Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (21 page)

The interior of the house was a mess. The walls sported tattered and peeling wallpaper and a variety of stains, which didn’t bear thinking too deeply on. The dark, hardwood floors were pitted, chipped, and scraped, though free of the layer of dust which I’d have expected in a place like this—a sure sign someone had been here recently. Four doors lined the hallway, one off to the left stood open, revealing a gutted bathroom. Both the doors on the right were closed, but I knew the rooms behind them were as barren and broken as the rest of the house—my gentle probe of spirit, told me as much.

The door I wanted lay at end of the hall: the last door on the left. It looked no different from its fellows, yet I could feel a thrum of power—concealed to most, but obvious to me—emanating from the space.

I’ll take what’s behind door number four, Monty.

I tried the handle and found the door locked, but it was just an average old door lock. Nothing fancy and no wards I could discern. Harold wasn’t big time and wards are not a cheap thing to come by if you have to outsource. Harold’s definitely not a mage, a member of the High Fae, or a godling, so it stood to reason that he’d contracted out. He’d chosen, and wisely, to prevent people from getting this far by putting his muscle right up front. And, if that failed, Harold had created the illusion of abandonment to deter any highly motivated thieves (not that there would be many down in this part of town in the first place).

A gentle effort of will and a thin weave of earth helped me to kick open the door without a hitch—one well-placed boot ripped the lock right from its home. The door swung inward, revealing a short rock hallway trailing down into a low ceilinged cave, lit by a mixture of torchlights and electric miners’ lamps.

Harold the Mange looked up at me from the center of the claustrophobic chamber—maybe thirty feet away—the corners of his mouth turning down into a grimace.

TWENTY-TWO:

Harold the Mange

Harold the Mange was a sight to behold, but not in an awe-inspiring Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, or even Kim Kardashian way. I’m talking a sight to behold like the world’s largest landfill or Jabba the Hut: a sight that leaves you cringing a little and feeling kind of dirty inside. He was a pasty thing, inordinately fat, with rolls and rolls of maggot-white skin, straining around his neck, arms and midsection.

Mostly bald, though a few wispy strands of graying hair stood out around his ears, while mud colored liver spots adorned his scalp. He had no legs—or if he did, they’d been buried by his bulk and died long ago. Instead, he perched atop a set of spindly, dusty, metal legs: eight of the electrical limbs fanned out beneath him like some strange spider. In the Hub, techno-organisms are a common enough sight. Harold had gotten the upgrade long ago, presumably to allow him to eat ever greater amounts of cheeseburgers. The guy was a freak show.

No one—at least no one I was aware of—actually knew what in the hell Harold the Mange was, due to the fact that he is a deceptive, manipulative, compulsively scheming SOB, who probably clubs baby seals for fun in his free time. The guy is a world class … well, pick any pejorative and it would stick.

If you believed Harold—which isn’t generally a prudent or wise move—he was among the last of a nearly dead race of ancient Dwarves, called the
Cragwier
. Once upon a time, and long, long ago—as legend holds—the Cragwier played a pivotal role in creating the pocket dimension, which, overtime, gave birth to the Hub itself. Now, Harold was a liar, thief, sometime charlatan, and not somebody you’d want to turn your back on. Not for a minute. But about the whole Cragwier
thing … well, I sort of believed him. Harold doesn’t have a lot of talent, but he is good at three things: getting information, finding rare treasures (a Dwarvin impulse, if you ask me), and manipulating the Ether and the Ways.

His whole cavernous home, filled with shelves, cases, and metal file cabinets full of shit, was a personal pocket dimension Harold had created. The damn place was a vault and a nearly impenetrable fortress, existing within the Ether—the spiritual realm containing all known dimensions—but outside of the Hub. This place didn’t exist in the world and it only had the single access point which Harold created to allow customers to come and go. Harold can manipulate the Ways, not an easy thing to do. It takes either access to god-like amounts of energy or a special talent.

