Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (20 page)

“What’s your order, mage?” he growled, and I was immediately reminded that Firroth is not the kind of bartender you come crying to after a rough day. He’s friggin’ terrifying.

“What’ve you got?” I asked, lowering my shoulders, trying to appear casual and unimpressed.

“Everything,” he said flatly. “I’ve got anything and everything for the right price. So what’s your drink?”

“I’ll take a Jack, neat, and any information you’ve got on Harold the Mange.”

“Don’t know what business you’ve got with the Mange,” he said—picking up a filthy glass, wiping it gingerly with an even filthier rag, before pouring my drink and setting it in front of me—“but this place is strictly neutral. You saw the sign, right.” It wasn’t a question.

“Listen, Red.” His eyes flashed in response, and I knew I’d made a misstep by not keeping things wholly professional, but I soldiered on. Best to never show a predator that you’re weak or nervous. “I’m not out to break tables, throw chairs, spill blood, or otherwise bring trouble to your fine establishment. I just need some info.”

A wave of smoke, hot and heavy, billowed out from Firroth’s cigar. The thing looked like a friggin’ jet engine. As the smoke cleared, Firroth shot me a wink and pointed toward the woman on my left.

“The drinks on me, but drink quick,” he said, before stalking down the length of the bar and disappearing behind a set of swinging doors into the back.

I swiveled on my chair, my drink forgotten and untouched—I’d probably catch the plague from the glass—and turned my gaze on the less-than-lovely-bar goer.

“So I imagine you were following that exchange right?”

“Quite.” She dipped her head in agreement. “It’s always valuable to keep your ears open—as they say, knowledge is power. And you, Yancy Lazarus, are looking for information on the Mange.”

“My reputation must proceed me,” I said.

“Hardly. You flatter yourself, I’m afraid,” she said. “One of my many gifts is
knowing
things, including a limited knowledge of my own future. I saw you coming ages ago.”

“Well, this is awkward” I said. “Best we move on. If you know me, then it’s likely you know what I want. Where is Harold holed up tonight?”

“Indeed, I do know what you want—our meeting is quite fortunate for you—but there is, of course, a price.”

Yeah, of course there was a price, how could there not be? People in the Hub—hell, people in general—are a selfish lot, always trying to find out what’s in it for them. No free meals.

“What’re you asking?”

“Nothing much. Just consideration, should I ever need help from you. Not a favor, nothing so binding, just goodwill between you and I. I have always believed that if you help others in their time of need, they may well help you in yours.”

“And who are you?” I asked, wanting to know whom exactly I was giving consideration too.

“If you want Harold the Mange, it’s better that you do not pursue that line of inquiry.”

I probably should have walked away from the table—it’s always wise to know who you’re making deals with—but I needed Harold and this wasn’t a formal favor.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed. “Should such a time arise in the future when you—whoever the hell you are—need help, I will
consider
it.” Her lips pulled back at the corners in a tight smile, which left me uncomfortable and twisting in my seat.

“Excellent,” she practically cooed, which made me more uncomfortable still. “Harold has moved shop. He is currently taking inventory.” She pulled out a slip of thick, expensive, cream-colored paper and scrolled an address on it with her finger—no pen required. Not human, check.

The address was for a dump over in Remington corridor, a slum even by Hub standards, and a known haunt for the Little Brothers of the Blade. I curled my lips in a chilly smile of my own, before excusing myself from the bar and heading out of The Lonely Mountain to hail a cab.

Once outside, I waved down a passing 67’ Austin FX3—the classic black taxi of London—all sleek black and chrome, with the bright amber
Taxi
bobble on top, shining out into the night. The car pulled over with a squeal of brakes, followed by a chorus of honking horns and bristly curses from passing motorists. I slid into the back without much thought. The interior was black velvet instead of the slippery, cheap vinyl stuff you would expect, while the doors were framed with sleek hardwood and more chrome.

The Hub, though disgusting in many ways, was also a place of excess and luxury.

