Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  Contents

  Summary

  ONE: Treason

  TWO: Probationary Matters

  THREE: Nightmares

  FOUR: Shadow Wargs

  FIVE: Complications

  SIX: Red Tape Ninjutsu

  SEVEN: Cubiculi ex Ostia

  EIGHT: Shadow Worlds

  NINE: Safe Haven

  TEN: Hub-Side

  ELEVEN: Wat Naga Thong

  TWELVE: The Savage Prophet

  THIRTEEN: Smackdown

  FOURTEEN: Kung Fu Fighting

  FIFTEEN: Cité Soleil

  SIXTEEN: Boneman

  SEVENTEEN: Good Cop, Bad Cop

  EIGHTEEN: Damsel in Distress

  NINETEEN: Baron La-Croix

  TWENTY: Haitian Standoff

  TWENTY-ONE: Meeting of the Minds

  TWENTY-TWO: Ge-Rouge

  TWENTY-THREE: Eye for an Eye

  TWENTY-FOUR: Escape

  TWENTY-FIVE: Game Changer

  TWENTY-SIX: What Goes Around …

  TWENTY-SEVEN: Good Fortune

  TWENTY-EIGHT: Demands

  TWENTY-NINE: The Archive

  THIRTY: The Coup

  THIRTY-ONE: Sala Keoku

  THIRTY-TWO: Paperwork Power

  THIRTY-THREE: Big Guns

  THIRTY-FOUR: Speed Bumps

  THIRTY-FIVE: Hell Ride

  THIRTY-SIX: Dogfight

  THIRTY-SEVEN: Devil in Me

  THIRTY-EIGHT: Through Demon Eyes

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Special Thanks

  Copyright

  Summary

  Legions of murderous undead, Haitian voodoo, and a five-thousand-year-old serpent god.

  Yeah, ’cause that’s exactly what Yancy Lazarus needs in his life: more complications. As if being the Hand of Fate and the newly appointed guardian over one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse wasn’t headache enough.

  All Yancy wants is an easy life on the open road—chock-full of ribs, beer, cigarettes, and smoky bars blaring with gritty blues music—but that just isn’t in the cards. Nope, not anymore. He’s been charged with saving the world, and now that he’s got a no-shit demon riding shotgun in his head, he’s sorta committed to the cause.

  If Yancy can’t sort through this colossal heap of bullshit, he’s coffin bound. But, he’s not dead yet. In fact, he even has a lead.

  Turns out one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the pale Rider, Death—is slumming around in one of Yancy’s old haunts. In order to corner this new threat, though, Yancy’s gonna have to face some deadly supernatural nightmares from his distant past. And, to make matters worse, he’s not the only one trailing the Pale Rider. A powerful new mage with some serious magical chops is also aiming to find the Fourth Seal and he’ll do whatever it takes to win. Even if it means hurting those closest to Yancy … like FBI Agent Nicole Ferraro.

  ONE:

  Treason

  “Will anyone stand for this man? Stand for Yancy Lazarus?” The voice rang out, echoing off the bleak stone walls, rolling over me like a frigid ocean wave crashing on a rocky shoreline. “Will anyone dare to call him friend”—a taut pause—“or brother?” A creeping dread filled my belly, twisting my guts into serpentine knots. Gooseflesh broke out along my arms, neck, and back, while slick beads of perspiration dotted my forehead.

  If no one stood for me, vouched for me, I was dead. And I’m not being hyperbolic or metaphorical here.

  Someone—probably ol’ Iron Stan, the leader of the Fist of the Staff and my former boss—would literally slip a Vis-imbued garrote around my neck and strangle me until I was a lifeless meat sock. Choke the air from my lungs while crushing my windpipe, leaving me to die a very undignified death: Kneeling on the concrete floor before a bunch of bathrobe wearing geezers. Back bent with some douchehole digging an elbow in between my shoulder blades. Hands cuffed behind my back and a brown leather sack covering my bowed head.

  Well, someone would try …

  These days, I had some extra kick under the hood in the form of an honest to goodness End Times Seal—straight outta the book of Revelation—come to me by way of an Elder Bigfoot, Chief Chankoowashtay, the leader of the People of the Forest and the last great ruler of the Chiye-tanka.

