Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) (33 page)

“Of course I can warn Sigu and Ben. But finding your man? What you’re asking for … it will be a costly endeavor. If there really is someone in the Guild orchestrating these events, then poking around like this could make me some serious enemies. But I can find Shelton—I’m James bloody Sullivan.” He nodded then took another drink. “Since you’re already asking me to move mountains, is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like the Hope Diamond, perhaps? Or the Crown jewels? Why, maybe you’d like me to lobby the Elder Council and nominate you for the position of Arch-Mage?”

“I asked for your help, not your sass,” I replied. “But yeah, actually, there is something else. You need to start looking for who leaked the ring in the first place. My source says whoever did this is looking to do much, much worse—turn themselves into a god, break apart all the old alliances. Shake shit up in a big way. No friggin’ clue who it is, but they’re high in the Guild.”

“Who is this source?” he asked. “If I’m going to stick my neck out, I’d at least like to know whose word I’m acting on.”

I dithered for a moment. I knew Lady Fate was trying to do the right thing, but supernatural beings like her were often regarded with more than a little suspicion by magi—usually for good reason. They could be sly, fickle, and occasionally deceitful … maybe more than
occasionally
. Fine, almost always. So, if I told James, there was a damn good chance he’d walk away. Shit, there was a damn good chance he’d arrest me. But Lady Fate had rescued me from prison, helped me get my powers back, and had treated fairly with me so far. She seemed genuinely on the level. Time to roll the dice.

“Lady Fate,” I said finally.

He laughed, just a little bark. “The Crone? Yes, I suppose she might involve herself in something like this. She’s appointed you Hand of Fate in this matter?” he asked.

I nodded.

“And you trust her?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’ve never been the best judge of character.” He paused and readjusted his tie. “Let’s say, just for a moment, that I believe you … where would I start? I’m an enforcer, not an investigator. I much prefer to leave the gumshoeing to the judges.”

“Start by narrowing your suspect pool down,” Ferraro said. “The perpetrator will have to be someone with power and access—means and opportunity. Though I don’t know how large the Guild is, there can’t realistically be many people with the credentials to get the ring out if it’s as dangerous as you both make it sound. That should cut your list of potential targets down significantly. And don’t forget to account for people you might normally overlook—maintenance workers, cleaning crews, law enforcement officials. All of them are potential suspects. Probably, you’re looking for someone that only has a moderate amount of political clout, otherwise they’d likely be making a more overt power grab. This is subtle, which suggests the suspect doesn’t have the muscle to move in the open. Not yet.”

I stared at her, my mouth open just a little too far. “Damn,” I said, “what she said.”

“What?” she replied, a frown of disapproval dancing across her face. “I’m part of the FBI for a good reason. I’m very good at my job.”

“Any other tips, Sherlock?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, more or less ignoring me, “once you’ve narrowed down your suspect pool to those who had the means to commit the crime, then look for motive. Who would actually
want
to commit the crime—who might benefit from it.”

“That’s the problem,” James said. “I can easily figure out who might have been able to
do
the thing, but I can’t, for the life of me, think of a compelling reason why someone would
want
to do this. I remember Koschei—bringing him down was one of my first major assignments with the Fist, we have a bit of history. Nightmare doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Well,” I said, “if whoever is pulling the strings behind this mess wants to rule the world, then he’s gonna need a shit-ton of loyal muscle to do it, right? Shelton was an outcast with a chip on his shoulder bigger than the friggin’
Titanic
. So if someone gave a guy like that power and a chance to belong to something, he’d create a loyal, capable underling and a powerful ally later on.”

“That’s true,” Ferraro said, “but why Shelton specifically? There’s probably a large pool of potential candidates that our suspect could have chosen from, but he picked Shelton. There must be a reason for it.”

She paused, drumming her fingers against the table. “Shelton was unbalanced,” she continued, “angry at the Junior Council—so giving him the ring was like giving him a loaded gun, one that was pointed at the members of the council that rejected him. Whoever is behind this had to know exactly what Shelton would do, whom Shelton would target. Which means that either Ben or Kozlov was likely the actual target and Shelton just a convenient means to an end. So look for people who’d have a good reason to hurt one or both of them.”