Harold sure as shit didn’t have the former—I wouldn’t dare bust down his front door if that were the case—but he had scary good talent when it came to the Ways.

If I could get Harold to play ball, I could kill a couple of birds with one large stone. Harold could not only give me the goods about Arjun, he could also create a custom made, pimped-out portal. One which would dump me right into Arjun’s super-secret, highly villainous, Legion of Doom headquarters. I didn’t have a ton of options and I needed Harold, but he didn’t know that. Exactly the way I intended to keep things.

Basic economics was at work here, the law of supply and demand in full swing: he had something I needed and if he knew how bad I needed him, he would charge me through the nose. The way to undercut the market was to make it seem like I had loads of options.

So, I pulled out my behemoth, widow-maker pistol—not that Harold was married, let’s be real here, the dude has weird metal spider legs—and leveled the cannon right at Harold’s flabby chest. Tip: sometimes gun-barrel diplomacy is the best way to proceed, though resorting to such overt thuggery should never be your normal tactic.

“Yancy,” he croaked, spreading a wide, nervous grin. “It feels like ages—how have you been?” His voice was a low gurgling thing, the sound of a great bullfrog speaking through human lips. I responded by stepping forward, closing the distance between us, keeping my iron trained and unwavering on his torso.

He took a few anxious scuttles back, folding in his shoulders as though he hoped to implode and disappear from the sights of my piece. His heart was beating fast, I could hear it, and his labored breathing filled the cavern. His eyes darted about, searching for an exit or maybe a weapon.

“Listen, I know things ended poorly last time …” he said apologetically. “It’s the legs, partly made from a real spider, you know.” He scuttled a few more paces back into his lair. “Technomancy has some dangerous and often unpredictable side-effects—you know that—I can’t be blamed for my actions.”

I strode forward, ever nearer.

“L-l-loook,” he stammered, “we can make a deal. Things needn’t get messy. You must need something since you haven’t pulled the trigger.”

I squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, not enough to fire—there was quite a bit of tension in the trigger mechanism—but enough for him to know things could get real bad, real quick.

The fine art of negotiation for you. I am something of a diplomat.

“You tried to eat me,” I said, raising my hand canon level with his prodigiously pudgy head as I drew closer.

“And you knocked down my door, but it’s best not to point fingers.” He dry washed his hands, as if to say
what’s done is done
. His words actually gave me pause for a moment,
I’d knocked down his door?
Seriously?

“Harold, those are not comparable situations—I mean we’re talking apples and oranges here. On the one hand, permanent bodily damage, irreparable maiming, and possible death—gruesome death. One the other hand, a door. Get your priorities straight.”

“I do have them straight,” he muttered darkly, and a part of me wanted to pull back the hammer, just to see him squirm, but I resisted. I needed Harold. “But it’s all water under the bridge, Yancy. We can both be reasonable men. Let’s talk about this.”

I waited, letting the tension build between us. It was a calculating move, meant to make him think I was the one doing him a favor by, you know, not killing him. The tension was clawing at him—great blobs of sweat beaded on his head and rolled down his face.

“Alright,” I said, “let’s talk.” I released the slight tension in the spring and dropped the weapon to my side, glad I didn’t have to hold the damn gun up any longer. Heavy son of a bitch—I was already feeling it in my shoulder. I relaxed, just a little.

Which was when Harold flew at me like a pudgy, white wrecking ball. He may have been inordinately fat, but his mechanical appendages let him move like a friggin’ hawk with a jetpack. His weight slammed into me, knocking me back a step or two, while his arms sought to enfold me. I wrestled feebly, caught unaware and unprepared for this encounter. Harold isn’t known for his bravery, courage, or physical prowess, and I’d expected him to cower and give over with only a little intimidation. But that’s the thing about playing the thug card: if you play it too
well, sell it too much, there’s a good chance you’ll put your target’s back against a wall.

