Read Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) Online
Authors: James A. Hunter
Tags: #s Adventure Fiction, #Fantasy Action and Adventure, #Dark Fantasy, #Paranormal and Urban Fantasy, #Thrillers and Suspense Supernatural Witches and Wizards, #Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards, #Mage, #Warlock, #Bigfoot, #Men&apos
Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)
TWENTY-ONE: Meeting of the Minds
TWENTY-SIX: What Goes Around …
THIRTY-EIGHT: Through Demon Eyes
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
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 muted 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.
