Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (12 page)

I slid the quarter back into my pocket and made for our exit—

I came to a herky-jerky halt after only a few steps. Scrawled across the surface of the door in soft glowing purple was a single word:
No.

Suddenly, my mouth was dry—the moisture seemed to have migrated to my palms, which were slick with perspiration. I glanced toward Darlene, searching for any sign that she saw the ghostly lettering. But no. She was staring at door six, hands still intertwined behind her neck, and it was clear she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

That way lies death, disciple.
The words floated up from my subconscious like a faint echo.

This is bullshit,
I thought.
I never gave you permission, Azazel
.

I need no permission. You are my host—and, for my purposes a good host—so I will not see you lost. Not yet …

The voice faded, died, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

“So which way?” Darlene asked, sounding utterly defeated and forlorn.

I hesitated a moment more.

I hated to trust the advice of a friggin’ demon, but Kong—a Sasquatch and the former Guardian of the Seal—had told me in no uncertain terms that the demonic essence was bound to protect the host from mortal danger. Some kind of divine mandate that ensured the Seal’s safety. I cleared my throat and jabbed at the other door,
sixteen
. “Let’s try that one,” I said, banishing the uncertainty from my voice.

She nodded and followed after me as I stepped through the ominous black slab of stone …

I stumbled onto the grassy shore of a wide river. Off to the right a hulking bridge of arched stone, studded with lamp posts, stretched across the wide, meandering river. The Arlington Memorial Bridge. In the distance was a spike of white stone, thrusting toward the purple sky, which was quickly dwindling to black as sunset gave way to true night. The George Washington Monument.

Holy shit, we’d made it. Somehow, impossibly, we’d made it.

The golden tether trailed away from me, tracing its way across the Potomac, though stopping midway. The next door hung suspended over the surface of the water, waiting for us. I dismissed the door, though. We were here. In a few minutes the trail would dissipate and vanish, taking the door—which only Darlene and I could see—with it. Gone.

Thank God.
I let out a deep sigh of relief, then flopped down onto my ass, the green grass soft beneath me.

For now, at least, we were safe. Away from the Guild, away from the assassin, away from the
Cubiculi ex Ostia
with its shadow worlds. Still, I felt a pang of unease in my gut as Azazel’s words rang in my head,
I need no permission.
Yeah, we’d escaped, but would I ever really be safe with that dickhead demon hanging out in my head? For that, I had no answer.

NINE:

Safe Haven

I hammered at the mahogany door marked with a brass 7C, the number placard polished to a low gleam; the
thud, thud, thud
reverberated down the wide hallway. The place was devoid of life. Not that I expected to see anyone, not past 10:00 PM in a nice, respectable place like this. And it
was
a respectable place, that much you could tell even at a glance: Clean beige carpet, trimmed in muted green. White columns spaced at ten-foot intervals, holding fashionable wall lamps shedding warm caramel light. Boring corporate artwork dotted the hallway, illuminated by recessed lighting buried in the wall panels.

The third floor of an upscale condominium complex in Dumfries—just a few minutes outside Quantico.

I looked as out of place here as a dirt-caked hobo marching through the fancy-pants door of Saks on Fifth Ave. I mean, these condos had to run three hundred thousand dollars each, and were home to mostly white collar types. Professionals. Business folk. The upwardly mobile. I, by contrast, was a delinquent gambler, blues-hound, and former wet-works man who basically lived in the back of an El Camino with a camper shell. I was leaving a damp puddle of brackish swamp water on the carpet and trying not to bleed on everything.

I’m pretty sure my very presence in the building was actually causing the property value to depreciate.

Hell, if it wasn’t for the amped-up glamour I was holding in place—making sure any curious residents didn’t notice my unsavory presence—I’m sure a squad of police officers would already be descending on us in full SWAT gear with shotguns drawn.

I pounded again,
thump, thump, thump
, hoping Ferraro was home and not out on some assignment.

Once we’d cleared the final Door to DC, I’d tried to call her only to find my phone both dead
and
in a questionable state of repair—the screen crushed, most of the keys broken, water dripping from the casing. Naturally, I didn’t have her number memorized, because I’m a moron with very little foresight. So instead of just calling, Darlene and I “borrowed” a car—and when I say “borrow,” I mean “stole” from the parking lot of a seedy strip joint—and drove down instead.

If she wasn’t home, I’d just have to break in and wait for her to turn up, but I
wasn’t
going to break in until I was absolutely, positively, one million percent certain she wasn’t in.

Crashing her pad uninvited was a damned good way to end up with a face-full of military-grade pepper spray or, even worse, a gutful of 9 mil slugs. Yeah, no thanks on either account.

I saw a flash of movement behind the peephole, then heard a muffled string of Italian swear words.

The door opened, though only a few inches—the security chain stayed firmly in place—and out came the black barrel of a Glock. I dropped my eyes down as a devilish grin broke across my face. Not that I like having a gun pointed at me, mind you, but it felt good to know she was taking the security precautions I’d taught her to heart. Lots of things in Outworld could assume a person’s appearance, so you could never be too careful.

“What did I cook you on our first date?” she asked, squinting at me, most of her body still hidden behind the thick wooden door.

“Well,” I said after a pause to think, “I guess that would have to be the spaghetti you whipped up for me at the Farm—but I’m not sure I’d consider that our first date. More like an impromptu, on-the-lam survival cookout. All just semantics, I guess.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, then nodded toward Darlene, loitering in the hall behind me. “And her? She okay?”

I nodded. “She’s my Guild appointed supervisor.”

