Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  “That’s right.” I looked around the room; the creatures, once so confident, slowly shifted back toward the entryway, fear evident in their movements. Except Fast Hands, he didn’t look scared, he looked pissed—like I’d just crashed his birthday party and taken a piss right on his cake. Hopefully, I could rectify that.

  “You okay, Ferraro?” I called into the sudden stillness.

  “Fine. But this cagherone”—she nodded toward Fast Hands—“is really getting on my nerves. So if you could move this along—”

  Fast Hands spun, gun raised, aimed right at Ferraro. “Hold yer tongue, whore bait,” he spat. “You,” he looked back at me, “better give up now, or I’ll blow this bitch’s head clear from her shoulders, y’ken it?”

  “I’m tired of hearing you run your mouth,” I said. “So how ‘bout you shut yer cock holster”—throwing his words from the saloon back at him made me feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy on the inside—“and let her go. Maybe if you and your roaches scuttle back to your dark holes I’ll let you live … though the one you should really worry about is her.” I motioned to Ferraro with my newly restored hand.

  Fast Hands didn’t move, not an inch, but the rest of his posse was not quite so steadfast in conviction.

  “Ferraro,” I called out, slicing the tension in the room like a knife. “Don’t move.” I sent her a wink and then slammed a foot down on the ground. A lot of things happened: first, a blue dome—an energy shield that’d prevent bullets, knives, or claws from getting anywhere near Ferraro—snapped to life around her with a nearly inaudible buzz.

  Second, the floor shook from my stomp and I channeled the Vis down through my foot and into the ground, an unseen ripple of power snaking beneath the straw and carpet—jagged spikes of underlying concrete jutted up, impaling the four creatures toward the back, nearest the door leading to the hallway. Green-black blood spilled down grotesque and malformed bodies, pooling as the creatures thrashed and howled. Good.

  The spikes also served another function: a blockade of doom, preventing anyone from leaving the room. Despite my promise that they might live, none of those clowns were leaving here. Not a chance.

  With my right hand, I summoned a beam of fire and force as thick as my wrist, which smashed into Fast Hands’s outstretched gun and sent it whipping through the air—it collided with the window and fell to the floor eight or nine feet away.

  Things got a little hazy then—the surviving meatbags realized they weren’t leaving alive, so they all broke in different directions, every man, err, creature for itself. A couple tore ass toward a connecting bathroom. One dove over the bar, just as I had attempted to do earlier. A trio bolted toward the spike barricade—trying desperately to climb over the bodies of their dead and dying buddies.

  Fast Hands just stood there seething, casting glances between the dome-shielded Ferraro and me, struggling to figure out who he should try to kill. “Ringo,” he barked to a small mountain of thick muscle with wings poking out the back, loitering near the rear. The creature nodded, opened a maw, which cracked and unhinged, revealing a dark gullet and a pair of yellowed hippo teeth. He charged me like a bull elephant—I almost wanted to laugh.

  With a flick of my right wrist and a snarl on my lips, I sent out a rolling wave of silvered mist which flooded the room, wrapping serpentine limbs around Ringo and all the other fleeing minions—even the one behind the bar—lifting them all into the air, save Fast Hands. Him, I left to watch. I threw both hands forward, a conductor before his orchestra, and purple flame hit the mist like a match to gasoline.

  Boiling fire engulfed the ensnared creatures, melting flesh and bone in flame so hot it singed my eyebrows a little bit. Color me impressed. Only Ringo, the winged hippo man, seemed to be at all resistant to the terrible construct. So, with a jerk of my hand, I smashed him through the window, chunks of glass shredding his delicate wings. Then I let the son of a bitch fall.

  Now, as a quick side note, I’ve never done so many over-the-top, badass constructs on the fly in my life. Or really ever, on the fly or not. I wouldn’t have tried that mist-flame combo on my best day—it was uber-knock-your-socks-off cool, but I could’ve juggled a quartet of slug bugs with the amount of energy it took. Today, however, was better than my best day. Today was the day I held the Holy Grail in my pocket and had a belly full of power—power more potent than anything I’d ever dreamed to touch.

