Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)

by James Hunter

  Ailia, all by her lonesome, sauntered onto the dance floor like she owned the damned thing, and started swaying. Long limbs and tight body all sinuous grace as she twirled and turned. Dirty red and amber overhead lighting played across her blonde locks—made it look like a halo of fire framing her face. As the number wound down, she stopped, only for a moment, and glanced back over her shoulder at me. Offered me that same enticing, cocksure look, then strode off the floor. An invitation:

  You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?

  You’d better believe I did something.

  “Eggs are on the table,” she said, motioning with the spatula. “Along with the Tabasco sauce.” She spoke perfectly good English, but the words held the faintest trace of a Russian accent. Not that she would ever admit to being Russian. She was Ukrainian—and unabashedly proud of it—despite the fact that she’d worked for years in a covert psychological-ops branch of the Soviet GRU: the USSR’s primary Intelligence Directorate and rival to the KGB.

  She’d defected a long way back, though, even before the fall of big Red.

  “I know what you think of my culinary skills,” she said, “but I expect you to finish the plate, moi kotik”—my cat. “You need to get your strength back.”

  “Course I’ll finish the plate. I don’t know where you get the idea that you’re not a great cook,” I lied, aiming for genuine and almost nailing it. “Your eggs are good. Seriously. Best in the whole world, and I’ll punch any asshole who says otherwise.”

  “Liar,” she said. Then she smiled, red creeping into her pale cheeks.

  Sure I was a liar, and we both knew it, but sometimes a lie holds more truth than the actual truth. Her food was, admittedly, terrible, but the thought behind it made it something more.

  “Now go and sit,” she said, “before the eggs are overcooked and cold. I’ll be done burning this bacon any minute.” She turned back to the stove, busying herself once more, flipping a slice here and there, pulling a few pieces off the skillet and dropping them onto a small mound of already scorched pig belly perched on a chipped ceramic plate.

  I lumbered over to the boxy dark-wood pub table and pulled out a padded barstool. A seat with a view of the kitchen, so I could watch her work a little more, uninterrupted. I pulled over the plate and poked at what passed for eggs-over-easy with my fork: hard, rubbery, the edges seared dark brown. More like eggs-over-burnt. Whatever. I cut home with the fork and crammed the “breakfast” into my pie-hole. Nope. Not good. Not even close.

  Okay, so all that romantic crap about loving making food taste better?

  Yeah, complete bullshit—which, coincidentally, is more or less what the food tasted like. Maybe love made Ailia’s cooking great in theory, but my tongue still insisted the food was garbage. Complete and utter rubbish.

  I unscrewed the Tabasco sauce and dosed the eggs, a rain of spicy red, then shoveled more food—food in the strictest sense of the word, at least—into my mouth. I ate slowly, enjoying the relative quiet and the view. Even accounting for the cooking, the morning was damn near perfect. We’d been an item going on nine years, but even in all that time there were still too few moments like this. Now, we weren’t married or anything. That was something I wasn’t ever liable to do again—not after Lauren. Not after how I left things with her and the kids. Walking out the way I did. But this was as close as I’d ever get to that: two people, enjoying a quiet morning, eating some questionable food together.

  There was a sizzle and a pop of bacon grease.

  “Derr`mo,” she swore, the sound harsh and very Russian, even with her smoky voice. I smiled as I chewed. After another few moments, she brought over a plate stacked high with mostly blackened and very crisp bacon, amply smothered in grease. My mouth watered at the thought.

  Generally, I love all things pork—ribs are at the top of the list, but bacon is a close second. And even bad bacon is still hands and feet above most other foods. Heck, take anything and top it with bacon and you’ll see a noticeable improvement. Bacon could even make disgusting health food like kale palatable. Ailia plopped the plate down and glanced at the eggs, most of which had already vanished down my throat.

  “Glad to see your injuries haven’t affected your appetite,” she said.

  I grunted, still chewing, then swallowed. “You know, I think maybe they are affecting my appetite. Truth be told, your food actually tastes better than normal. Brain damage maybe?”

