Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (18 page)

“What’s the end game?” Greg asked. “Long term, where is this thing going?”

“Like I’ve got a clue.” I shrugged my shoulders and immediately regretted doing so. “Greg, I’ve been playing some hunches and following a few leads, but mostly I’ve been bluffing so far. You know that planning and forethought aren’t my strong suits.”

“You’re right—better to give the dyslexic kid the road map than ask you for insight and direction.”

“Why are we friends again?” I splashed some water at him, drawing minutely on the Vis to make sure he got a face full of freezing human-soup. “I have to admit, though,” I said after a moment, “Arjun struck me as sincere—whatever the hell he’s playin’ at, he sure thinks he’s doing good. He’s crazy as a horse in a tuxedo, but he’s got good intentions.” The sound of slushing water filled the quiet of the room.

“We better kill him quick,” Greg said, mopping the water from his face absentmindedly with a hand towel.

“Yeah” I agreed. “He’s the most dangerous kind of bad guy—one with a good cause. The quicker the better.”

“So how are we gonna get him into his pine box?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to do it alone. I don’t have a clue where he’s holed up—he’s somewhere in L.A. but L.A. is a big friggin place. Might as well be operating in some fallout shelter in Pakistan.”

“And he’s got a small army of monsters standing in our way,” Greg added.

“Right. So even if we get to Arjun, there’s no way we can handle nine Rakshasa popping out of the walls. Let’s not forget that he also has some serious hoodoo to fling around and a pet Hindu demon in his pocket.”

“You’re a real well of hope and optimism,” Greg said, unamused. “Now how’s about you stop whining and start thinking about solutions, princess.”

“How about you grow up a little, Greg. Name calling? We’re senior citizens, it’s … well frankly, it’s beneath us. So, if you could please just give me a friggin’ minute you crotchety, old, backed-up-well-of-septic-waste, I’ll sort this all out. Okay?”

“Whatever,” he grunted noncommittally, which I took as his assent. I closed my eyes and let the water sluice over my body, let my arms relax and float upwards, clearing my mind of the pain, worry and anxiety. Feeding all those unhelpful emotions into the fire of the Vis, letting energy and life fill me, while I floated in the coolness of the water. I always did my best thinking in the water, there’s something primal and inherently creative about water. I also needed the liquid buffer for the small construct I was preparing.

In the black, empty space that my thoughts, hurts, and emotions had previously occupied, a picture coalesced. But to call it a
picture
is somewhat inadequate because this place is, at least to me, more real than anywhere that exists on earth. Plush carpet, dark wood-wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, a hulking desk framed in the back wall. An antique globe—which also served as a flip open liquor cabinet—sat in between a pair of burnt-leather club chairs. On the wall in front of the paired chairs sat a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen, which I used to review memories when the need arose.

I’d created this private space long ago as sort of a safe haven for my mind to go to in times of stress and trouble. A place I could go to be alone, to think, to work through my issues … and boy do I have some sumo-sized issues to work through. Shit, I have a convention center full of sumo-sized problems, so you can probably imagine the amount of time I hang out here.

I took a seat in one of the club chairs—a scotch with water appeared in my hand. I didn’t drink, but let it just sit while I waited for my guest to arrive.

“Don’t let that scotch go to waste,” said a voice from my left, “you look like a month-old-jock-strap: stretched, sweaty, and terribly abused. You could use the drink.” The man who was insulting me so casually—and doing it well, might I add—occupied the second club chair. The newly arrived guest was …
me
. Or maybe me as I’d looked ten years ago, with skin the color of seawater, and without all the bruises and lacerations.

He was my instinct, my subconscious, a living being, of sorts, permanently bound by the Vis with an Undine: a water-elemental from of the Endless Wood, just outside of
Glimmer-Tir
—the golden city of the High Fae of Summer. I’d saved the spirit as a young, naïve mage, and it had taken up residency in my head. It’s kind of hard to explain actually. Our relationship is … complicated, I guess. But that’s a whole other story.

Now this is pretty out there, I confess, but most people talk to themselves right? Sure, usually it’s a bit more of a monologue than a dialogue, but let’s not sweat the details here folks. The important thing to take away is that my subconscious partner in crime is great for all kinds of things, and allows me the perfect springboard for a solid brainstorming session.

He’s kind of like a DVR for my life—he helps me to remember things I’ve forgotten, points out details my waking mind might overlook, and helps me to find connections that the more rational part of my brain would never make. He also has a sharp tongue, which he feels free to unleash on me whenever I go against his advice and get us into trouble.

“This whole mess is a real shit-storm, you never should have gotten us into this business.”

“Well we’re involved, that ship has sailed” I said. “What I need now is advice not your general smart-assery, so stow it.”

“Look, the best advice I can give you is to jump back into the Camino and drive for Vegas. We don’t need this kind of trouble and we sure as hell don’t need all this publicity. We’ve been doing a good job of staying under The Guild’s radar—but this is going to remind them you exist and that you threatened to blow them all to the moon last time you were around.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “We’re committed. We’re going to make things right here.”

“We can’t make things right here,” he said. “We can’t bring all those people back.” He rubbed a hand through short hair, a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Look, this thing is a friggin’ amputation operation—maybe we can stop the bleeding, but we’re not gonna be able to save the leg.”

“You’re not going to convince me. Better start giving me something to work with or else we’re both going to wind up in Al’s garage as Rakshasa food.”

A whiskey appeared in his hand, a double, neat.
He drained the thing in one long pull and put his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “No talkin’ you outta this?”

“Nope. We’re staying on till the end.”

“Stubborn.” He shook his head. “Alright, let’s review the tapes.” The lights in the room dimmed and the wide-screen TV blinked to life. Two men appeared on the screen, Morse on the left and H & R Block, representing Yraeta, on the right.