  I cut the flow of my constructs off, mist and flame died away, leaving only charred corpses smoldering on the floor. Of his crew, only Fast Hands remained.

  “Do it already,” he hissed at me. “You’ve won. Finish it like a man.”

  I wanted to walk forward, maybe pin him to the ground, cut him up a little bit while I gloated and performed a long, drawn-out monologue about how nothing could possibly stop me now. Maybe I’d even do the banter thing with ol’ Fast Hands—he could ask me how I managed to show up and stop him. But I’ve been on the receiving end of that monologue too many times to count, and it almost invariably turns out poorly. So instead of checking that one off the evil overlord list, I decided to do the practical thing.

  “Like I said, Fast Hands—go fuck yourself.” Then I called up another javelin of flame and lit him up like a bonfire. He burned for a few moments, let out one last holler, and crumpled, unable to hold himself up, now just a smoldering pile of snake-meat that smelled vaguely like burnt chicken.

  “Is he dead?” Ferraro asked, her words muffled by the dome still around her.

  “I’m gonna make sure,” I replied, stalking forward, stopping just outside of Fast Hands’s potential strike range. “Gladium potestatis,” I muttered with a whisper of will—my Vis sword, a single-edged blade of blue popped into my hand. With a quick slice, my blade parted through tough scales and bone—his charred left arm fell away, then his right, just above the metal gauntlet, which served as his hand. With a heave, I cut his head away at the shoulders, revealing raw, pink meat underneath. I sure as shit wasn’t gonna make the same mistake Fast Hands had. “Yeah,” I said standing over the corpse, “definitely dead.”

  Like I said, if you have an enemy who just needs killing, like yesterday, make sure you do it proper.

  I let the sword and the shield, still guarding Ferraro, dissipate.

  She looked at me with uncertain eyes, then glanced at the bodies impaled on spikes and the spattering of burned creatures around the room. “Guess you really can do magic.”

  I bent over and picked up Fast Hands’s metal fist, the only part of him not burnt—not even warm to the touch. “Not magic. Magic’s a Rube word. You aren’t a Rube, not anymore. The Vis is just energy, the energy that holds the world together—holds all the worlds together—and keeps everything spinning. I can touch it, manipulate it. More like physics than magic … Hey, I know this is kinda sudden—but you wanna grab dinner with me after we sort all this shit out?”

  “Are you sure this is how you’d like to ask me out?” She glanced around again and frowned.

  “Yeah, well … I almost died. Figured I should ask before someone else punches my ticket. One of those things I’d regret not doing.”

  She shoved me hard, though there was a little smile on her lips. “Business first. Then we can talk, Mr. Romance.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I looked down, feeling a little embarrassed, which was new. I hadn’t felt embarrassed around a woman in a long, long time. But then, I hadn’t really cared about a woman in a good long while either. Not since I lost Ailia to the Morrigan.

  With the key in hand, we walked back over to Sir Galahad—guy was still passed out cold beneath the weight of the chain. I placed Fast Hands’s metal fist over a fancy lock of gold, it clicked open without a hitch. I grabbed hold of the chain and my arm fell asleep almost at once, pins and needles racing up and down through my nerve endings.

  The hell was this chain made out of? I let go and feeling returned to my limb.

  “Ferraro.” I looked back over my shoulder at her. “You’re gonna
have to unwrap our hero here.” I nudged the guy with my boot.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I can’t,” I shrugged. “This chain is some kinda freaky strong hoodoo.”

  She walked forward and wriggled at the chain, pulling coil after coil off the knight without any sign of difficulty. It took a couple of minutes to unwind the guy, but only a few seconds for him to come to his senses after the chain was free.

  He stood up, edged away from the chain, and stretched his arms out with a groan.

  “Quite the improvement,” he said. “I cannot thank you both enough. Really. Fast Hands had me chained up there for weeks … speaking of which, I need to see a man about a horse. Desperately … Just, give me a moment, please.”

