Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (30 page)

Arjun never stopped chanting, but I could see an apology in his face, regret in his eyes. He was
going to kill her—his arms were unwavering as he held the knife waiting to sink it home—but he didn’t want to. To him this was a death of necessity, but nothing more. In that moment, I could almost understand him. His was a unique brand of crazy, but maybe once upon a time, in a place called Nam, I’d taken a sip of that brew. So I could get it. Almost.

The knife plunged downward, a lightning strike, but not faster than my thoughts. In the moment I saw his hand move, I simply let my gateway unravel. I curled myself into a ball, though I didn’t have the strength to roll my back toward the blast area. I was way too close to the gateway for comfort.

I had enough power left to form a single defensive shield: the shimmering blue working—meant to absorb the blast impact and deflect incoming debris—sprang into life. I could see Sammy’s face tinged blue by the shield surrounding her. She’d be okay, and for me … well, I’d have a great seat for the fireworks.

The explosion rocked the room, concrete and stone flying through the air in a spray of deadly shrapnel. Huge clods of dirt and rock filled the air, a cloud of smaller projectiles swept through the room like a sandstorm. Little jagged pieces of stone bit into my exposed skin like a swarm of horseflies. Huge chunks of floor smacked into my ribs, chest, and face—the latter resulting in a busted lip and right eyebrow. If I did survive my own attack, I’d have the mother of all shiners to show for it—and I’d be responsible. I wouldn’t even be able to say
you should see the other guy
, because I would be the other guy.

Arjun let out a startled squawk and the Rakshasa uttered a harsh bark as the blast lifted them into the air. Hadn’t been ready for my exploding floor trick, I was sure. A large chunk of concrete—maybe a couple hundred pounds or so—landed on Arjun’s stomach with a thick meaty,
squish
, effectively pinning him to the floor. If the blast hadn’t killed him, it wouldn’t be long before the stone did.

The Rakshasa lost one gray-skinned leg in the explosion, but the detonation still hadn’t killed it. The son of a bitch should have been the consistency of pudding—shit, but those things are tough. It was okay. I hadn’t counted on the explosion doing all the heavy lifting anyways. Best not to put all your eggs into one basket, as they say.

The floor imploded with a great
whoof
—the temporary gateway I’d created inhaled the particulate cloud swirling about the air in a terrible tornado of motion. It also inhaled the Rakshasa, who’d landed a few feet away from the epicenter of the vortex. The thing clawed and fought to keep from falling into the abyss, but it was a useless effort. Rakshasa may be as tough as a gang of Tijuana Federales on a power trip, but they don’t weigh
that much more than a couple of full-grown men.

The Rakshasa was too close to the portal and didn’t have the mass to keep its feet—err, well,
foot
technically. It let out one last terrible howl as it vanished through the portal and disappeared, hopefully into some dark and terrible region of the Ways where it would die in some utterly unfortunate and amusing way. Maybe food for a Dara-Naric.

Arjun had been thrown clear of the gravitational pull of the opening and the two-hundred-pound boulder nailing his ass to the ground like a giant paperweight helped him stay firmly put. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. I hadn’t been nearly as close as Arjun or the Rakshasa—evident by the fact that I was still breathing and had all my limbs intact and what have you—but I could feel my body slowly sliding toward the portal.

With a groan, I rolled onto my belly, sprawling out in order to create more surface friction and hopefully find something to grab hold of. I only needed to hang on for another twenty seconds, tops, then the portal would stabilize and shut down. My belly-flop maneuver definitely bought me a few seconds, but I didn’t think it would be enough. I weakly floundered about with my arms and knees, digging in with the toes of my boots, frantically trying to low crawl my way to safety. The effort was enormous, the pain in my back a throbbing fire running up and down my spine, the ice spike in my leg a lancing jolt of frozen hell.

A crushing weight landed on top of me, avoiding the knife by a few inches, but creating a wave of pain so intense it was hard to think. McGoon had thrown his weight onto me and together our combined mass halted the slide. Five or so seconds later, a sharp whip crack in the air told me the portal had stabilized. It would close down shortly. Yraeta’s goon had saved my life, how about that? I found myself acutely aware that had I killed him back in that alleyway in New Orleans I might well be dead now. The irony was not lost on me.

The thug rolled off me after the threat passed. I guess you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you do
get what you need.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” he growled in my ear. “We’ll get you out of here, get you patched up. It’ll be okay. You take it easy now, buddy.”

My eyes tracked to where Arjun lay. Morse was standing over him like the Reaper of Death himself, a Glock pointed right at his face. Morse turned his gaze to Yraeta’s daughter, no longer obscured by my blue force shield.

“Close your eyes, sweetie. I don’t want you to see this. Then we’ll take you home to your mommy and daddy. Okay?” She didn’t nod or smile, but she did take her hands away from her scabbed knees and pressed them tightly against her eyes. I would’ve thanked Morse for it if I could have moved or spoken.

“This is for Danny and Jodi,” Morse said to Arjun. “For Hawk and Jamie, Boston Paul and Big Rob, for Skinner and Angie, and for the mother-fuckin’ Saints, bitch.” He pulled the trigger twice, a quick double tap, which left no doubt in my mind about Arjun’s fate.