I shut the door behind me, the black, bulletproof glass—a safety mechanism against would be carjackers—rolled open to reveal a bulbous creature with glimmering blue-skin and an old-fashion cabbie cap. A Kobo. Kobocks mostly lived down in the Deeps, sheltered in their closed off communes while they worshiped forgotten Dominions and dusty Powers of old. A few commuted to the surface for work though. The Kobo cabbie turned down his screeching music: Hub hip-hop. No thanks.

“Where to?” His voice was sludgy and uninterested.

I gave him the address in Remington corridor.

“Looking to get a kidney or a heart from the Little Brothers?” he asked. “I might know a guy.”

“Not interested,” I replied curtly.

“Whatever.” He shrugged his lopsided shoulders and shut the partition between us. Thank God, I had no desire to listen to the awful music I’d heard squawking from his radio. It also saved me from any painful or awkward conversations about Hub politics—a subject that could bring considerable trouble if you weren’t careful with your tongue.

I put him out of mind, knowing he’d get me to my destination. He was certified, after all, which meant he could be trusted not to murder me horribly and steal my wallet. Probably. Instead, I focused on the passing sights.

The buildings were a varied lot, crafted out of every imaginable material—red brick the color of blood here, reinforced steel-plate there, plaster and stucco further on, and lots and lots of concrete. Gaudy neon signs were plastered to every available surface; glamorous and garish things in a hundred different shades of color, all of them unnatural, and each vying for attention. An alley snaked away between the buildings: a row of shanty homes made from plywood, warehouse pallets, and car tires. A little further up lurked a towering, off-kilter building made of electric-blue granite and studded with skulls—the Temple of Suicides.

Off on the left, a fire-engine-red woman, sculpted of neon tubing, winked on-and-off, a promise of illicit pleasure to come. On the right, a pair of bouncing green and blue dice caught my eye—a sure spot to find a little action and maybe make a little money. Who was I kidding? Everyone and their brother would know I wasn’t playing a straight game. Magi aren’t welcome to games of chance, and trying to disguise yourself as something other than a mage is a sure way to get disemboweled.

Personally, I’ve always thought it’s a bullshit double standard, in the Hub
no
one plays fair—there’s always some hustle going on. And usually, you’re the mark.

I pushed it all out of mind, better that way. The Hub can be an alluring place in its way—everything is so much brighter, so much more vivid, and the stakes are always higher here. But the place is like a cancer, it’ll eat you up if you let it. And that was just up here on the surface where the denizens at least pretended to play nice; down in the sprawling Deeps, it’s even worse. The Hub is sort of like New Orleans, Bangkok, and Vegas all rolled into one—except that even Vegas would blush crimson if it took a ride down the Hub’s central boulevard.

Shit, the Hub would probably slip Vegas a roofie, take it to a sleazy motel, and carve out a lung for the black market.

After fifteen minutes the taxi pulled onto a narrow street, devoid of sidewalks, and littered with trash and filth of every assortment and description: slowly smoldering tires, mounds of plastic bags and rotting foodstuffs, open sewage trickling along building fronts. Even worse, were the pieces of flesh and bone—often whole limbs—dotting the pavement and protruding from the sour-smelling refuse piles. Evidence that the Little Brothers of the Blade had been out and busy, taking fingers, hands, and feet as payment from the unwary. Hacking and cutting with their gleaming sling-blades and sharpened shrub-sheers. Much of the blood sprinkled about was still fresh, which explained why the street was so empty.

Creepy as hell—no amount of flash and glitz could make me want to cool my heels here for too long. Give me the Big Easy’s gator problem over the snake-faced Little Brothers any day of the week, thank you.

The shops and homes lining the way were oddly leaning things of concrete and cinder blocks, sporting tin roofs and broken windows covered by reinforced black rebar. Rats scampered about in the gutters—big furry things that had grown bold—while an accompaniment of otherworldly, pale-blue, corpse toads, chortled their subtle song.

