Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  I kept moving, because at this point turning back just wasn’t an option. I have to admit, though, that I wasn’t even remotely ready for the sight that greeted my eyes. I dunno what I’d been expecting exactly … another ice cavern maybe or some creepy-ass dungeon out of dark and dangerous medieval Europe.

  Instead, the room was surprisingly warm and had a neat, almost sterile look, which more closely resembled the bridge of the original Enterprise. The floor was white linoleum, bright and clean, the walls looked like freshly installed sheetrock. Banks of sophisticated looking computers and monitors lined the far and back walls, manned by a handful of ice gnomes—though these were wearing lab coats instead of the typical battle attire.

  The terminal screens showed surveillance feeds of not only the subterranean cavern we were in, but also video shots of greater Thurak-Tir: interior shots of the royal hall, where Gyre-Carlin, Queen of Winter, held court. Shit, looked like he even had video feeds of almost all the fae courts: Glimmer-Tir, home to King Oberon and Queen Titania of Summer. Earrach-Tir, the capital of Freyr the Green Man and the Spring Court. He even had video footage of the Black Lodge—the massive mead-hall of Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae. Only the Autumn Court seemed to be absent.

  The hell was going on here? This wasn’t just some friggin’ bad guy hideaway, this was a nerve center for some kind of major operation.

  Shelton sat right in the middle of the room, lounging casually in a big swiveling chair built right into the floor, featuring a fancy-ass, built in computer monitor, and a host of control mechanisms fitted into the chair’s armrests. He seemed completely unconcerned by our appearance.

  At least Shelton looked more or less the way I’d expected. He still resembled a bag of old dog shit—dried, pasty, and strangely desiccated—with fallout-green eyes sporting vertical feline slit irises. And for all the tech surrounding him, Shelton’s wardrobe seemed a couple centuries out of date. He wore black leggings with soft-soled black shoes, a puffy white shirt with a red doublet over the top, and a friggin’ fur-lined cape. Lamest evil mage costume of all time.

  The overall tableau was both shockingly disturbing and a little embarrassing: an ancient mage, dressed like a D&D character, in an ultramodern monitoring center that looked suspiciously like Trekkie heaven, surrounded by dumpy ice gnomes in lab coats. Just wrong on so many levels—how had my life come to this point? Jeez.

  “You’re on gnome patrol,” I called back to Ferraro as I approached the man who had formally been Randy Shelton, but who was now something much worse.

  THIRTY-FOUR:

  Show Time

  Randy stood up and smiled. “We didn’t expect you to survive the metus. You surprise us.” He frowned, eyes narrowing at the corners. “We don’t like surprises. No we don’t. But it is of little consequence, we shall crush you underfoot like the bug you are. Winter shall have his crook back and we can resume—”

  Taking a page out of Ferraro’s playbook, I raised the crook and unleashed a blast of frozen air before he could finish monologuing. Last time I’d let him finish blathering, the cops had pulled up and arrested my ass. Not making that mistake again. The frozen air—a swirling mass of blue—splintered and solidified into a small blizzard of golf-ball-sized hailstones. A few pelted into the Lich, who looked entirely surprised before he managed to wave a hand and conjure a wavering purple shield of Vis.

  Boom-Boom—I glanced right toward Ferraro, just in time to see a stocky gnome tumbled over backwards, lab coat burning and blackening. She pulled free her Glock and took aim, smooth, quick, deadly. Another ice gnome toppled, but there were more still—she charged in, shotgun dangling from a three-point sling, Glock in one hand, steel-knuckles in the other.

  Couldn’t spare her much focus though—Shelton was already on the move, suddenly blinking out of existence before reappearing near the back wall. With a swipe of his hand, a beam of purple light thick as my leg burst from his palm. I pulled Vis through the crook, weaves of air and water coalesced into a shimmering shield of blue—a force field, though imbued with the extra strength of winter’s power. The beam hit like a wrecking ball, knocking me back a few steps, even through the shield before ricocheting off and careening into the wall nearest me. A smoking crater bloomed in the sheetrock beyond.

