Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) (37 page)

I turned to the side and held out a hand. “Flashbang,” I whispered. She nodded and quickly retrieved a matte black cylinder from her waist. “After the pop I’ll go left, you roll right.” I turned back to the front and crept up just a few more feet, keeping low—almost in a crawl. I didn’t want to crest the stairs—didn’t want to skyline myself like that without having a little cover. Pro-tip for you: stairs are a bad place to be pinned down in a gunfight. The baddie at the top will have excellent concealment and a nearly unrestricted field of fire, while you’re stuck with your ass just hanging in the wind.

I pulled the pin, depressed the spoon, and tossed the stun grenade into the connecting chamber.

After a four count, an oddly muted
whomp
and a flash of light split the air, and then I was up and moving, nearly running, though still trying to keep a low profile. I ducked through the doorway, and hooked left, scanning the room as I moved, right hand cradling the crook, left hand out, ready to unleash a javelin of air or a friction shield. I immediately saw the scorched remains of the flashbang inside a small bubble of dark purple: a shield construct rendering the grenade useless.

I kept moving, because at this point turning back just wasn’t an option. I have to admit, though, that I wasn’t even remotely ready for the sight that greeted my eyes. I dunno what I’d been expecting exactly … another ice cavern maybe or some creepy-ass dungeon out of dark and dangerous medieval Europe.

Instead, the room was surprisingly warm and had a neat, almost sterile look, which more closely resembled the bridge of the original
Enterprise
. The floor was white linoleum, bright and clean, the walls looked like freshly installed sheetrock. Banks of sophisticated looking computers and monitors lined the far and back walls, manned by a handful of ice gnomes—though these were wearing lab coats instead of the typical battle attire.

The terminal screens showed surveillance feeds of not only the subterranean cavern we were in, but also video shots of greater
Thurak-Tir
: interior shots of the royal hall, where Gyre-Carlin, Queen of Winter, held court. Shit, looked like he even had video feeds of almost all the fae courts:
Glimmer-Tir
, home to King Oberon and Queen Titania of Summer.
Earrach-Tir
, the capital of Freyr the Green Man and the Spring Court. He even had video footage of the Black Lodge—the massive mead-hall of Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae. Only the Autumn Court seemed to be absent.

The hell was going on here? This wasn’t just some friggin’ bad guy hideaway, this was a nerve center for some kind of major operation.

Shelton sat right in the middle of the room, lounging casually in a big swiveling chair built right into the floor, featuring a fancy-ass, built in computer monitor, and a host of control mechanisms fitted into the chair’s armrests. He seemed completely unconcerned by our appearance.

At least Shelton looked more or less the way I’d expected. He still resembled a bag of old dog shit—dried, pasty, and strangely desiccated—with fallout-green eyes sporting vertical feline slit irises. And for all the tech surrounding him, Shelton’s wardrobe seemed a couple centuries out of date. He wore black leggings with soft-soled black shoes, a puffy white shirt with a red doublet over the top, and a friggin’ fur-lined cape. Lamest evil mage costume of all time.

The overall tableau was both shockingly disturbing and a little embarrassing: an ancient mage, dressed like a D&D character, in an ultramodern monitoring center that looked suspiciously like Trekkie heaven, surrounded by dumpy ice gnomes in lab coats. Just wrong on so many levels—how had my life come to this point? Jeez.

“You’re on gnome patrol,” I called back to Ferraro as I approached the man who had formally been Randy Shelton, but who was now something much worse.

THIRTY-FOUR:

Show Time

Randy stood up and smiled. “We didn’t expect you to survive the metus. You surprise us.” He frowned, eyes narrowing at the corners. “We don’t like surprises. No we don’t. But it is of little consequence, we shall crush you underfoot like the bug you are. Winter shall have his crook back and we can resume—”

Taking a page out of Ferraro’s playbook, I raised the crook and unleashed a blast of frozen air before he could finish monologuing. Last time I’d let him finish blathering, the cops had pulled up and arrested my ass. Not making that mistake again. The frozen air—a swirling mass of blue—splintered and solidified into a small blizzard of golf-ball-sized hailstones. A few pelted into the Lich, who looked entirely surprised before he managed to wave a hand and conjure a wavering purple shield of Vis.

