Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two) (39 page)

“Yeah,” I continued, “just like I figured. Koschei won’t let you in the driver seat even for a second. Just a punk bitch, riding in the back seat while someone with a pair of balls takes care of business.”

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Take that back. We, we are …” Eye color now solidly brown, “I’m not a bitch. I can cut it—the Guild just couldn’t see it. Gatekeepers who think they have the right to pass judgment on me. No one could see it!” he shrieked, voice cracking.

“Couldn’t hack it,” I spat, ignoring him completely. “Reject. Washout. Pussy.”

“Shut up!” The spikes dug deeper into me, the pressure from the restraints themselves squeezing down like a boa constrictor, crushing the life from its prey. “I practiced for years. Worked harder than anyone.
Anyone
! It didn’t come easy for me, not like for you—naturally gifted. Pissing everything away. You’re the reject,” he said. “You’re the one who walked away because the pressure was too much.”

Even hanging against the wall, I managed to shrug my shoulder and feign a look of indifference. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, kid. I walked away because I
wanted
to. You never even had a chance to walk away. You didn’t even make it that far.”

“Exactly! I worked and worked, but never even got a chance. Years of practice. Countless hours poring over arcane texts and undergoing grueling mental exercises. And for what?” Tears ran down his too-thin cheeks. “For what? So two men could spend a day assessing my future and dismiss me out of hand with a rubber rejection stamp? Fuck that. It’s not right. I earned my spot.” He practically growled that last part.

His eyes flickered again, muddy-brown back to green, green to muddy brown, and back once more before finally settling on a striking shade of Chernobyl. “That is quite enough, you are troubling us,” said a voice that was definitely less Randy and more Koschei.

“Wait,” I said. “That’s it? This whole friggin’ thing is really just about some kid not handling rejection well? Are you friggin’ kidding me? Bunch of petty bullshit.”

The creature, which had once been Randy, but which was now both more and less, chuckled. “Mortals are so easy to manipulate, fool. It’s just desire. Hope, love, pettiness, jealousy. It does not matter. Any desire—no matter how noble or vile—unfettered from conscience can lead here,” he laughed and shed a wicked grin, a grin that said,
I win.
“Now, we will dispose of you before you can trouble us further.” He held out the crook, a ball of light—steel-gray and writhing like a ball of snakes—formed in the crook’s circular opening.

Boom!
The roar of Ferraro’s shotgun bit into the quiet, a great billow of fire ripped through the air as the Dragon breath shells released. The fire lapped over the surface of the crook, briefly flashing against Shelton’s hands and sleeves, before vanishing in the frosty air.

Thank God for evil baddies who just don’t know when to stick a sock in it.

The Lich turned his head, a petulant sneer pulling up one side of his mouth, showing chiseled teeth beneath.

“Idiot human,” he hissed. “You think a shotgun can undo us? We are Koschei the Deathless, eater of souls, Lord over death, wielder of the Crook of Winter. The mage couldn’t defeat us, and you think—”

Boom
. Man, these idiot villains never learn. I get it, gloating is fun, we all like to rub our victory into the noses of our enemies—often against our better judgment—but damn, you’d think at some point they’d just finish things quick. The shotgun blast didn’t do much by way of damaging Shelton, the flame didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
But
it did hit the crook.

Shelton raised the ancient fae weapon, the glowing orb still hanging suspended between the crook’s curve and its handle.

Then something amazing happened: the glowing orb of life-ending doom flickered, faltered, and
poofed
out of existence with a little sputter and a gasp of air. The whimper of a small fart. Randy looked at the crook as he floated, his face scrunched up in an expression of absolute curiosity.
What is this?
that look seemed to ask. Then he plummeted to the ground, clutching his stomach as he shrieked and howled in agony, rolling first one way then the other. The crook lay off to the side, completely forgotten. I noticed that the crook left a dark smear on the floor where it’d fallen. Blood.

More precisely, my freshly thawed,
diseased
blood.

It was all over Randy’s bare hands.