  He trotted over behind the bar, turned his back toward us, and relieved himself—he wasn’t joking, the guy seriously had to go. While the knight busied himself with a makeshift urinal, I strolled over and collected my pistol—wouldn’t want to forget that—slid it into its holster, and headed back over toward Ferraro.

  After a minute Sir Galahad joined us again.

  “Ahh,” he breathed out, “loads better. That chain completely incapacitates the body—locked me up in stasis. Like I was saying, thanks a bundle.”

  “You’re welcome, I guess. I’m Yancy—”

  “Lazarus,” he finished for me. “Yes, I know. And you are Special Agent Ferraro with the FBI.” He cast a devilish and charming smile at her, which really made me want to punch him in his stupid perfect teeth. “I’ve worked with both of you in other alternate futures. I’m Gal,” he stuck out a filthy, dirt-caked hand.

  Since my hand was similarly filthy, and he didn’t seem to mind, I took his hand and pumped it a couple of times.

  “Gal’s a girl’s name,” I said because the guy was so unnaturally wholesome that I needed to knock him down a peg on general principle.

  He just laughed it off. “That’s what you say every time I meet you. Well ... I know you have places to be, agent of Fate and all that. So if I could just take the Grail.” He held out a hand.

  “Right. The Grail.” I carefully pulled it from my pocket and toyed with the lid just a little, before finally placing it in his hand. It was actually hard to let the trinket go. Now don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely zero desire to walk through time as the Grail Bearer, but holding the little flask made me feel good. Both physically well, but also complete somehow. Though I’d held it for a few minutes tops, there was a part of me that wanted it. To keep it. To own it. Having it there near me was so … right.

  “That’s some awfully good shit,” I said.

  He smiled in a knowing way. “Don’t I know. It’s not blood, you know. This thing was a cup once and it did catch His blood.” He motioned toward the ceiling. “Now, though, now it holds living water, the stuff flows right from the throne of God. The very essence of life.” His smile widened.

  I didn’t quite know what to do with that. I mean, I know the Big Guy exists, just like I know demons and crazy alternate futures exist, but having someone talk so matter-of-factly about Him made me a little uneasy. In my mind, God was big, powerful, and goodish, but mostly He kept His distance—which I was good with. Safer that way.

  “Hey.” I paused, looking at the loop of multicolored metal on the floor. “What’s the deal with the friggin’ chain there? Crazy thing made my hand want to fall off.”

  The knight regarded the chain on the floor. “Yes, I don’t know how the heck Fast Hands got a hold of that particular item. It is a section from the Great Chain, forged by Hephaestus on behalf of the true God—it is part of the chain meant to hold Lucifer for all eternity. Very potent piece of work, that.” He kicked at it, like it might be a living serpent.

  “So you’re really a Knight of the Round Table,” Ferraro asked, clearly much more impressed with the guy than I was.

  He smiled and nodded.

  “Alright,” I said, before Ferraro could invite him out to dinner, “we better get moving, now that the future’s all right as rain.” I pulled out the smooth, rune-carved stone Fortuna had given me back in the Hog’s Head.

  “Just one moment.” Gal grabbed my arm, not hard, but with enough force to let me know the guy had real power. “Before you go … I wanted you to know that not everyone can open the Grail. Just holding it offers a certain amount of power, but only a few can open it. Fast Hands never managed the deed—that’s why he kept me alive, thought he’d eventually be able to get the secret out of me. But there really is no secret. The Grail will only open for one with pure and noble intentions, Yancy. It opened for you. So maybe you should show yourself a little grace now and again, yes? I know there’s a lot of brokenness in your life, but you’re not as bad as you think.” He grinned, all his teeth white and even, almost sparkling. Guy should’ve done an ad for Crest.

  “Thanks, Dr. Phil,” I said, shaking my arm free of his grip.

  He smiled again, even bigger, and rolled his eyes, all good-natured like. Irritated the crap outta me.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Ferraro said, a little too friendly. She shot me a wink that told me she knew exactly what I was thinking.

  I wove a tiny trickle of spirit into the stone and a vertical slit slashed through the air, rotating and stretching until a doorway, seven feet by four feet hung suspended before us. “Hasta la nachos,” I said to the knight before gently taking Ferraro by the hand and leading her through the portal, bound for home.

