coming up with a clever and elaborate cover story if you’re just gonna blow it right out the gate?

  “Hey, whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”

  TWENTY:

  Dangerous Game

  Ferraro sat at our table by the stairs, back to the wall while keeping her eyes on me and one hand cautiously close to her waistband. But I didn’t let the situation get the best of me, I was actually having a pretty good time, considering I was being held hostage at gunpoint while a scale-covered, human-viper played a game of cards and got crazy drunk. Believe it or not, this was actually kind of par for the course, I felt on familiar ground here. Even though I’ve been a lot of different things over the years—Marine, mage, fix-it man—at my heart, my core, I’m just a rambling, gambling bluesman.