A little light bulb flicked to life in my head. “Shit, I think you’re right. But I bet the motive isn’t personal, or at least not solely personal.” I shifted in the booth to look at Ferraro. “You wouldn’t know this since you’re not a member of the Guild, but the Junior Council can propose legislation. They also act as the tie-breaking vote when the Elder Council can’t come to a consensus.” I looked back at James and bounced my hand on the table—this was the right track, I could feel it in my gut. “So take a hard look at folks who would’ve benefited politically by having a change in the Junior Guild membership. Maybe someone on the Elder Council is trying to stack the Junior Council with lackeys that’ll give him an edge somehow.”

“But what about Old Man Winter?” James asked. “How does he fit into the whole sordid mess?”

I tapped my chin. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to figure that out too. When Shelton went rogue, he immediately reached out to form an alliance with Winter. But from everything I’ve heard about the kid so far, that just doesn’t fit. This kid wants revenge and he wants to belong, he’s not after power. So why make a deal with Winter? That must be an order from someone else. No question about it. Damned if I can figure out exactly how he fits into the bigger picture … Still, I guess you could also look for people who might stand to benefit by a power shift in the Winter Court. Kind of a thin lead, but it’s better than nothing.”

James picked up his glass and took another drink before squeezing his eyes shut tight for a second. “God, maybe I should’ve been taking notes. Are you sure you don’t want to take this to the Guild?” he asked one last time. “This feels … big. Maybe too big.”

“No,” I said, “just us. It’s safer that way. Can you do it?”

He sighed again. “I can get you a location for Shelton—someone out there must know something and I’ll get them to talk. As for the rest”—he raised his hands and shrugged—“well, I’ll do my damnedest.”

“Hey, that’s all I can ask for.”

He snorted. “You’re asking quite a lot, actually. What will you do in the meantime? Back to your dewdropper ways—leaving everyone else to do your work?”

“Har har, asswad. Real funny.” I sat for a moment—what were we going to do, what would our next step be? “No,” I said after a time, “I think we’ll keep our heads down, get a little shuteye, and stay far away from anyone in the Guild. We’ll pay a visit to the Farm—get ready to kick some wrinkly, old, Lich ass.”

THIRTY:

The Farm

Ferraro and I stepped out of a portal from the Hub and into the brisk morning air of a Colorado winter. Colorado can get downright frigid in the winter months, but there wasn’t much by way of snow—the constant influx of sunshine had kept the powdery piles mostly at bay and after Boston it practically seemed like a sauna. We were behind a Wal-Mart—
the
Wal-Mart, actually, since Gunnison was a one Wal-Mart town—and only a couple of miles from the El Camino. It was still early, four thirty in the afternoon, but already the light was starting to fade and die, casting orange and pink fingers into the sky.

Ferraro followed closely on my heels, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir—I hate the Hub. I stay away whenever I can.”

“Convenient for travel, though,” she said.

“There is that.” Convenience was the reason we opted for the Hub in the first place. After battling the metus up in Wyoming, I’d driven the Camino down to Gunnison while Ferraro had squared away the reports with her superiors—I’d done the trip in a single go, which had been a long slog—just over four hundred and fifty miles and about eight hours all told. It had been worth it, though, I couldn’t stomach the thought of my Camino sitting in some impound lot up in B.F.E.

Some things simply can’t be tolerated.

Plus, Gunnison was home to the Farm—my blot-hole, complete with my personal stash of weapons, armor, and other supernatural badassery acquired over the years, including the Crook of Winter. That puppy was currently locked away in a giant steel safe, lined with lead, coated with silver, and covered inside and out with binding sigils.

Damn crook was powerful as hell and as dangerous as a wild honey badger—
The
One Ring
dangerous even. But Lady Fate said I wouldn’t beat Randy without it, so there was nothing to do but snag the thing.

“So where to now?”

“I’ll hitch us a ride—we’ll pick up the Camino and then head over to the Farm.”