  I darted left, away from Ferraro and the ice gnomes, better to try and keep our mage duel well away from them. I could just imagine what would’ve happened if that blast of purple had collided with Ferraro instead of the wall. I flicked my left hand: a silver wall of fog erupted from the floor, a quick and dirty smoke screen, before I unleashed a barrage of ice spikes—thin, dagger-sharp projectiles whipped through the fog, aimed at the last place Randy had been. Hopefully Randy wouldn’t even see the attack coming.

  But no howl of pain followed, no squeal of agony to tell me I’d scored a hit. Then, I felt the rush of air and dropped, a friggin’ sword sliced through the space my head had occupied a moment before. And this was a real sword, not at all like my construct of air—a single-handed weapon, called a spada da lato (everyone gets to be a geek about something, okay), with a thin double-edged blade and a flashy brass handguard called a basket-hilt, which swooped around his hand with elaborate twists and flourishes of metal.

  I had absolutely no idea where the damn thing had come from—I’m sure I would’ve noticed a sword. I also had no clue how he’d managed to get behind me, no one was that fast or that quiet. The problem was that Shelton had a thousand plus friggin’ years’ worth of Vis knowhow in his head—I literally had no clue what the mage was capable of.

  The sword slashed again. I managed to interpose the crook just in time, handling the staff like I’d handle my summoned sword. But it wasn’t the same, not even close; the length, size, and weight were all wrong. I’ve done a little Bojutsu here and there, but it’s certainly not my specialty. Shelton’s almost-rapier flicked back and forth—attack, slash, reset. I managed to parry the blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each, while carefully backing away, trying to gain some breathing room. He feinted left. I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering the crook into place, only to find Shelton’s sword slashing at my arm. My coat kept my limb blessedly attached to my torso, but I was ill prepared when the flash of green zipped from his free hand and smashed into my chest like a wrecking ball of Vis-conjured power.

  The chainmail absorbed some of the shock from the blow, but it was still more than enough to lift my ass into the air and send me hurtling into the far wall. I collided with a computer terminal, sharp edges gouging into my ribs and spine before I tumbled gracelessly to the floor. Dammit! My back screamed a protest, my left shoulder seemed to insist that it was done working for the week, and my head throbbed as if I’d just taken a solid one-two combination from Mike Tyson.

  The crook filled my head with an image: bulky creatures of solid snow and jagged ice. The abominable snowmen Old Man Winter had summoned the first time I’d been down here. Turns out, they weren’t Old Man Winter’s personal lackeys, they were servants of the crook, and, thus, mine to call at will. The crook pulsed inside my mind, providing me with a hazy knowledge about how to bring the shambling things forth. I pointed the hooked end of the crook toward the ground and pumped Vis into the staff—a liquid beam of white, so cold it felt hot, smashed into the floor, obliterating the linoleum, and pulling up a small mountain of living snow and ice from the cavern below.

  The abominable coalesced into being, shrugging massive shoulders and stretching out icy arms thick as trees. Then it rushed forward like an avalanche, taking clumsy but powerful swipes at Shelton. The Lich was too fast by half, easily ducking under a series of big haymakers, then casually sidestepping a massive overhand blow. Black fire, reinforced with twisting beams of thin, spiked something or other—weaves I’d literally never seen before—erupted along Shelton’s sword blade. The weapon became a blur in his hands, flashing to and fro in quick slashes and daring thrusts. Chunks of my hired help fell away in torrents, snow melting i
n the heat of a small black sun.

  So maybe, one abominable wasn’t enough muscle to get the job done, but how would Randy fare against two? I drew in more power—another beam erupted from the crook’s end, the floor rumbled underfoot as another Frosty sprouted from the ground like some bizarre ice sculpture. I wanted to cackle madly … I, Yancy Lazarus, had minions. I’m the guy who always gets stuck fighting minions, always; the shoe had never been on the other foot before and it felt pretty badass. I wanted to scream something appropriately melodramatic, like maybe: Go forth my doom beasts, slay my foes … Bwahahaha. I didn’t, of course, because how embarrassing and tacky would that be—but it was still really cool.