Boom-Boom
—I glanced right toward Ferraro, just in time to see a stocky gnome tumbled over backwards, lab coat burning and blackening. She pulled free her Glock and took aim, smooth, quick, deadly. Another ice gnome toppled, but there were more still—she charged in, shotgun dangling from a three-point sling, Glock in one hand, steel-knuckles in the other.

Couldn’t spare her much focus though—Shelton was already on the move, suddenly blinking out of existence before reappearing near the back wall. With a swipe of his hand, a beam of purple light thick as my leg burst from his palm. I pulled Vis through the crook, weaves of air and water coalesced into a shimmering shield of blue—a force field, though imbued with the extra strength of winter’s power. The beam hit like a wrecking ball, knocking me back a few steps, even through the shield before ricocheting off and careening into the wall nearest me. A smoking crater bloomed in the sheetrock beyond.

I darted left, away from Ferraro and the ice gnomes, better to try and keep our mage duel well away from them. I could just imagine what would’ve happened if that blast of purple had collided with Ferraro instead of the wall. I flicked my left hand: a silver wall of fog erupted from the floor, a quick and dirty smoke screen, before I unleashed a barrage of ice spikes—thin, dagger-sharp projectiles whipped through the fog, aimed at the last place Randy had been. Hopefully Randy wouldn’t even see the attack coming.

But no howl of pain followed, no squeal of agony to tell me I’d scored a hit. Then, I felt the rush of air and dropped, a friggin’ sword sliced through the space my head had occupied a moment before. And this was a real sword, not at all like my construct of air—a single-handed weapon, called a
spada da lato
(everyone gets to be a geek about something, okay), with a thin double-edged blade and a flashy brass handguard called a basket-hilt, which swooped around his hand with elaborate twists and flourishes of metal.

I had absolutely no idea where the damn thing had come from—I’m sure I would’ve noticed a sword. I also had no clue how he’d managed to get behind me, no one was that fast or that quiet. The problem was that Shelton had a thousand plus friggin’ years’ worth of Vis knowhow in his head—I literally had no clue what the mage was capable of.

The sword slashed again. I managed to interpose the crook just in time, handling the staff like I’d handle my summoned sword. But it wasn’t the same, not even close; the length, size, and weight were all wrong. I’ve done a little Bojutsu here and there, but it’s certainly not my specialty. Shelton’s almost-rapier flicked back and forth—attack, slash, reset. I managed to parry the blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each, while carefully backing away, trying to gain some breathing room. He feinted left. I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering the crook into place, only to find Shelton’s sword slashing at my arm. My coat kept my limb blessedly attached to my torso, but I was ill prepared when the flash of green zipped from his free hand and smashed into my chest like a wrecking ball of Vis-conjured power.

The chainmail absorbed some of the shock from the blow, but it was still more than enough to lift my ass into the air and send me hurtling into the far wall. I collided with a computer terminal, sharp edges gouging into my ribs and spine before I tumbled gracelessly to the floor. Dammit! My back screamed a protest, my left shoulder seemed to insist that it was done working for the week, and my head throbbed as if I’d just taken a solid one-two combination from Mike Tyson.

The crook filled my head with an image: bulky creatures of solid snow and jagged ice. The abominable snowmen Old Man Winter had summoned the first time I’d been down here. Turns out, they weren’t Old Man Winter’s personal lackeys, they were servants of the crook, and, thus, mine to call at will. The crook pulsed inside my mind, providing me with a hazy knowledge about how to bring the shambling things forth. I pointed the hooked end of the crook toward the ground and pumped Vis into the staff—a liquid beam of white, so cold it felt hot, smashed into the floor, obliterating the linoleum, and pulling up a small mountain of living snow and ice from the cavern below.

The abominable coalesced into being, shrugging massive shoulders and stretching out icy arms thick as trees. Then it rushed forward like an avalanche, taking clumsy but powerful swipes at Shelton. The Lich was too fast by half, easily ducking under a series of big haymakers, then casually sidestepping a massive overhand blow. Black fire, reinforced with twisting beams of thin, spiked something or other—weaves I’d literally never seen before—erupted along Shelton’s sword blade. The weapon became a blur in his hands, flashing to and fro in quick slashes and daring thrusts. Chunks of my hired help fell away in torrents, snow melting in the heat of a small black sun.