  “I knew you couldn’t go a whole morning without saying something.” She eyed my discolored ribs through my open bathrobe. “If you weren’t so terribly pitiful looking, I might be offended.” She sniffed, frowned, and headed back to the kitchen. She tinkered around for a long beat—the scrape of ceramic on tile, the burble of liquid, followed by the clink of silverware—then came back out with a fat mug of steaming joe in either hand.

  She slowly eased the cups down, careful not to fumble a single drop of black gold, a cardinal sin in our household, before sliding onto a padded stool next to me.

  I abandoned what was left of the eggs, taking a swig of too hot coffee, burning my mouth a little and not caring one lick. Dark and bitter and just perfect. God that was awesome. This morning had just gone from perfect to perfect-plus—an infusion of trucker-fuel will do that to just about any situation. Kinda like bacon, actually.

  She sipped her coffee, inspecting my bruises a bit more over the edge of her mug. “They’re healing, but you still look like shit. You know how important it is for me to have my arm candy looking in top form, right? How can I show you off to all those stuffy women in the Guild with ribs like that? And that face.” She cringed when she said the word—nose crinkling, forehead furrowing—as though my battered mug actually offended her. She reached out a hand and rubbed it over my check, one finger caressing the edge of a major-league black eye. “No, it’s no good. What will people think? Let me fix them,” she said, and it wasn’t much of a suggestion.

  I sighed and pulled away, setting down my coffee and gently drawing her hand from my skin. “I said no.”

  “You let me patch you up last night,” she offered innocently, before taking a long sip of joe.

  “I am grateful, Ailia, you know that. If it wasn’t for you, my ribs would still be completely black instead of mostly yellow.” I shook my head and looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. Didn’t want her to use her feminine wiles—and yes, she most certainly had feminine wiles—to guilt trip me into compliance. “But you shouldn’t have done that either,” I finally mumbled. “You’ve already done enough. Too much.”

  “Stubborn.” She mock-pouted, tsked a few times, and crossed her arms under her breasts, amplifying her substantial cleavage. Something I was considerably grateful for.

  “That’s not gonna work either.” I pulled the plate of bacon my way, lifting a slice off the top of the mound.

  She always tried to do this, to fix me. My unofficial Guild handle was the Fixer, but somedays I thought the title suited her far better. Whenever I came home from assignment completely beat to shit—which was more often than not—she’d be there waiting to patch me up and make me strong and healthy as a rodeo bull amped up on steroids.

  And she could do it.

  She had one of the most magnificent healing talents in the Guild, a power rivaled by few others, but it was also a double-edged sword. Her power was … well, strange. Maybe it had something to do with her training as a Spetsnaz with the GRU, or her heritage—her ancestral line was full of powerful magi—I don’t know. Neither did she. Shit, no one really knew why she was the way she was, not even the higher highers on the Elder Council. There were even whispers, always in dark hallways or behind closed doors, that she wasn’t fully human. Some said a rare breed of halfie, the distant descendant of a natural-born mage and some otherworldly denizen of Outworld.

  She was an empath: an exceedingly rare gift in a place where rare gifts were common as table salt. She could heal me alright, but in doing so, she’d get the benefi
t of living through every single blow I’d taken as though she were experiencing it herself. There’d never be a mark on her, no physical wound to look at, but her mind would live through the pain. She healed a lot of field operatives, Judges and Fist members both.

  Her strange gifts and uncertain heritage made her an outsider of sorts. And, though I suppose what folks said could’ve been true, it made no difference to me.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” I said, “I know better. Not gonna put you through that.”

  She primly crossed her legs, pursed her lips, and inspected her fingernails, ignoring me. After an uneasy pause: “I will tie you down and do it without your permission if you don’t listen to common sense—”

  A knock at the front door cut short her threat.

  “We’ll talk more about you tying me down later.” I arched an eyebrow at her, then smirked as crimson stole back into her cheeks. I always thought Europeans were supposed to be less puritanical than us Yankees, but if she was any indication, that was a bunch of horseshit. She blushed like some country bumpkin, boot-ass Marine stepping into a strip joint for the first time.