“Let’s start here,” my instinct directed. “Morse has lost a lot of men and has a damn good reason to want to deal Arjun a little payback, right? But he’s not your only ally. Yratea’s also taken a helluva hit. At this point, it’s safe to assume that doppelganger Detective Al fed Yratea the bad info on you, which cost him manpower, and this mess is likely going to cost him a profitable business alliance with the Saints. Yraeta’s pissed and that’s good for us. We can use that. He might be annoyed with you—who wouldn’t be?
I’m
annoyed with you—but it’s a safe wager that he’d rather
settle the bill with Arjun.”

All good points, though that didn’t actually solve the problem for us—Morse and Yratea might be weapons, but I didn’t have a target for them.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s say we can
use Morse and Yratea. Then what? Still doesn’t give us Arjun. We don’t know where he is or have a way to get at him.”

“No, but Greg was right. Ailia could find out for us … ”

“No,” I said, the iron in my voice unyielding. “There’s a reason I’m in the driver’s seat and you’re not—I make better decisions.” He cast me a speculative glance that said
then why are you here asking for my help.
“Usually I make better decisions … sometimes,” I amended. “But I’m not setting up a meeting with Ailia. It’s a bad idea, like Chernobyl bad.” Though I’m occasionally
prone to bouts of over-exaggeration, this was not
one of those times. Setting up a meet with Ailia was about as smart as skinny-dipping with Great-Whites.

Ailia and I were a serious item, once upon a time. Really, she was the only serious relationship I’d had since my ex-wife. But that had been a lifetime ago and I knew things wouldn’t end well if I called her up out of the blue. Ailia could help me, sure—or rather the Morrigan, Irish goddess and general badass, who currently had possession of her body could—but the cost would be might hefty. Too friggin’ hefty. I just didn’t think my heart could handle seeing her again, hearing her voice, smelling the sweet lilac scent of her skin. Even if I could use Ailia to find Arjun, the emotional trauma of being with her again wasn’t worth it. Ailia was a closed door and I needed to remember that if I wanted to stay alive.

“No, there’s got to be better options. What am I even keeping you around for if that’s all the originality you’ve got?” I asked.

“First, I am a part of you—”

“Apparently the incompetent part,” I muttered, though he kept right on going as if I hadn’t said a thing.

“So you’d better watch where you cast your accusations. Second, it’s not like you’ve got a load of options—you burn bridges faster than a chain-smoking arsonist—and lastly, I am the one that comes up with ninety percent of the plans that keep us breathing.”

“All I’m hearing is a bunch of whining. When are you going to get to the part where you come up with something useful or insightful or whatever?” I asked.

His shoulders slumped, the cast of his face told me he was about a second away from throwing something at me before disappearing like a wraith, abandoning me to my fate. But I knew he wouldn’t. This was
our
fate, he’d stick it out as an act of self-preservation.

Everything was still and quiet in my mind as both my instinct and I weighed and considered options, looking for any avenue which might deliver us Arjun.

“What about Harold the Mange?” my instinct asked after a minute. “We still have a working relationship with him, sort of. He could probably do what we need.”

“I dunno … things didn’t end so well last time we were together,” I said. Last time Harold and I parted ways, it was after he’d tried to cocoon me in his lair with the intent of devouring my innards. Take note all you members of geekdom, trying to cocoon someone in your lair is not a good way to create long-lasting relationships.

“Yeah, but it was nothing personal,” my instinct continued. “He just lost control of his hunger. I’m sure he won’t hold that fiasco against you. He’s reliable, at least so far as Hub Dwellers go.”

“Still …”

“Listen asshole, it’s either Harold or Ailia—I’ll let you make the call.”

Well if those were my options. “Fine, I guess Harold might work. But it’ll mean a trip into the Hub and I don’t have anything to sell him, so I’ll owe him one.” Owing someone a favor might not sound like a whole lot, but in the preternatural community a favor can be a big deal. In the regular world of Rube mortals, owing someone a favor means you’ll help them take an old couch to the dump. Heck, if it’s a big favor you
might
even help them move.

In my circles, however, it meant I would be indebted to Harold in a big and official capacity. But that was a worry for Future Me. Plus, I could always try to barter with him, if I played things right I might even be able to set some decent terms to the favor. A little mercy for Future Me wouldn’t be a terrible thing if I could manage it.

I didn’t want to go into the Hub, I didn’t want to deal with Harold, but I
did
want Arjun. And since the only other option was Ailia, Harold and the Hub seem like a regular bouquet of sunflowers and daisies.

“I can see those wheels a turning,” said my instinct.

I drank my scotch in reply. “Alright, we’ll try Harold.”

I opened my eyes, letting the padded leather room vanish back into my mind. Greg was staring off into space, apparently as absent as I’d been. I splashed around in the water, stretching cramped arms and legs, which had been still for too long.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked as I settled back into place.

“We need to go make friends.”

TWENTY:

The Hub

I filled Greg in on the plan: his job was to connect with Morse directly and Yraeta, through H & R from New Orleans, and see if both organizations would be willing to play ball. If Greg could play the diplomat well enough—and I was confident he could—I’d have some significant firepower at my disposal. With the combined criminal forces of Morse and Yraeta, it’d be easy to get rid of the Rakshasa army for long enough to give me a clear shot at Arjun. All that left me to do was bounce on over to the Hub, track down Harold the Mange, see if he had the goods on Arjun, and then strike a potentially life threatening bargain.

No problem.

I left Greg to his work. He’d have his hands full, but then so would I. I got into the Camino and headed out to the 101, which eventually dumped me onto the 126. I cruised north and west for maybe twenty minutes, before stopping in Santa Paula.