  Yep, riding right next to my ticker was the Seal of War. A metaphysical prison containing the essence of the second horseman of the Apocalypse: Azazel the Purros, Grigori of Old, Scourge of Mankind, Maker of War, and Lord of Dark Magicks. A creature with a truly intimidating string of titles, though, admittedly, I’d hate to be him when tax season rolls around and you have to list your full name in quintuplet.

  True, I couldn’t take on the entire Guild even with that evil dickhead, Azazel, in my corner, but I’d sure as shit go down hookin’ and jabbin’, and I’d take at least a few of these sons of bitches with me if it came to it.

  “He abandoned this Guild,” the voice said, as insistent and unyielding as old stones. I swiveled my head toward the speaker, and though I couldn’t see her—what with a friggin’ sack over my face—I could picture her in my mind. A striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green eyes, searching and weighing. Her hair, a mass of silver, hanging all the way down her back. Arch-Mage Borgstorm, head of the Guild of the Staff. As savvy as magi came, but cold, calculating, and political to her teeth.

  “Throughout the course of this trial,” she continued, “the prosecutor has shown Mage Lazarus to be a traitor. A danger. A deserter.” Her words sparked a fire in my chest, my blood rising to a low simmer as I clenched my teeth and balled my hands into fists.

  Traitor.

  I’d given more for the damn Guild than anyone had a right to ask, and they’d been the ones to turn their backs on me and mine, not the other way around. But, despite the fact that I had the sudden urge to conjure a gout of molten rock and melt the chamber to blackened slag, I held my tongue.

  My personal feelings aside, I needed these shifty bastards in my corner because I had nowhere else to turn. No other leads to run down.

  After trying unsuccessfully to find James and the Morrigan for the past two months—and with no further word from Lady Luck, my immediate boss as Hand of Fate—I only had one viable clue: the Fourth Seal. The essence of Death and Pestilence. And, unfortunately, the only person who knew the location of the Seal Bearer was sitting on the raised platform. The arch-mage. Awful luck for me, considering she was the one leading the charge to have me summarily executed and thrown into an unmarked grave.

  Them’s the breaks sometimes, I suppose.

  “Even if Mr. Lazarus isn’t willfully an enemy of the Guild,” the arch-mage said, “no one here can deny he is a liability and threat to anyone who comes near him. Everyone in this room has seen his personnel file, so we all know exactly how dangerous he is. Moreover, since deserting our ranks in ’98, he’s committed hundreds of unsanctioned acts of violence and vigilantism across Inworld and Out.

  “Hundreds. Violating untold treaties. Wantonly killing. Compromising the integrity of this distinguished organization.” She made that last one sound far worse than wantonly killing, which should tell you everything you need to know about her. “So, I ask again. Will anyone stand for him knowing the potential risk he represents?”

  A long, uncomfortable pause filled the room, a palpable weight settling over everything.

  “If you would have him back among our number,” the arch-mage said at last, breaking the quiet, “stand now, or hold your peace as the Elders pass judgement on this man, this unrepentant criminal.”

  I heard the mute
d squeak of wooden pews and the scuffle of a heavy chair sliding over old stone. There weren’t a lot of squeaks, but enough to tell me more than one person had risen in my defense.

  Thankfully, this wasn’t a majority vote. Since I was a former Guild member, there needed to be unanimous consensus for an execution sentence.

  But there were still lots and lots of other god-awful punishments they could throw at me: Torture. Imprisonment. Official exile from the Guild—tantamount to a death sentence, since being an exile from the Guild also meant being exiled from Inworld. No rogue mage wanted to take his chances living indefinitely as an outcast in Outworld. Bad, bad odds, those.

  “Obviously, Arch-Mage, there are those who would vouch for him,” came a man’s voice, a deep baritone, clipped with the off-English accent so common to South Africans. I instantly recognized him: Black Jack Engelbrecht. The twelfth member of the Elders Council and the only Elder who’d sided with me over the shitstorm with the Morrigan and the Tuatha De Danann eighteen years ago. The same incident that’d driven me from the Guild in the first place.

  Bunch of sniveling, chicken-shit cowards.

  “There are those who remember his service,” he added, and though that last wasn’t said to me, I think it was meant for my ears. “So if we can be done with the dramatics, let us unhood the man and have a civilized conversation, eh?”