Some part of me took satisfaction in the outcome, but only a small part. I wanted to hate Arjun, but I couldn’t, not now. He was a bad guy, no doubt, but not the villain I’d made him out to be in my mind. No one casts themselves as the monster in their own story. Arjun had died trying to do the right thing, even if he’d lost sight of what was
actually
right a long, long way back. He needed killing like a psychotic tiger on steroids needs killing.

I didn’t relish his death. I’d seen enough bloodshed to last me a good long while and small part of me wished things could have turned out differently.

You can’t always get what you want.

I closed my eyes, too tired to do anything else, too tired to care anymore.

THIRTY-TWO:

R & R

I woke up on a squeaky, spring-filled, twin mattress in a small bedroom with a generic painting of a sailboat on the adjacent wall. Soft light trickled in through the curtained window: early evening, though I didn’t know which day. The nightstand next to me held a glass of water with a bendy straw and a small plate full of saltines. My stomach promptly informed me it was both angry and hungry, but I couldn’t muster the motivation to sit up and eat.

Everything hurt, everything: my face, back, ass, arms and legs—my left calf was screaming like a lunatic in a padded cell. I kind of felt like screaming too.

I wasn’t dead, I hurt way too much for that—plus, I imagine Heaven has to have a better waiting room. And if I were in Hell … well, surely upper management would be a little more imaginative.

It was just Greg’s spare bedroom and I was alive and recovering, which was a good thing. Except it didn’t feel good, everything hurt so much that being dead might’ve been the better option. Though I’ve heard Hell isn’t exactly all sunshine and picnic baskets either.

I rummaged around on the night table and fumbled the water glass to my mouth, taking a few small sips through the straw. My throat was awfully dry and the water felt cool, soothing. I made quite the racket doing it and spilled about half the glass onto my chest and sheets. Friggin’ coordination was toast.

“You’re awake.” Greg came into the room and took a seat on an uncomfortable looking rocking chair in the corner.

“Yeah I’m awake. How could you possibly expect me to sleep on this mattress? Did you steal this thing from the singles barracks when you retired?”

“See you haven’t lost any of your charm,” he replied. “I was hoping for some slight brain damage—maybe something in the way of a good lobotomy … How’re you feeling? I’ve got some Valium or Percocet for you if you need to take the edge off.”

“Sweet, sweet, dear man,” I said, “surely you are an angel of mercy. Maybe this
is
Heaven—Valium, please, lots of Valium.” He got up from his chair, which squeaked on the floorboards, left the room, and came back a few minutes later with an orange prescription bottle in hand.

“They’re four hundred milligrams each. You want three?”

I nodded my head and regretted it. “Before I get all doped up and loopy. How’s Sammy—did she make it out alright?”

He snorted.

“Yeah, she’s fine—scared and shaken up, but fine. Practically in love with you, I’d wager. Morse and Sanderson—”

“Who’s Sanderson?” I asked.

“The big guy from Yraeta’s crew—the one who saved your life.”

“Aw, McGoon. Sanderson, really? Such a plain name for such a giant, ugly, bag of meat. I’ll have to send him a thank you card. Okay, okay, I’m tracking. Go on.”

“I was saying, Morse and
McGoon
are fine too, they saw the whole thing. Saw you blow up Arjun and the Rakshasa and save the girl. I think the whole bunch of ‘em are going to join the Yancy Lazarus Fan Club. Makes me just about sick.”

“Gee, Greg, don’t sugar coat anything now. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

“Don’t even get me started,” he said. “The whole lot of ‘em are all gushy about you. Morse said you’re welcome to stop by The Full House anytime—they’ll always have a seat open for you at the card table if you’re interested. His words.”

“And Yraeta?” I asked.

“Says he’s in your debt—like I said, that little girl is in love with you. Wouldn’t be surprised if she gets an action-hero poster of you on her wall.”

“How about you, Greg? You doing okay? Head healing up alright?”

“I’m fine, princess.” He subconsciously ran a finger over the faint pink scar on his head. “No need to worry about me … but, thanks for saving me. Next time, though, how about you work your damn hoodoo so the car just doesn’t hit us, huh? It’s gonna take me a year to get the Fairlane back up and runnin’.”

“You’re welcome, Greg.”

“Eat a few crackers,” he said, “take the Valium, and sleep more. I’ll be back to check on you later. Need anything else, your highness?”

“Yeah,” I said. “When you go out can you grab me some ribs? From Frank’s, too. I don’t want any cheap stuff. And I could use a little music, I’m thinking ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.’”

He rendered me a mock bow, a serf before his liege, before walking out.

A few minutes later, Otis Redding’s smoky, mellow voice filled the house—Greg was playing the actual LP, not some CD or YouTube clip. Genuine vinyl. I sipped my water, downed my pills, and let the music pull me out into the waters of rest—alone at last with some good tunes. About time.

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About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay  … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep. Strange Magic is my debut novel and the first in a planned series of stories featuring Yancy Lazarus. Hope you enjoyed it.

Dedication

For my Pop, the truest Rambler I know …