Ferraro eyed Darlene, appraising her long and hard, lips quirking into a ghost of a smile. She knew
exactly
how I felt about authority in general and Guild authority in particular, so I could just imagine how entertaining it would be to see me humbled before someone like Darlene. A doughy, paper-pushing desk jockey with negative thirteen field experience. “Your Guild appointed supervisor.” She was definitely smiling now, even if you needed a microscope to find it.

“It’s a long story,” I said, a flare of annoyance and anger bubbling up, “and we need your help.” I gingerly held up my left arm and gently slid back the sleeve of my leather jacket, revealing the bloody skin and jagged teeth marks. “Had a dustup on the way here. Could use some Bactine and a little Duct tape.”

Her eyebrows seemed to climb into her hairline as she surveyed the mangled flesh. “
Managia.
Bactine?” She said it more like an accusation than a question. “You need a doctor and fifty stitches.” The Glock disappeared and the chain clattered, falling against the frame as the door swung inward. “Come on in. Go sit on the couch. Try not to stain anything. I’ll get the first aid kit,” she said, before offering me her back and stalking off into an adjoining room.

I pushed my way in and motioned for Darlene to follow, wincing at the movement, then headed for the couch—a dark gray three-piece thing with a spattering of designer throw pillows and a chaise jutting out on the far end. I took stock of my clothes: damp, muddy, stained with blood and other assorted fluids from all over Outworld. After a moment, I peeled off my jacket—taking great care with my battered arm and shoulder—before likewise sliding out of my jeans, leaving me in black boxer briefs and my stained undershirt.

“Mage Lazarus,” Darlene said, averting her gaze with a shocked gasp.

“Anyone that’s saved my ass from murderous sea-folk gets to call me Yancy, okay?” Then, without further ceremony or comment, I shuffled over to the couch and retrieved a fuzzy black blanket neatly draped over one couch arm and wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling it closed with a clenched fist. “At least she can wash the blanket,” I offered by way of explanation, before plopping down onto the padded sofa, a groan escaping my lips.

I pressed my eyes shut, leaning my head back, letting the oversized cushions cradle my neck. Amazing. When I finally opened my eyes again, though, I noticed Darlene was still standing in the entryway, swaying from reluctant foot to reluctant foot. “Stop standing there, already,” I said. “You’re in shock, Darlene, and I know you’ve got to be friggin’ exhausted. I’m friggin’ exhausted. So come in, grab a seat”—I nodded at a stiff-looking black love seat against the wall—“take a load off. We’re safe for a while. It’s time to relax. Recuperate.”

She assessed the sofa for a moment, then seemed to melt a little, as though finally realizing we weren’t in imminent danger of being murdered horribly. “You know, maybe I will have a seat,” she agreed, dragging her feet as she stumble-lurched for the couch. She flopped down, legs out, head back, then closed her eyes—a mirror of my own posture. She wasn’t asleep, but even at a glance she looked happy. Well, maybe happy isn’t the right word. More relieved, I suppose.

Despite my pain and hurt and anger, I grinned. Poor lady was goofy as hell and in
way, way, way
over her head, but there was something irritatingly likeable about her. Endearing.

I settled back into my seat, letting the cushions draw me in deeper and deeper as I absently scanned the condo through heavy-lidded eyes.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been here, not even the second or third, but I was always taken aback by how little it seemed to reflect the woman who called this place home. It was nice, sure. Neutral cream-colored walls, dark wood floors, a hardwood coffee table, several bookcases filled with unread books—you could tell they were merely decorations by the perfect spines staring out at the world. The appliances were all new and clean. Hardly used.

Everything about her pad screamed
sterile
.

Her home was a little like the corporate office paintings hanging in the hallway: nice, professional, boring. The place almost looked
staged
, like the kind of empty home a realtor uses to convince people to buy, buy, buy. As much as this condo was Ferraro’s, it wasn’t really her home. She was in the field all the time, I knew, running assignments and missions, traveling wherever the job took her. Though she would never, ever admit it, Ferraro was a lot like me. Living out of hotels or catching a wink in a car as often as spending a night in her own bed.

She was basically a traveling homeless person with a very expensive storage locker for her shit.

Ferraro walked back in a second later, banishing any other thought as I tracked her movements. She was a good-looking woman. Better than good-looking, even. Tall, just shy of six feet, with medium-length black hair tied back into a tight ponytail. Strong features, Mediterranean complexion, chestnut eyes, sharp as daggers, and enough athletic muscle to give me pause. I was used to seeing her in either professional business attire—dark pantsuits, say—or tactical wear suitable for a SWAT officer.

Now, however, she was sporting a pair of navy pajama pants and a baggy white T-shirt that looked a size too big for her. One of my shirts, from the last time I’d slept over.

She came over and eased down next to me with a first aid kit in hand. Though this wasn’t your standard first aid kit—you know, the little red pouch you stow under your sink or in some dusty drawer. Nope, this sure as shit wasn’t that. Her med kit was the size of a backpack—MOLLE webbing ran over the front, dotted with modularized pouches filled with assorted tools. This beast looked like a heavy-duty Corpsman kit, the kind of bag a doc might take into a no-shit combat zone.

Lady takes her first aid very seriously.

She unzipped the main medical pouch and set about pulling out various items, placing them neatly on the table. A bottle of iodine, followed by a meaty pair of trauma shears, several packages of gauze, medical tape, a curved needle, suture thread, and a first aid bandage. Her eyes flashed from my arm to my blistered shoulder. With a muted
tsk,
she added a burn dressing package to the growing pile of medical supplies.