  I scooted away from the table and moseyed toward the front door; I could feel her eyes on my back the whole while. Watching me, still blushing. I weaved between the burnt leather couch and the upright piano on the far side of living room, angling for the door.

  Another knock, this one more forceful and impatient.

  “I know you’re in there, pally,” came a muffled voice.

  THREE:

  Black Ops

  The voice belonged to James Sullivan, lieutenant commander of the Fist of the Staff, the mage special enforcement division, and my partner in crime. Well, technically he was my supervisor—being my superior in rank, age, and experience—but he was more like a brother than a boss. A douchebag, older brother.

  “Hold your horses, dickbasket,” I called back. “I’m moving as fast as I can here. A friggin’ minotaur strung me up and used my torso as a piñata yesterday.” I edged past a wobbly table near the door, which housed a bowl with my apartment keys and some random junk: a few matchbooks from various bars, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a handful of loose pocket change. I leaned into the door, stealing a look through the peephole just to be on the safe side.

  Lots of things from Outworld could mimic someone’s voice, so it always paid to be cautious.

  A tall fella with broad shoulders leaned against the door, resting his weight on one outstretched hand. He looked maybe thirty-five, had the bearing of a movie star, and sported short, wavy brown hair, styled in a rakish 1920s ’do. He wore light gray slacks, a matching dinner jacket with a black waistcoat underneath, and a crisp white button-up with a fat striped tie disappearing below his vest. The look was something right out of The Great Gatsby, and it screamed James Sullivan from wavy hair to wing-tipped toe.

  Whereas I’d been a child of the ’60s, James had spent his late teens during the roaring twenties and he’d never left them behind. At least not the fashion or the funny flapper-speak.

  “Yeah, alright,” I grumbled through the door. “Stand back while I disarm the wards.”

  “We’re on the clock. Don’t have all day here, so how’s about you get a wiggle on it, huh?” James replied before scooting back a step.

  “You wanna try walkin’ through this door with the wards intact, be my guest, bub. Hope you didn’t have plans to not die horribly, though.”

  I breathed out, pushing the air from my lungs, before opening myself to the well of power undergirding all matter and Creation. James, Ailia, and I are all magi, secret practitioners with the ability to draw on the Vis. I siphoned off a thin trickle of power, just enough to braid together the complicated pattern of earth, fire, and air—all wrapped together in willpower—necessary to disarm the industrial strength defensive wards built into the steel door.

  Those wards were nasty things, built upon the domicilium seal-—the super-real energy barrier that builds up on a mortal’s home as said mortal shuffles their way across the carpet of life—protecting my apartment.

  I lived in a shady part of the 9th Ward, so common-place Rube crime was always a problem, but a complex series of glamour constructs ensured vanilla mortals never gave my pad a second glance. And for those folks and beasties powerful enough to see through the glamours, there was a second set of offensive wards, souped-up enough to reduce even your battle-hardened horror-show into a pile of ash. A mess that could be swept up into a dustpan and dumped out the window.

  A hum of pent-up energy built in the air as the wards disengaged, followed by a small burst of harmless static. I unlatched the deadbolt, pulled back two more heavy-duty sliding locks, and jerked the door open. Took a little muscle, since the damn thing weighed a couple hundred pounds. What can I say, as a fix-it man for a group with a metric shit-ton of known enemies, security is a very important quality, especially since I’m a big fan of not being murdered and fed to alligators.

  The door swung inward on silent hinges, admitting James.

  He offered me a curt nod and a thin smile as he scanned my apartment; his lukewarm smile quickly morphed into a sneer.

  “I always forget how awful this place is,” he said, brushing past me. “Why? Why live in this dump?” His gaze swept over the well-worn leather sofa, the chipped Goodwill coffee table, and the small entertainment set holding a T.V. that’d seen better days. There were a few pieces of art gracing the walls. A couple kung-fu movie posters from yesteryear, a print of The Empire Strikes Back, some framed records—Leadbelly; Robert Johnson, the king of delta blues; B.B. King’s Live at the Regal; Muddy Waters—but nothing too hoity-toity.