When things—human or otherwise—are backed against a wall, with few options and death looming over them, they’re liable to respond in all sorts of unexpected, out-of-character, and often violent ways. I know this from a lot of personal experience, though usually I’m the one against the wall. It was like fat, plodding Harold the Mange had morphed into a crazy, nasty-ass, Honey Badger.

I flailed my arms weakly, but with no luck. His upper body was surprisingly strong, and he had little trouble wrapping me up and tossing me deeper into his cavernous lair. I extended my arms and tucked my body into a wheel, rolling over the uneven floor, and back upright.

I came to my feet and pivoted, holstering my gun in the process. Harold had his blood up now and I couldn’t risk accidentally shooting him in a tussle—as much as it pained me, I needed him if I was going to nab Arjun. I’d played a bluff and lost.

By the time I turned around, Harold was on me, filling my vision with his bulk. I lashed out with a solid punch, but he reared back with a metallic hiss and my fist sunk uselessly into his heavily padded mid-section.

I danced away, not wanting to stay still long enough to give him a chance to land a blow.

He lashed out with a metal leg, its wicked point aimed toward my knee but I weaved out of the way, darting first out and then in for another quick strike to the torso. The blows didn’t faze him in the least, there was too much mass between his vital organs and me. My strikes would never do any real, fight-ending, damage.

I’d need to tag him with a couple of solid hits to the head to end this scuffle, but those metal legs of his made that increasingly unlikely. Every time I moved in for a strike, he shifted out of reach with ease, and I simply didn’t have the height I needed to mess with his grill. Throwing down with a good ol’ fashion bout of fisticuffs obviously wasn’t going to get ‘er done.

He lashed out again with another metal appendage. I dodged without too much trouble, but another of his legs caught me smack in the stomach like a hammer. The blow was a serious one, momentarily picking me up off my feet while simultaneously emptying my lungs of air, like a couple of popped balloons. I stumble-walked, tripped over something, and fell into one of the bookshelves lining the wall. My head took a brutal bump, but I hardly noticed it as I wheezed, trying desperately to find some oxygen.

Harold the Mange was kicking my ass. The hell was happening here?

I could never, ever let anyone find out about this. Never. It felt like getting beat up by the supernatural version of Steve Urkel. In my defense, however, it’d been a rough couple of days. The way I figured it, there was a big asterisk next to this throw-down.

After a moment, I shook off the hit and reoriented on Harold. He hadn’t closed the distance, but instead was looking at me with a mixture of uncertainty and gloating pride. The conflict on his face was clear: should he play things safe and flee while he had the chance or press his advantage and kick my mage-ass right out the front door? Stupid move. He should have done one or the other, but waiting around was gonna cost him. Sometimes no decision is the worst decision you can make. Now that I had a little breathing room and time, victory was a sure thing.

I drew in Vis, creating a quick and dirty little construct. Force, raw and unseen, whipped out at knee level, a single strand of power as thick as my wrist. Harold couldn’t see the blow coming and thus stood staring on as my working crashed into his metal frame like a tractor-trailer. His legs rushed out from beneath him with a screech and his enormous torso toppled forward liked a demolished building.

Fear and panic raced across his face in turns, his eyes bulging as he hurtled toward the ground. He slammed into the rough and dusty stone floor with a dull thud that rattled the earth beneath me; the tremendous momentum from the fall rolled him onto his back.

I wasn’t about to waste my advantage like he had, so I gained my feet, darted right—deeper into the cave—and conjured a set of stone shackles which clamped down over his wrists and neck, securing him to the floor.

I rubbed gingerly at the back of my noggin, a small goose egg forming where my head had so kindly been introduced to the bookcase. It hurt and I wanted to punch Harold a couple of times.

“Ouch! Uncalled for Harold—not okay.” I prodded the bump gently. “That’s not the way you treat a guest, turd-bag.”

“You’re not a guest,” he said from the floor, his breathing coming in great labored pulls. “You’re a former enemy and a house invader pointing a giant, highly menacing weapon at me.”