  “Elder Engelbrecht, your derision for these proceedings isn’t helpful,” the arch-mage replied, voice cool and professional as ever, though a hint of heat lingered underneath the words.

  He snorted in reply. “Please. These proceedings have been a railroad job since he arrived, but we all knew how this would turn out. Even though I have no doubt there are many esteemed members”—the sarcasm oozed, thick as molasses—“of this body that would love to see a guilty verdict rendered, we all know Mage Lazarus is not a traitor. Dangerous, without question. Hotheaded, certainly. Perhaps even a vigilante. But not a traitor. Never that. Besides, what would you have us do, eh? Would you have us kill him and doom ourselves for spite?”

  He let the obviously rhetorical question linger in the air like an angry cloud.

  “Whatever your personal feelings regarding him are, Arch-Mage,” he said eventually, “we dare not kill him. That is a reality no one here can deny. Has everyone here read Mage Lazarus’s personnel file? Yes. But everyone else here has also read his report about James Sullivan. About the Morrigan. About dark conspiracies and war. Much as we might not like to admit it,” he continued, “the Fates have conspired to turn him into a fulcrum, and we can do naught but trust in their judgement. Or perhaps, Arch-Mage, you think you know better than Lady Wyrd? Perhaps you see some future she cannot?”

  The soft murmur of voices sprang to life all around me like the steady drone of some huge bug. Concerned whispers, which didn’t fill me with much confidence, but which gave me the sense that I wasn’t about to be strangled to death, beheaded, pitched off a cliff, or doomed to life as an exile.

  “Very well,” the arch-mage finally whispered. “The assembly has spoken and, for the time being, Mage Lazarus is acquitted of treason charges. Unhood him, if you please, though the rest of the restraints will remain. He is dangerous, after all—now more so than ever—and the Elder Council has not yet passed sentence on him.”

  The pressure between my shoulder blades vanished, leaving behind a tight knot of sore muscle, which was still an improvement over having some dickhead’s elbow planted in my back. A rough hand landed on my shoulder and a moment later the leather sack—heavy, brown, roughly stitched, and reeking of old vomit—masking my face came away with a tug.

  Cool air, a bit musty, washed over my skin like the first breeze of a refreshing spring wind. I pulled in a long, deep breath, then smacked my lips, working some moisture into ’em as I squinted against late afternoon light streaming in through the stained glass windows scattered throughout the room. The Elder Council was arrayed before me as expected, spread out in a loose semicircle. Most scowled down at me from their heavy, antique chairs. Except Black Jack, of course, who stood with his bulky tree-trunk arms folded across his chest while he stared daggers at the arch-mage.

  “Yancy Lazarus,” the arch-mage said, deliberately ignoring Jack and focusing on me with laser-like intensity. “You have been acquitted on the charge of treason, but a myriad of other crimes still remain against you. Most notably, leaving the Guild without proper authorization in March, 1998, as well as countless acts of unlawful vigilantism. Acts which no one here”—she paused and shot a sidelong scowl at Black Jack—“can dispute. The facts are what they are. And, for your crimes, you face a penalty of fifty years in the Tullianum. Minimum.”

  My brow furrowed and my jaw clenched tight as muscles tensed.

  The Tullianum. A prison. Worse than a prison.

  A dank, dusty hole in the earth, situated in the heart of the sprawling red dunes of the Australian Outback, where they dropped a host of supernatural criminals and left them more or less for dead. The Tullianum was like the unholy love child of Mad Max’s Thunder Dome and a Game of Thrones episode: all rusted iron, spiked armor, creepy incest, and cannibal kings running amok. And a strange confluence of ley lines and telluric currents made it one of the few places on Earth where magi couldn’t touch the Vis.

  I wasn’t going there. Not ever. They’d have to kill me first.

  “So, do you have anything to say before we pass sentence?” the arch-mage asked with her perpetual glower of condemnation.

  I wanted to tell them to go blow each other and shove their stupid sentence right up their flabby collective asses, but I didn’t. ’Cause handcuffs. And exile. And friggin’ Tullianum. Also, the end of the known world, I guess. Couldn’t forget about that, much as I wanted to. I sighed, bottling that anger up for the time being, holding it for when I really needed its power.