Back at the Farm, I’d coated the crook in the contaminated blood I’d taken while in Wyoming—the stuff I’d been planning to make an antidote with—then flash froze it into place. The crook was naturally cold enough that I hadn’t been worried about the blood thawing from its surface, but the flame from Ferraro’s shotgun had warmed things up just enough to liquefy the toxin and, in turn, infect Shelton.

I’d known full well that the Lich wanted the crook and I’d also known that there was a better than even chance he’d take the damned thing from me no matter how prepared I was. So I figured delivering the poison through the crook seemed like the safest bet … I mean the Trojan horse has worked for sneaky underdogs since time immemorial.

I hadn’t been sure the ploy would pay out—I mean, what if there was an antidote and Randy was immune? What if he’d been wearing gloves? What if the blood had been rendered impotent by the flame? A thousand things could’ve gone wrong, but Lady Fate had told me that I was going to fight Shelton. And she’d also told me that the crook would be instrumental in winning, but only once it was in Shelton’s hands. The clues were about as clear as foggy glass on a dark night, but when you’re the little guy you grasp at whatever meager straws you’re offered.

Ferraro carefully circled toward me, sidestepping near the far edge of the wall, careful to keep the shottie pointed right at Shelton, just in case. Once she was in range, she pulled out her sleek expandable baton, flicked it open, and cracked the ice vines surrounding my wrists. The frozen vines seemed unthinking without the crook’s power and Randy’s direction to maintain them. They came away easily enough and once my hands were free, I had no trouble calling up enough flame to melt the rest of the ice holding me in place.

“What have you done to us?” Shelton shrieked, finally scrambling to his knees and making a dive at the crook. I took my time and strolled over—the crook wouldn’t do him a lick of good, not now. Not with that poison working in him, depriving him of the ability to touch the Vis.

“Turnabout’s fair play, jackass,” I said as I moved closer.

He held up the crook as though to ward me off, but I batted it away with the back of my gloved hand, then I conjured up a javelin of force, which plowed into his kisser like a grand slam delivered from a Louisville Slugger. The blow busted his lip and put him out cold. Without the Vis, the crook was no good for him, and even with the Lich in his head, without access to a power source he was about as useful as an encyclopedia set in the age of Google.

“Way to pull my ass out of the fire,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “I knew you’d pull your weight.”

Ferraro frowned. “You were worried about
me
pulling
my
weight?” She looked around the room, carefully taking in the general chaos and the bodies strewn across the floor. “Maybe my math is wrong, but it looks to me like I’ve done most of the work here. I subdued all those gnomes—”

“Scientist gnomes,” I muttered.

“—stopped the rampaging monster mage, you,” she said without pause, “and took down Shelton. I mean, you sucker-punched him in the nose after I’d beaten him, of course … If I remember correctly”—she pressed her lips together in mock thought—“you were frozen to a wall waiting to die.”

I frowned and squinted, trying to convey the vast levels of sheer annoyance I felt rolling around inside my belly.

“Stop pouting,” she said, and this time she did smile a little. Apparently Ferraro did have a sense of humor in there, though, apparently, it was buried somewhere deep, deep down—kept under lock and key and guarded by a shotgun-wielding Amazonian princess. “So what do we do now?” she asked. “We never really talked about the specifics if Shelton survived.”

“You know you can’t take him in, right?” I said, not sure at all that she knew any such thing.

But she nodded. “He’s a murderer. Responsible for the death of at least three people. He should be taken into custody and he should receive due process … that’s what
should
happen in a perfect world. But I’m smart enough to know that this situation isn’t going to turn out that way. Even if I took him in, I’d never be able to get the charges to stick. Not nearly enough evidence—at least not evidence that anyone will buy.” She was quiet for a moment, looking down at Shelton as though she didn’t really believe her words.

“The Guild will handle him,” I said softly, trying my best to sound reassuring. “I’ll take the crook and lock it up at the Farm. And I’ll turn the ring and this assbag,” I nodded at Randy, “over to James—if anyone can get the full story out of the little weasel, it’ll be James. And he’ll do it all discreetly.”

“And then?” she asked. “After James gets whatever intel he can gather? What’ll happen with Shelton and the ring?”