So maybe, one abominable wasn’t enough muscle to get the job done, but how would Randy fare against two? I drew in more power—another beam erupted from the crook’s end, the floor rumbled underfoot as another Frosty sprouted from the ground like some bizarre ice sculpture. I wanted to cackle madly … I, Yancy Lazarus, had
minions
. I’m the guy who always gets stuck fighting minions, always; the shoe had never been on the other foot before and it felt pretty badass. I wanted to scream something appropriately melodramatic, like maybe:
Go forth my doom beasts, slay my foes … Bwahahaha.
I didn’t, of course, because how embarrassing and tacky would that be—but it was still really cool.

My second frozen goon advanced on Shelton, its great footfalls shaking the room. Now would be a perfect time to join in the fray and start slinging some power or lead, but suddenly I found myself unable to do much more than hold the walking, breathing constructs together. I’d never used Vis in such a capacity—couldn’t have without the crook’s aid and guidance—but it was
far
more taxing than I’d expected. Check, controlling summoned minions looks badass, but isn’t quite as easy as it looks. Good to know.

And even with two creatures to square off against, Randy seemed to be holding his own just fine. My first minion wasn’t looking so hot: huge pieces of its torso were missing, it was short an arm, and was reeling drunkenly around on one leg—the other lay in a pile of powder off to the side. The second creature tried to flank Randy, circling around to his back, but the Lich was one helluva competent swordsman. He readjusted with ease, constantly maneuvering to keep the two snowmen to his front, then using his superior speed to dart inside their guard and back out again.

After another few moments of swordplay, the Lich casually shot inside the hobbling snowman’s guard, and decapitated the beast with a flick of his blade.

The creature collapsed under its own weight, just a pile of snow and ice, as the Vis holding him together unraveled and returned to the crook. The Lich moved like a cobra, striking out with inhuman speed; he disappeared for the briefest moment before reappearing behind my still standing minion. His sword was a whirlwind of fluid motion: hacking, slashing, cutting, slicing. In seconds Frosty Two was down for the count, permanently.

The son of a bitch was playing with me. He didn’t need the sword—he could’ve incinerated my help without a thought … asshole was showboating.

Shelton grinned at me, a feral snarl. “We grow weary of this game.” He nonchalantly tossed his sword away: a strange construct of shifting purple light—equal part magnetic force, earthen power, and more of the thin, spiked energy I didn’t understand—ripped open the air in a jagged slash and simply swallowed the sword before blinking closed. I’d never seen anything like it, not even close. And Shelton seemed to know it, a look of smug, self-satisfaction painting his face. Guy was really starting to get under my skin.

Even with the crook, I felt thoroughly outclassed: a clumsy kid banging on a piano with a hammer compared to Beethoven conducting the Ninth Symphony. He wasn’t really throwing around that much power—with the crook, I was working with far more raw Vis—but he was much, much better than I was. His techniques were intricate and nearly flawless. I couldn’t beat him, no way. James had been right, this guy was out of my league. The best I could hope for was to survive for a while.

An army of ice spears sprouted from the ground below me, all glistened the same fallout green of Shelton’s eyes—I responded without a second thought. I dove forward, toward Shelton and over the spikes; simultaneously, the crook flashed, and a wave of unseen force rolled out, shattering the javelins before they could touch me. I thrust out my left hand and launched a score of small, fast-moving force-spheres. They ate up the distance between Shelton and I in an instant, but he moved even faster, wavering for a moment before vanishing from sight. The force-spheres careened into a computer terminal, the screen exploded out in a shower of glass and metal.

Randy appeared a second later—or, I guess, it would be more accurate to say that
ten
Randys appeared a second later, each one as identical as the last, surrounding me in a loose circle. One must’ve been the real deal and the other nine? Perfect illusions. Fully functioning simulacrum. Yeah, outclassed didn’t even begin to cover it.

The crook called out to me—
Let go,
it whispered,
give in
. That was a terrible idea, the worst … if I gave into the crook, there’s a good chance I’d be no better than Shelton or Old Man Winter in the end. But it was also strangely alluring … all that power waiting just outside of my grasp. Shelton had a powerful ally in his corner and without the aid of the crook in mine I wasn’t sure whether I’d have the strength to stop him.