  TWENTY-EIGHT:

  The Hag

  I’m not sure where exactly I was expecting to step out—maybe L.A. or the Big Easy—but a cave with rough stone walls, lit by sparse torch light, was absolutely not what I’d envisioned. I pulled more Vis into my body, feeling so good to have the power roaring through me again, readying myself for a potential attack, because, let’s face it, that’s the gist of my life: hop from one shitty situation to an even shittier one.

  “Oh excellent—Ladies, our guests have arrived.” The voice was matronly and came from behind me. Ferraro and I both spun almost in tandem, me with both hands upraised prepared to unleash a firestorm or a force shield, her with Glock held level. A single woman, stooped with age, wearing a homespun gown and a gauzy veil draped around her head, stood in a … let’s go with rustic … living room.

  The walls of her room were still rock, but the stone was smooth and polished, a few pieces of needlework hung in yellowing frames. There was a quaint wooden table with a trio of chairs, a well-worn rocking chair in one corner, a closed cupboard, and a great stone fireplace with a tremendous kettle brewing over a green fire. Looked like the Twilight Zone version of Little House on the Prairie.

  “Please take a seat, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman said. “Oh, pardon us, dearies, pardon us, we”—she offered a little curtsy—“are Lady Fate, the Three-Faced-Hag, the Wyrd.”

  I glanced at Ferraro, not entirely sure what to do here … even for me, this was sorta outside the realm of usual.

  “Please,” she said again, “sit, sit. We’ve got tea on.”

  “I’d love some, ma’am,” Ferraro said, breaking the mounting tension, striding forward and pulling out one of the sturdy wooden chairs around the table. I followed suit reluctantly. I’m not particularly inclined to trust supernatural creatures, especially ones that live in creepy caves, and who might have some kind of personality disorder. I mean she used we an awful lot for just being one lady. Maybe it was the royal we. Still, very odd, though in for a penny in for a pound I guess.

  “Good, good,” she busied herself for a moment, shuffling around the cavernous (get it cavernous—‘cause she lives in a cavern) house, procuring cups, saucers, and a kettle filled with something that smelled potent enough to burn away my nose hairs. She placed a cup before both Ferraro and I, then poured a dollop of pitch-black liquid into each mug. Ferraro took her cup and sipped—she sputtered, coughed, and wheezed, then set the cup down and carefully pushed it away, before muttering, “Thank you.” Our hostess
hardly seemed to care one way or the other.

  She turned her veiled face to me. “Now you, Yancy. Refreshments must be offered and accepted, a sign of peace and fellowship between us.” Then she cackled like a deranged Bond villain, which did nothing to boast my overall confidence.

  Old-world types could be particular about rules of hospitality though, so I reluctantly lifted the tea and took the smallest sip I could manage—the stuff tasted like rancid hot tar. “Geelach.” My faced scrunched up in a grimace. “That’s awful. Really, really awful.”

  Lady Fate sniffed in disapproval. “It’s an acquired taste.” Having welcomed us and playing the part of hostess, she moved over to the rocking chair in the corner and sat down with a groan. “Well met, you two. Well met. We are so glad you both made it out alive. Uncertain, aye. But we are pleased. It’s been quite a day. Quite a day.”

  She reached up and removed the wispy veil covering her head. Ferraro stifled a gasp. The old woman cackled again, infinitely amused. The creep factor ratcheted up another few notches.

  “Oh the honesty of the young and innocent,” she said. “For us old salts, Yancy, there is little that will shock and dismay. But for youth, especially one young to this strange world of ours, everything is so fresh: a bright and endless summer full of sweet roses and hot passions … to be so young again,” she sighed fondly. “To be so naïve. Delicious.” She laughed again, this one a low, throaty gurgle.

  I tried not to appear shocked, because I’d already insulted her tea and it’s even more impolite to throw up when someone shows you their face—but I totally understood Ferraro’s response. Lady Fate spoke from a horribly disfigured mouth, lopsided by stroke on one side and haggard, with cracked flesh and an army of wrinkles.