Not all of these buildings were as they seemed, I knew, many of these homes were probably no more than mere facades: a mask to cover what lay beneath. If you have a nice car in a bad city, there’s a good chance someone will eventually try to jack your wheels, chop your ride, and leave you standing high and dry. But if you’re driving around a multicolored Ford Gremlin, circa 1986, with two-hundred K on the odometer, and no stereo, it’s an even bet that your car will always be waiting for you.

Well, operating on the same principal, many Hub dwellers went to great lengths to make it appear as though their homes looked—at least superficially—like the run-down equivalent of the Ford Gremlin.

Harold the Mange was a no-shit master of disguise when it came to camouflaging his lair. And he needed all the protection he could get because he had his grubby, fat-little, paws into just about everything. He was not a power player by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a great number of resources. Mostly, Harold was a middleman, a broker who dealt in information, favors, and the occasional rare artifact. He was also a shady bastard, not to be trusted further than he could be thrown, which wasn’t far since he was prodigiously fat. Being such a crafty little shit had made the guy a lot of enemies, hence the camouflage.

But if anyone could get me the info I needed on Arjun, Harold could, even if the price would be through the roof.

I strutted up to a townhome: a little, two-story building, painted a splotchy matte white, with thick worn boards covering the windows. It was a rundown hovel, surrounded by a host of other rundown hovels, and if I didn’t know better, I would’ve walked right on by. Which was, of course, exactly the point. But I did know better.

I exhaled the air in my lungs and breathed in fresh air filled with Vis. I dipped into the well and carefully drew out the power I needed. I sent out a fine weave of spirit, a gently probing web which lay lightly over the house. This construct was a delicate thing, finer than a spider’s wispy webbing—it gave me a read on any constructs, veils, or barriers without setting them off. Hopefully.

I could feel an illusion, expertly crafted—though made piece meal—concealing the home’s true nature and urging the casual passerby onwards. There was also a set of defensive wards placed around the doors and windows—pesky things that would turn any would-be thief into a pile of dust if he tried to force the locks. The wards were well made but lacked the power to keep a big leaguer from getting in. If a High Sidhe noble wanted in, Harold’s wards weren’t going to do the trick (though the solid steel door would help).

It also wouldn’t keep a supremely talented mage out.

I’d probably be able to get in too.

Whatever Harold was, he wasn’t human, and the Hub was a place of partial spirit, so I didn’t have to sweat dealing with a domicilium seal. Places here don’t have ‘em. I pulled in air and earth, drawing from the ground beneath my feet, feeling the strange soil and rock composing the Hub. With a heave of will I ripped out a hunk of pavement the size of a motorcycle, and with the aid of heat, air, and water, shaped the material into something resembling a medieval battering ram.

My siege weapon hung suspended in the air, fifteen feet from the front door. I created a super dense pocket of compressed air behind it: the Vis equivalent of a high-powered potato launcher. Except instead of potatoes, I was firing off a two-ton piece of sculpted rock. Tension built and grew behind the rock, the air filling the enclosed space I’d created to contain it. I pumped more Vis into the enclosed space, knowing physics would eventually take over and do all the work once I’d accumulated enough pent up kinetic energy.

My constructed barrier ruptured with a great
woofing
sound, which hit me like one massive pillow. The hovering rock, however, received the lion’s share of the stored energy and hurtled through the space between me and the reinforced door like a friggin’ freight train. The door never stood a chance. The rock collided with a
crash
, twisting and bending the door inward, amidst a flare of angry blue flame. The home’s wards released on impact, but I was far enough away to feel nothing more than a faint trickle of warm air.

A pleasant summer breeze.

I stepped around the crumpled metal door and clamored over the rock, all while trying to avoid the sharp wooden splinters sticking out from the now ruined door frame. There’s nothing worse than a splinter, and considering the overall hygienic quality of the Hub, it was best to assume a splinter would give me dysentery. Or something worse. In general, being in the Hub for any extended length of time made me want to bathe in hand-sanitizer, on principle.