“The farm?” she asked.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

I walked away to flag down a ride before she could protest further, which she would, because she hated being kept in the dark. But, I didn’t want to talk about the Farm. I trusted her, but not that much. Shit, I didn’t trust
anyone
that much. Greg, one of my best regular human friends on the planet and an actual monster hunter, knew of its existence, but even he wasn’t privy to its location. I’d taken him a handful of times, but he’d always been incapacitated until we arrived. As much as I loved the guy, compulsion could make him talk even against his will. If only
I
knew the location, it was that much safer.

I spotted a good ol’ boy driving a huge red Ford, with an extended cab and no passengers present. I waved him down, summoning the Vis and weaving a very subtle glamour to make sure he noticed me. He pulled over—the engine idling like a friggin’ big rig—and rolled down his window.

“Hey ya, partner,” he said. “Y’all need a hand?” That was the glamour working, though the folks down here were a friendly lot, so there was a good chance he would’ve given us a lift even without the construct. I nodded and waved Ferraro over before heading around to the passenger side and hopping in.

The ride wasn’t long, ten minutes of fairly uncomfortable silence—I dropped just a little more glamor on the driver to give us some peace and quiet—couldn’t afford to have him asking questions or remembering us. We merged onto the US 50 W and got off a few minutes later, turning down a couple of side streets before finally pulling to a stop at a nearly empty parking lot outside of a bar called the Last Chance Grill. A tiny single-story place that was just on the wrong side of run down, with an auto body shop across the street and not much else around for miles. The bar and eatery was called the Last Chance for a damned good reason—it sat right on the edge of town and there wasn’t much for a good long ways thereafter.

After kindly thanking our generous driver, we slipped out of the Ford and headed for the Camino. I’d left the car parked in a long-term spot behind the bar, which normally wouldn’t have been the smartest idea, but I’d taken precautions. Underneath the car, sprayed-painted onto the parking lot asphalt was a sigil of power—a glamour ward, much like the one built into my jacket. This is always where I parked my baby when leaving it for a while.

The result? First, the spot always stays open, waiting just for me. And second, people just don’t take notice of the Camino when it’s parked there. They’d see it, sure, but somewhere in their brain that info would fade, be pushed to the background as unimportant, which meant she was sitting prime and ready, waiting just for me. No, I didn’t get teary-eyed, but it was close. Man did it do my heart good to see her again: 1986, midnight-blue, black camper shell, with a mean engine, and a sound system that would leave even the most stalwart rockers reeling.

Seeing her again was a little like coming home.

I fished out car keys, unlocked the driver side door, slid into the seat, and leaned over to unlock the passenger side. Ferraro slid in, took one look around, and rolled her eyes. “I almost forgot that you drive this ridiculous thing. I mean I knew consciously, but somehow I must have tried to repress the memory. An El Camino with a camper shell. So tacky. I’m surprised I didn’t find you sooner—can’t be many cars like this on the road.”

“I’ve got glamour sigils built into the door panels—makes the car much harder to spot. But before we go any further, let me just establish a few ground rules,” I said, caressing the steering wheel. “Let me say that you’re a special lady, Nicole.” The use of her first name seemed to catch her off guard just a little. “We’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but the Camino? We don’t say bad things about the Camino. This is a line in the sand for me. You don’t have to say anything nice, but refrain from saying anything mean or you’re gonna find yourself walking. Okay?”

She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re such a juvenile …
man
. Fine. Your car is wonderful. Amazing. Not ridiculous or childish at all.”

“Thank you,” I said, ignoring her obvious dig. “Now, before we go any further, I’m gonna need you to trust me. I’m gonna have to weave a construct over you—temporarily incapacitate you,
Sleeping Beauty
-style.”

“Excuse me?” She arched an eyebrow. “You want to put me in a temporary coma?” she asked, glaring at me like maybe I’d just asked her to chop off her arms and legs. “Absolutely not. Like you said, we’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but my mind? No, you don’t get to touch my mind. This is a line in the sand for me.”