  That B.B. King album, though, was an original 1965 LP, signed by the man himself.

  “Despite the fact that the Guild hasn’t had a cost of living increase since 1973,” James continued, “I know your stipend is more than enough to get into some place nicer. And never mind all the extra off-the-books income. The Elders might not know about your trips to Vegas, but you’re not foolin’ me, pally. You should be livin’ in a mansion.” His eyes flitted across my meager belongings. “A cardboard box with carpet would be an improvement over this hovel.”

  “Good mornin’ to you too, shitbird. Why don’t you please come on in and promptly throw yourself out the window,” I grumbled while motioning him toward the dining room with my free hand. He nodded and beelined for the pub table, his eyes falling on the unfinished plate of eggs.

  “What can I say, I’m a man of simple tastes,” I said as I shut the door, reengaged the locks and wards, then carefully pushed the Vis away from me, closing my link to the source. Holding all that power was intoxicating. It made everything better: every sense as clear as fine glass, my mind sharp as a razor, and energy to rival a line of coke. Like breathing in pure life and power. And, like any drug, it was seductive, dangerous. Addictive even.

  Too much juice could push you over the edge and burn you out for keeps, forever destroying your ability to harness that power—every mage’s worst nightmare. Or it could just kill you outright. Truth be told, dying would be a damn bit better than the alternative.

  By the time I limped back over to the table, James had already taken my seat, eaten the remainder of my eggs, and struck up a conversation with Ailia.

  “Yeah. That’s cool.” I pulled out another barstool. “Go ahead and make yourself at home. Not like that was my breakfast or anything.”

  “No time for you to finish, I’m afraid.” He picked up a piece of blackened bacon, regarded it for a moment as if weighing whether to risk eating more of Ailia’s cooking, then decided against it. He set the bacon back down and looked for a napkin. When he couldn’t find one, he leaned over and wiped his fingers on one of the window curtains, because heaven forbid fancy-pants James Sullivan lick his fingers clean like a normal friggin’ person.

  Ailia watched him do the deed with a frown plastered on her face, but said nothing. As the hostess, she would never say anything—she did sniff in d
isapproval—though I had no doubt she was contemplating a myriad of ways to make him suffer. Like whipping up a traditional Ukrainian home-cooked meal and forcing him to come over for dinner

  Maybe she’d make some seld’ pod shuboi—herring under a fur coat—a dish that vaguely resembled a purple cake, but was actually a mashup of salted herring, vegetables, and grated beets, glued together with heaps of mayo. Or maybe she’d serve him some kholodets—basically pickled meat in Jello, ’cause that’s a real thing that exists in the world—with a side of salo: cold, raw pig fat.

  “He says we have a mission,” she offered after a second, before issuing another disapproving sniff as she eyed the curtains. Yep, James was definitely coming over for a meal in the not-too-distant future.

  “That’s right, all three of us.” James tapped a manila folder laying on the table, embossed on the front with the Guild of the Staff’s seal: a boxy shield with a gnarled staff running diagonally across its front, the whole thing flanked on one side by a snarling griffin and a stoic-faced sphinx on the other.

  “The hell?” I snagged the envelope from his fingers. “This is a total crock. I got done working a case yesterday. Yesterday, James. The minotaur in Huntsville.”

  “Was that only yesterday? How’d that go?” he asked. “I must’ve forgot all about that mission because I didn’t see the report filed.”

  I waved off his protest.

  Reports.

  I was proud to be part of the Guild, they’d done a lot for me, but sometimes the endless labyrinth of red tape and the veritable ocean of tightwad bureaucrats made the job not worth it. And they were so anal about their reports: incident reports, after-action reports, expense accounts, training files, fitness evaluations, psychological evaluations, promotion evaluations, safety briefs, liability and insurance filings. On and on ad nauseam. By the way they acted, you’d think the world was on the verge of utter annihilation if you forgot to file one of those friggin’ reports. And that barely scratched the surface of things.