  My second frozen goon advanced on Shelton, its great footfalls shaking the room. Now would be a perfect time to join in the fray and start slinging some power or lead, but suddenly I found myself unable to do much more than hold the walking, breathing constructs together. I’d never used Vis in such a capacity—couldn’t have without the crook’s aid and guidance—but it was far more taxing than I’d expected. Check, controlling summoned minions looks badass, but isn’t quite as easy as it looks. Good to know.

  And even with two creatures to square off against, Randy seemed to be holding his own just fine. My first minion wasn’t looking so hot: huge pieces of its torso were missing, it was short an arm, and was reeling drunkenly around on one leg—the other lay in a pile of powder off to the side. The second creature tried to flank Randy, circling around to his back, but the Lich was one helluva competent swordsman. He readjusted with ease, constantly maneuvering to keep the two snowmen to his front, then using his superior speed to dart inside their guard and back out again.

  After another few moments of swordplay, the Lich casually shot inside the hobbling snowman’s guard, and decapitated the beast with a flick of his blade.

  The creature collapsed under its own weight, just a pile of snow and ice, as the Vis holding him together unraveled and returned to the crook. The Lich moved like a cobra, striking out with inhuman speed; he disappeared for the briefest moment before reappearing behind my still standing minion. His sword was a whirlwind of fluid motion: hacking, slashing, cutting, slicing. In seconds Frosty Two was down for the count, permanently.

  The son of a bitch was playing with me. He didn’t need the sword—he could’ve incinerated my help without a thought … asshole was showboating.

  Shelton grinned at me, a feral snarl. “We grow weary of this game.” He nonchalantly tossed his sword away: a strange construct of shifting purple light—equal part magnetic force, earthen power, and more of the thin, spiked energy I didn’t understand—ripped open the air in a jagged slash and simply swallowed the sword before blinking closed. I’d never seen anything like it, not even close. And Shelton seemed to know it, a look of smug, self-satisfaction painting his face. Guy was really starting to get under my skin.

  Even with the crook, I felt thoroughly outclassed: a clumsy kid banging on a piano with a hammer compared to Beethoven conducting the Ninth Symphony. He wasn’t really throwing around that much power—with the crook, I was working with far more raw Vis—but he was much, much better than I was. His techniques were intricate and nearly flawless. I couldn’t beat him, no way. James had been right, this guy was out of my league. The best I could hope for was to survive for a while.

  An army of ice spears sprouted from the ground below me, all glistened the same fallout green of Shelton’s eyes—I responded without a second thought. I dove forward, toward Shelton and over the spikes; simultaneously, the crook flashed, and a wave of unseen force rolled out, shattering the javelins before they could touch me. I thrust out my left hand and launched a score of small, fast-moving force-spheres. They ate up the distance between Shelton and I in an instant, but he moved even faster, wavering for a moment before vanishing from sight. The force-spheres careened into a computer terminal, the screen exploded out in a shower of glass and metal.

  Randy appeared a second later—or, I guess, it would be more accurate to say that ten Randys appeared a second later, each one as identical as the last, surrounding me in a loose circle. One must’ve been the real deal and the other nine? Perfect illusions. Fully functioning simulacrum. Yeah, outclassed didn’t even begin to cover it.

  The crook called out to me—Let go, it whispered, give in. That was a terrible idea, the worst … if I gave into the crook, there’s a good chance I’d be no better than Shelton or Old Man Winter in the end. But it was also strangely alluring … all that power waiting just outside of my grasp. Shelton had a powerful ally in his corner and without the aid of the crook in mine I wasn’t sure whether I’d have the strength to stop him.

  I’ve said it before: sometimes the only choices available are bad ones and worse ones. In my book, surrendering to the crook was a bad choice, but sure and certain death was worse by far.

  So, being the pragmatist I am, I gave in. Instead of simply pumping power into the crook, I let the energy flow the other way—I let the crook’s power, its sentience, rush into me like a lungful of toxic smoke.