  “Look,” I said evenly, lips curling down at the corners, “everyone in this room knows I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice. Any. Other. Choice. And believe me, I’ve tried everything else I can think of. Every source I have has turned up all of jack-shit. Dead ends all around, and I’m playing against a shot clock, so I need this Guild and I specifically need information only you”—I nodded toward the arch-mage—“have.

  “And I know you have it ’cause Fortuna, Lady-friggin’-Luck, told me. Straight from her mouth to my ear. So here I am, because I need you. But here’s the thing, you need me too. All of you need me. Sure, you can throw me into the Tullianum, and you know what? I’ll laugh my ass off as civilization crumbles and turns to dust, as the whole world turns into one giant hell no one can escape from. And it’ll be your fault, Borgstorm. That hell will be your legacy. So unless you give me a hand, you all can bend over and kiss your sanctimonious assess goodbye, comprende?”

  I heard a round of barely muffled sniggers and a handful of outraged gasps from behind me, which quickly died as the arch-mage swept her icy glare around the room, staring down anyone who seemed to even think about making a peep.

  “Arch-Mage, get on with it already,” Black Jack said, uncrossing his arms. “You don’t want to see the world collapse and we reached a sentence yesterday. Everyone knows this is just a show to frighten the poor lad.” He paused and rubbed at his chin while he regarded me. “Obviously your tactic isn’t working, so let us dispense with the dramatics, yes?”

  The arch-mage rounded on the man, eyes narrowed, hands planted on hips disapprovingly, annoyance peeking through a few small cracks in her normally unflappable exterior.

  “Enough, Elder Engelbrecht,” she said, a whip-crack of command. “Enough. I mean it. Take your seat and kindly keep your opinions to yourself or I will have Fist Leader Quinn remove you from these proceedings, Elder-mage or no.”

  Jack grunted, folded his arms again, and shifted from foot to foot as though earnestly deciding whether or not to just walk out. But then, at last, he nodded and sat, a disgruntled frown stealing across his mouth.

  “Now where was I?
” she said, turning back to me. “Right, your sentence. Despite your numerous crimes, the Guild recognizes your long and distinguished service to our order. We also recognize the will of the Lady Wyrd regarding the delicate matter which you have described to us in detail. Thus, we have charitably decided to grant you a pardon. And do not forget it is charity.”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes. Yeah, charity. Still, some unseen tension melted away from my shoulders at the words.

  “This charity, however, is conditional,” she said after a moment, which instantly tanked my sudden flood of relief. “Your fifty-year prison sentence will be commuted. You will serve out your time in mandatory service to the Guild. You will be readmitted to the Guild with good standing, but you will be stripped of rank and accolades. You will be admitted as a junior member and will serve as a probationary Judge until you prove yourself worthy and reliable of greater trust.”

  “You can’t do this to me!” I hollered, bucking against my restraints, a thick vein pulsing in my neck. “This is bullshit! Slavery is what it is. Friggin’ slavery!”

  She held up a single finger, face the definition of smug self-satisfaction. “That is where you’re wrong, because I most certainly can. Perhaps the Guild was content to let you roam for a time, but if I have taken anything away from this trial, it’s that you are too dangerous to let be. We made a mistake, letting you go your own way, but that is an error I am determined to rectify. The Guild watches over our own, and like it or not you belong to us. And you will be accountable to us.”

  “If I say no?” I asked, body tense, nearly shaking. “If I call this bullshit for what it is and refuse to play along?”

  She leaned forward, elbows resting along her thighs. “Then—and please mark my words very carefully—I will bring every resource available to bear against you. The full weight of the Guild will crush you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Crystal,” I replied through clenched teeth.

  “Good. And to ensure your compliance toward these ends,” she continued, “you will be assigned to an active Judge, who will act as your case supervisor. Your case supervisor will shadow you. Will monitor you. Will report directly to me. And if you don’t toe the line—and I mean to the letter—I will issue a kill order, whether you’re the Hand of Fate or not. If you flee and fail to report in to your supervisor, I will issue a kill order. If you perform so much as a single unauthorized act of vigilantism, I will issue a kill order. Do you have any questions?” she asked, then gave a disapproving sniff.