“Well, as asinine as it sounds, the ring will probably wind up back in the vault—but James will need it to confirm our story and clear us with the Guild. And Randy?” I shrugged. “James will record relevant evidence, present his findings to the council and then … well, probably it’s better if you don’t know.”

“That’s crap. I’ve been in it this far, I have a right to know.”

I thought about it for a second then shrugged again. “Yeah, okay. James is a member of the Fist of the Staff. He has the right to judge and pass punishment on the spot. Considering the nature of Shelton’s crimes and the sensitive nature of surrounding circumstances … Randy won’t make it long. James’ll make it quick.”

She looked away, tension knotting her shoulders. It couldn’t be easy for someone like her to see that kind of vigilante justice get dished out … it was so outside of the world she knew. But then, the world she knew had died the second she realized there was more to our existence than just the mortal affairs of humans running around on a spinning ball of mud.

I walked over to Randy and carefully pried the ring off his desiccated finger, before sliding it into a silver mesh bag I pulled from my coat pocket—a temporary transport until I could hand it over to James for safekeeping. Though boy did the thought of turning that ring
back
over to the Guild really chap my ass.

“Cuff him, will you?” I asked, heading over to the computer terminals, trying to figure out if there was anything of use there. A few minutes of fooling around, however, revealed that other than the video feeds, everything else was encoded and encrypted. Ahh, who am I kidding … the shit might not even have been password protected. My computer skills are not abysmal—I can Google things and send emails—but a computer hacker I am not. But it didn’t matter, James could get any necessary info out of Shelton.

So instead, I did what I do best: I fixed those computers so that no nefarious bad guy would be able to use them again. And by “fix,” I absolutely mean destroyed the utter shit outta the whole lot of ‘em. I conjured up a construct of fire and force, using unseen bands of energy to shred the interior, twist metal guts, and wipe circuit boards. Scorched earth.

By the time I was done, the terminals were charred black and billowing out great plumes of smoke. Ferraro had Shelton cuffed on the floor—he was starting to come to, though he seemed groggy and confused. I reluctantly retrieved the crook—already the blood had frozen back in place—but still I handled the thing with ginger care. It reached out to me, tried to force its way into my mind, but I erected a steel partition in my mind, blocking the crook’s siren call out as best I could.

“Ready?” I asked Ferraro. She hauled Randy to his feet and nodded her assent. So with the Crook and villain safely in hand, I called up a doorway to a spot not far from James’ place in Somerville.

THIRTY-SIX:

Happy Endings and All that Jazz

Ferraro sat across from me in a secluded booth. We were at a bar I’d never been to before—shocking, I know, a bar I haven’t visited—called Rook’s in Quantico, Virginia, the official home of the FBI. Quantico was a place I didn’t go, not with the kind of rap sheet I’ve got, and this place looked and felt like a cop bar, complete with a table of uniformed officers, which had me nervous down to my toes. But no one seemed to pay us much mind. Ferraro had assured me that everything was fine and that my worry was needless, and, because I trusted her, I was willing to give it a shot.

Overall, it was actually a pretty nice joint: lots of dark wood and low lighting. Some lively chatter, a couple of salty DTs playing pool over in the corner while some cool jazz drifted through the air, setting the mood. I was eating ribs—‘cause you know, ribs—while Ferraro munched on a salad that looked far too healthy for me to ever be interested in. It’d been nearly a week since our raid on Thurak-Tir. Ferraro was officially back on the job, her “recommended” vacation finally over, though the brass had mandated ten hours of counseling and had made her requalify on the range. So this was the first chance I’d had to see her since I’d dropped her off back in Virginia.

She took a final bite of salad and then pushed the plate away. Up until this point we’d only made small talk, no serious business during dinner—just sort of an unspoken rule. She sat and watched me finish off my meal, asking a few questions about how I was feeling, but staying away from Randy, which I was grateful for. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was unwilling to talk business, but eating a plate of ribs is one of the small sweet pleasures in life, and I’d hate to have that ruined by thoughts of the Lich. After another couple of minutes, I managed to not only strip every ounce of flesh from the bones, but I’d also polished off a side order of cinnamon apples, which left me feeling fat and very happy.