  My stomach dropped out beneath me, a freefall from the top of the Empire State Building … cold water filled my veins, my arms and legs swelled, muscles straining against my jeans and jacket, suddenly too tight. A shimmer of pale blue ran along the surface of my skin and froze in place, icy plate mail of winter power. My jaw stretched and expanded with a crack, absolutely necessary to accommodate the pointed fangs filling my mouth. A shaggy beard of hoarfrost sprouted from my face, trailing down toward my now claw-tipped, fingers. I caught just a brief glance of myself in one of the computer monitors. I was still me, more or less, but I eerily resembled a younger version of Old Man Winter.

  I brushed at my jacket, trying to shrug my way free—my hand touched the chainmail and sizzled, the scent of burning flesh filling my nose. The crook was a thing of the fae, and with all its power pumping and surging through me, changing me, it seemed I was susceptible to the fae weakness of cold iron.

  I watched it all from inside my head—what was happening to me hardly seemed to be me at all now. The crook’s presence was no longer an external force, but a part of me, beating in time with my heart, pumping its power through my veins, wrestling control away from me, restraining me inside my skull. Every second seemed to add more power, but zapped more of my freedom in turn.

  And that’s when I realized why Old Man Winter was so old and ragged, why he’d taken Ben’s grandkid in the first place. The crook’s power was transformative and a friggin’ powerhouse of energy, but it was also costly. My body felt like a meteor blazing in the night, I felt unstoppable, indestructible, and I knew that no one could burn so brightly for long. A pack a day had nothing on the life-sapping power of the crook. The human body couldn’t withstand that kind of wear indefinitely.

  In that moment, I realized a terrible truth: Old Man Winter had once been a human, he was a type of Lich himself, I was sure of it. Sometime, long, long ago, he’d become a conduit, a vehicle for the power within the crook and, after a time, had become a creature of Fairy. Transformed. But it hadn’t always been so. For Winter, the kidnapping hadn’t just been a revenge ploy—the kid hadn’t just been incidental—he’d probably been part of the agreement. He’d snatched the kid, a young, fresh suit of meat, so he could once more use the full power of the crook. In legends, he was both Jack Frost, a young man, and Old Man Winter, a cyclical course that mirrored winter itself. Birth and death, following one after the other for all eternity.

  And I knew that if I wanted it, I could become like him. But that was for later, for now what I wanted was to wipe that smug look off Shelton’s face, all ten of them.

  I watched, detached, as my body turned and sniffed the air. Perhaps the illusion could fool the eye, but not the nose. To the nose, the real Shelton was clear as gleaming ice—he smelled like a juicy steak waiting to be devoured. I turned toward the true Lich and leapt forward, the distance between us vanishing in an eye blink.

  Yeah,
he didn’t look nearly so full of himself as I smashed a fist into his face at lightning speed, caving in one cheek and throwing him back into a wall. I grinned, my jaws opened wide in a snarl, as I leapt forward again, bringing the crook down like a club, battering the downed Lich like a kid going to work on a piñata. Over and over again, snapping bones, rupturing flesh.

  He couldn’t stop me. And it felt good. His blood steaming and warm against my flesh before freezing over in splotches of dark brown. He’d tortured Kozlov, killed Harvey—the guy who should’ve been able to retire with his wife. He had this coming in blood-tipped spades.

  The Lich was resilient, far tougher than he looked, his chest rose and fell despite my best efforts. That was fine though, he could stand to suffer more.

  I was gonna rip his arms and legs off, then flash freeze the wounds shut, so he wouldn’t bleed out. No, that’d be too quick … yeah, I’d rip his arms and legs off and then beat him to death with his own hands.

  Boom. A bright annoying flash of pain flared in my left leg—I turned to find Ferraro behind me. Shotgun barrel smoking from the latest discharge. What was she doing? The clumsy, stupid bitch. She pumped the action of the shotgun, which spat out a spent shell and chambered another. She raised the shotgun and fixed squarely on my chest. Was she aiming at me?

  “Yancy,” she said, speaking slowly and a little too loudly, as though I might not be able to hear or understand. “You need to stop. You’re”—she paused for a moment—“not yourself. Please step away from Shelton, he’s finished … If you kill him now, it won’t be self-defense, it’ll be murder. No two ways about it.”